When my name was called, my enlarged face appeared on the big screen behind me.
Junseong was also shown, but his face was so stiff that I rose quickly to keep anything from going wrong.
“Yes, he is the one who set an amazing record this year,” one presenter said.
“Right, Desirelessness was truly a remarkable film,” the other added.
“Surely a prize that suits him. Congratulations, Director Gyeong Chanhyeon.”
I forced a smile, accepted the trophy, yet unlike the earlier awards no cheers came from the crowd.
From the section where the Desirelessness crew sat, I heard, “What kind of silly prize is that?”
Others simply stared at me with blank faces.
The air was nothing like at the graduation screening.
Holding the glittering Trend Setter Award, I stepped to the microphone.
“My thanks for this prize,” I began, and a few directors in front smirked.
Some copied Hollywood hits, others had half-plagiarized Night; they sat in the first rows, grinning.
No Younghun, at least, looked at me with a face full of displeasure rather than mockery.
“Interesting, a Trend Setter Award.”
Before I could finish, a festival staffer waved for me to keep it brief, as if saying, Take the trophy and shut up.
His hurried gesture only stoked my anger.
“Yes, judges, thank you,” I said, “but…”
“Director Gyeong, please shorten your speech, part one is about to end,” the male MC broke in with a nervous laugh.
To them I was just another rookie.
My hits Night and Desirelessness meant little in their eyes.
“You will not even give me time to speak. Then…”
I set the shiny trophy on the lectern.
“If anyone wants it, please take it.”
The restless room fell silent.
The smirks on those veteran directors vanished.
Behind me Junseong shouted, “Gyeong Chanhyeon, that was awesome!”
People who had been sneering turned to glare at him, and he scowled back.
As I stepped from the stage gruff voices rose.
“That rude brat kicked away an award?”
“What is he doing, ruining this venerable ceremony?”
The MCs, flustered, grabbed their mics.
“Ah, yes, that ends part one, we will return after a break, thank you.”
In my former life, I could never have done that, but now is different.
Many will stand with me when I say something is wrong, so why fear?
The film world may run on connections, yet box-office power rules all.
Back at my seat my own people chimed in.
“Chanhyeon really stuck it to them. Not one award for Desirelessness, ridiculous.”
“Didn’t think you had the nerve to pull that live. Expect headlines tomorrow.”
I smiled at them.
“An award like that is worthless, better not to take it.”
Junseong threw an arm around my shoulder.
“Did you swallow nerve pills? Was that scripted too?”
“Do I look obsessed with staging everything? Shouting here is not normal either.”
“Let them keep their party, we will hold our own.”
We moved to a barbecue place, renting it out for about ten crew members.
While the meat cooked, my phone rang nonstop: parents, Kim Eunha, even Director No Younghun.
I calmed my parents, then gave the location to Eunha and Director No, who said they would join us.
“Isn’t life just about eating a good slice of meat?”
Junseong watched the grill solemnly, and Park Junsik laughed.
“Got anything to tell me?” I asked.
He built a giant lettuce wrap, but I snatched it.
“How did you know we would not win?”
“Can I eat first?”
“Settle the urgent thing.”
Sighing, he explained: Taesan Group’s Kang Junmo, now festival chair, was behind it.
One of Junseong’s old friends had borrowed money from Junmo, treated like a slave; Junseong repaid the debt out of disgust.
“That night I called you drunk, after meeting those old friends,” he said.
“I did not expect him to drag personal spite into the festival, so I could not be sure.”
He stared longingly at his stolen wrap, so I handed it back and he stuffed it in happily.
“It was politics, not cinema. Desirelessness was the scapegoat.”
My face tightened.
In this timeline, I had thought the Daedong Festival was running clean, but even in the past its awards had bent to government tastes or old-guard cartels.
Now Taesan money was steering it.
Just then Kim Eunha and Director No entered, both furious.
After introductions and drinks, Eunha exploded.
“Have they lost their minds? The festival’s prestige is in the gutter. Ignoring Desirelessness like that, who were those judges?”
Director No chuckled. “I was one.”
Eunha blushed and sat.
“No, Eunha, I wanted to curse them too,” No said, raising his glass then sighing.
“The moment the judging began it felt fixed. I resigned as vice-chair and judge, too ashamed.”
He bowed to me.
“I am sorry, Director Gyeong. I should have overturned it.”
I leaped up and bowed back.
Looking at the broadcast on the TV, he trembled.
“Trend Setter Award? Better to give nothing.”
Eunha nodded, then asked me, “How did you think to leave the trophy on stage? I never would.”
“If it were you, you’d have smashed it,” Junseong joked, earning a swat.
Laughing, I felt grateful.
In my past life, I would have sat alone cursing the world, but now I have people who burn with anger for me.
“The next film will be one no politics can touch, a film that sweeps Korea,” I said.
Junseong, cheeks flushed with drink, retorted, “Night and Desirelessness already swept it, politics robbed the prizes. Unless you hit ten million viewers…”
“Then I will make a ten-million-viewer film.”
All chewing stopped; even Director No stared as if I were mad.
“Ten million, like it is someone’s pet dog? Films do not just pop out.”
Next year, in the original history, the first Korean film to hit ten million appears: Silmido.
The environment is ready, multiplex screens have multiplied.
“I will do it. A film to smash those bastards.”
Silmido, released in December 2003, is a South Korean film based on the true story of Unit 684, a group of soldiers trained to assassinate North Korea’s leader. Directed by Kang Woo-suk, it was intense, emotional, and drew huge attention. The movie became a major success and made history by becoming the first Korean film to reach over 10 million viewers at the box office.
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