Junseong’s words were a shock.
When I stared blankly at him, he looked back at me as if I were acting strange.
“Why are you making that face all of a sudden?”
“Huh…?”
“I’ve talked about this more than once since college, haven’t I?”
“…”
Not a single Korean film has ever been invited overseas?
When I heard that <Desirelessness> or <Night> hadn’t been invited, I just shrugged it off.
<Night> was packed with commercial clichés—in other words, stuffed with things Koreans would find fun for domestic box office—and <Desirelessness> was an occult film with a sensibility only Koreans would really get.
But that no Korean films at all had been submitted to overseas festivals…
“In Asia they’re starting to recognize Chinese films, but the reality is, movies from other countries aren’t acknowledged at all.”
“…”
Maybe worried about me, he patted my shoulder.
“But this time could be different. It’s not like we have to abandon hope entirely, so don’t make that face.”
Even so, my mind hadn’t come back yet.
I hadn’t imagined that the disappearance of the master directors would lead to a result like this.
Whack!
When I sat there mute and dazed, he smacked the back of my head.
“Do you seriously not remember the things we used to say?”
“Huh…?”
“We said we’d change it!”
Eyes wide, he yelled at me. Of course, that line isn’t in my memory.
Especially at this point in time, it’s supposed to be the original golden age of Korean cinema.
Even putting national pride aside, among Asian countries this was the era when Korean film was the best.
“We said we’d upend our film industry. And become a producer and director who sell films to the world. You really don’t remember?”
“No, I do… I remember.”
“We can do it, man. I think <Jawol> could absolutely get invited to Cannes. So…”
Come to think of it, the selling point of <Jawol> is different from the other two films.
Because all the masterpieces I knew have vanished from this timeline, there haven’t been any forward-leaning female characters until now.
Directors who used women in revolutionary ways like Ridley Scott with <Alien> and <Thelma & Louise>, or Quentin Tarantino with <Kill Bill> and <Pulp Fiction>, don’t exist right now.
On top of that, <Jawol>’s lead was Kwak Yeonji.
Thanks to her acting, the foreign film world might take notice.
And <Jawol>’s story is a revenge tale.
Across times and cultures, revenge stories always play well…
A genre where a woman takes revenge into her own hands is a device those master directors used often, so it might even be received better overseas.
“It might just happen.”
“W–what, suddenly…?”
He frowned, maybe finding it odd that I’d gone from deflated to upbeat in a flash.
“Weren’t you just telling me to have ambition?”
“Yeah, but you’re swinging too hard. Two seconds ago you had a ‘we’re doomed’ face on…?”
Director Kim Surin’s new film, <Please Love Her>, drew pretty good notices at the press screening.
[Kim Surin-brand rom-com, a charm that can bewitch Korean audiences. Box-office expectations…]
[As expected of Lee Seobin. Strong performance in <Please Love Her>! Will she carry the popularity from the small screen straight onto the big one…?]
But beneath those pieces, an unpleasant article caught the eye.
[Seonghyeon Productions’ new film attempts Cannes submission. Will it be the first Korean film ever invited?]
Seeing a piece connected to Gyeong Chanhyeon, Kim Surin ground his teeth.
“Cannes my ass…”
Just a submission attempt, yet the article’s tone made it sound like they were going to accomplish something, and his face twisted in a scowl.
No Korean film has ever been submitted to Cannes to date.
No matter how well Gyeong makes movies or how successful he is at home, it’s still nonsense.
It’s obvious foreign judges who struggle even with subtitles won’t be able to concentrate on Korean to that degree.
And there’s no way they’ll take an interest in Korean films which have drawn zero attention overseas so far.
“Tsk.”
A cheap trick.
To him, it felt like nothing more than marketing.
Most people don’t even really know what Cannes is, anyway.
The scheme must be to make people feel as if simply attempting to submit confers immense prestige.
Sly bastard.
Pulling a stunt this unethical… this is basically treating Korean audiences like fools.
“Hah…”
But Director Kim Surin was worried.
That kind of marketing will go down well with casual viewers.
If word spreads that it’s the first time a Korean film has drawn attention overseas, people will naturally reach for Gyeong’s movie over his.
If he’s going to beat Gyeong Chanhyeon’s film, he has to dirty that marketing.
After a moment’s thought, he called for the assistant outside.
“Come in for a second.”
“Yes, Director.”
“Set up an interview with Cinerion, and get in touch with CEO Kang Junmo too.”
“An interview?”
“Yeah.”
“Understood!”
As soon as the assistant left, Kim Surin let out a deep sigh.
What else could he do right now? He worked his mind fast.
Then a name flashed through his head.
Hyeyum Entertainment’s CEO, Kim Mujin.
After Lee Seobin failed the open audition, he had moved as if to take revenge on Gyeong Chanhyeon.
He went all-in on the competing film—his own—bringing in all of Hyeyum’s marquee actors.
Thinking he might also see Gyeong as an enemy, Kim Surin picked up his phone and called him.
“Hello?”
—Oh, long time no speak, Director Kim Surin.
“Ha ha, have you been well?”
They traded a few formalities then downshifted into real talk.
“You saw the articles about Gyeong Chanhyeon’s new film, right?”
—Ha ha… you read my mind. I was just about to reach out to you.
At Kim Mujin’s words, Kim Surin smiled.
—That punk’s scammy behavior has been getting on my nerves.
“Ha ha, same here. Isn’t he a total con man? Carrying on as if they’ve already been invited when they haven’t—what an eyesore.”
—I thought so too. I worry that naïve people might be taken in by those articles…
Convinced Mujin was on his side, Kim Surin laid out his plan.
—If we do that… nothing could be better.
“Yes. Then on your side as well…”
—We’ll push on our end too. A guy like that does the Korean film industry no good whatsoever.
“Ha ha…”
He hung up and repeated Kim Mujin’s words under his breath, then sighed.
“‘He does the Korean film industry no good whatsoever’…?”
He’d pretended to agree, but that statement was wrong.
Gyeong’s films had completely upended our film scene.
With KMD Group’s capital at his back, he moved as if to revive the industry.
KMD even extended into the theater business, increasing the number of screens, and thanks to that, a film like had a platform to hit big.
But if his films themselves weren’t good, none of that could have happened.
His movies were on a level not inferior to Hollywood—no, maybe above.
But is it really okay to pull this kind of thing on a director like that…?
The thought made his head knot up.
Then CEO Kang Junmo’s words rang in his ear.
“If you go up against Gyeong Chanhyeon’s new film and can’t beat it, there will be no further support.”
A pride war between conglomerates.
Kim Surin’s livelihood hung on it.
He lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke with a deep sigh.
“Hoo…”
No matter how great Gyeong is, you can’t show respect to someone you have to beat.
But what if, by some chance…
What happens if he really makes it to Cannes…?
Chester Baker, chair of the Cannes jury, reviewed the festival submissions with the other jurors.
[Ja wol
Repulic of Korea
Gyeong Chan Hyeon]
“Christ, that’s a bear to pronounce. Kr-young Chuan Hai-eon? How the hell do you even say this country’s name? And what’s the title supposed to be? Zua We-ol? Bloody hell.”
“I don’t know. It’s not exactly a country known for cinema, and I’ve never heard of the director. Let’s just skip that one. We’ve got a mountain of submissions to get through anyway. For Asia, we only really need to keep an eye on China and Japan, right?”
At the remark from another juror, Brian, the filmmaker, and everyone on the committee chuckled in a chummy way.
Chester, matching the mood, smirked too before replying.
“Now that you say not to bother, it makes me want to even more. Your eye for films isn’t exactly what I’d call reliable.”
“…”
At Chester’s jab, the cozy mood went cold.
“We’ll stop the selection meeting here for today and continue tomorrow. Let’s start tomorrow with that Zua We-ol? The weird-pronounced one. I’m curious.”
At Chester’s words, the selection committee rose and dispersed.
“Hm…”
The moment he stepped outside, Chester put a cigarette between his lips.
Chik—chichik.
“Son of a…”
He grimaced at the lighter that wouldn’t spark.
He glanced around, thinking he’d borrow a light from some other smoker.
But seeing no one, he was about to give up when a voice came from behind.
“Um… do you need a lighter?”
“Oh, sure.”
Turning, Chester saw a man with a cap pulled low.
“On one condition.”
“What…?”
“Buy a video or a DVD.”
“…?”
Chester scowled and, cigarette in his mouth, looked over the man who’d just spoken, ready to unload a string of curses.
But then he thought maybe the timing wasn’t so bad, and asked the seller,
“You got Asian films?”
“Yes! Absolutely. Ha ha.”
The man popped the trunk, revealing neatly organized rows of videos and DVDs.
“I specialize in Asian cinema, actually. Heh heh.”
“Korean films too?”
“Yes, Korean as well. Just a moment.”
The man climbed into the trunk and brought out stacks of videos and DVDs that looked thick with dust.
“These are the Korean titles I’ve got. I scooped up every famous one from Korea.”
“I’ll take them all.”
“Eh…? That’s nearly ten titles, y’know…?”
Grinning so wide his gums showed, he handed over the stack, with a lighter placed on top.
“How much?”
“Four hundred dollars. The lighter’s on the house. It’s yours.”
“Tsk.”
Chester opened his wallet and passed over the bills. The man took the cash and smiled.
“You won’t regret it. I took special care sourcing those.”
“I know you’re selling bootlegs. Beat it. Just because I let you play me once doesn’t mean I’m an actual mark.”
“…”
The man jumped in his car and vanished, and Chester flicked the lighter and lit his cigarette.
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