Chester checked the videotapes he’d picked up one by one.
Thankfully, there were films by “Kai-woong Chuan Hai-eon,” too.
Snake, Muyoke.
“Hm. Easier to read than Zua Weol.”
Before watching the films by the director who’d submitted to Cannes, Chester first watched <Our Boss>, which had won the top prize at a Korean film festival.
The subtitles looked like hack work, probably because it was a bootleg, but the direction was fairly decent.
The story, however, was puzzling.
Chester couldn’t understand why it kept such a cheerful tone and then tried to wring tears at the end.
“A best picture with a story like this… doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”
Clicking his tongue, Chester hesitated a moment before playing Gyeong Chanhyeon’s dusty tapes.
“Still, I should give it a look… If he has the guts to submit to Cannes, he’s got some nerve.”
It was 10 p.m.
Normally he’d be washing up and getting ready for bed, but Chester slid <Night> by Gyeong Chanhyeon into the VCR.
He hit play thinking he’d turn it off the second it got boring, but he couldn’t.
“What the… this guy’s the real deal.”
Two hours flew by, and the clock read midnight.
“This is way better than the one that won best picture…”
As with <Our Boss>, the subtitles were not great but the direction was far more natural.
It even felt better than what some Hollywood star directors were doing.
The subtitles frustrated him just enough that he pulled up a number in his phone and called an Asian friend.
“Hey, do you know anyone who speaks Korean?”
—Korean?
“Yeah. You’re the only one I figured might know someone.”
—I’m Japanese American. Are you a racist now? You think Asian countries are all buddy-buddy?
“Not friendly? I dunno… looked super friendly. Didn’t Korea and Japan co-host the 2002 World Cup?”
—Sheesh… are Germany and France “friendly”? That was business. Like you and me.
Chester burst out laughing at his friend’s line.
—I do know a few people in Koreatown though…
“Think folks in K-town would know a ‘Kai-woong’ director?”
—Kai-woong?
“I’ll text you the spelling later. I don’t even know if I’m saying it right.”
—Got it for now. Why that person?
“I need some dialogue from his film. I bought a bootleg and the subs are garbage.”
—If you pay, it’s not hard.
“Then send me translations of the lines I text you from the movie. I’ll pay well.”
Just as Chester was about to hang up, his friend suddenly asked:
—But why Korean film? Did a Korean movie get into Cannes or something?
“Yeah. And it’s insanely good.”
—A Korean movie?
“Yup.”
—That country’s films are usually pretty meh. Surprising.
“Nope. I’ll bring this over later. You should see it too. It’s crazy. It’s innovative.”
Joking around, Chester chatted a bit more, then hung up.
“I’m curious… I want to know for sure…”
His eyes met Park Junsik’s on the cover of Gyeong Chanhyeon’s other film, <Desirelessness>.
“What’s this one about…?”
When I got into Seonghyeon Productions, Junseong didn’t look cheerful.
Director Kim Surin’s interview.
The film scene was buzzing over it.
[You know how some director is saying he submitted to Cannes? That’s a terribly wrong kind of marketing. It’s a sort of slavish worship of the West. Sure, it’d be great to bring home an award from overseas. Why wouldn’t that be good? But let’s look at reality. Our country’s never even gotten a film accepted to an overseas festival. He just tried, but he’s talking like it was accepted or even invited—watching him act like that makes me sick.]
Countless newspaper pieces ran with the interview, attacking our grand plan.
[Seonghyeon Productions, hoodwinking the public with marketing?]
[Gyeong Chanhyeon’s new film. Attempting a Cannes submission. Using West-worship to dazzle audiences.]
“I only asked them to run a short piece… I didn’t think they’d twist it like this… sly bastards. Turning our intent into some West-worship marketing?”
Junseong sighed like he’d never expected it to blow up this way.
“Sorry…”
“How is that your fault? They’re the weird ones. You’re in the same industry and you slam people like that? That’s why Korean film never progresses.”
“…”
“They don’t have the guts to try, so they play politics in the back room. What’s there to be sorry for?”
Director Kim Surin?
In my previous life, I’d never even heard his name.
I watched <Our Boss> because it won best picture. It was really not fun.
Low-brow comedy ending in cheap melodrama.
It followed one of Korean cinema’s oldest clichés and ended like it was desperate to wring tears.
The directing chops were fine. The problem was the quality of the story.
“When do invitations get sent out?”
Junseong’s already gloomy face darkened further.
“By the end of this week…”
“…”
Now that interview was out and eyes were on us.
If we didn’t actually get invited, they could smear us exactly the way he framed it.
It didn’t matter what our intent was in submitting <Jawol> to Cannes.
If we failed, things would flow along the “West-worship” line Kim Surin set.
That would naturally sour perception of our film…
“What if it really doesn’t happen, Chanhyeon? That Kim Su— no. A guy like that isn’t even worthy of ‘senior.’ What he said could end up looking like the truth. Our image could be completely wrecked…”
“Wait. We still have some time.”
Taesan Film’s release of Kim Surin’s new movie was only two weeks away, and we still had nothing decided.
There was nothing we could do right now. Just wait.
Meanwhile, Taesan Film’s marketing was aggressive.
Lee Seobin went on the national talk show Your Night, pumping up expectations for her new film, and the cast of <Please Love Her> kept hitting TV to promote it.
Thinking about that, I felt sweat bead in my palms.
“Gyeong Chanhyeon’s film—invite it to Competition.”
Right as deliberations began, Chester’s abrupt declaration left the selection committee blinking in confusion.
“He’s from a country we’ve never even heard of, and he’s a director we’ve never heard of! Let’s just add one more Chinese or Japanese film.”
At one juror’s words, Chester frowned.
“I watched all of Director Hyeon’s features…”
He scanned the jurors’ faces one by one, drawing it out.
“They’re on a different level from these middling competition candidates. I don’t know what standards that country’s top festival uses, but his films are far better than what won their best prize. Snake, Desirelessness. I lost sleep for days because of those two. The dialogue was odd, so I even had lines faxed over from people in Koreatown!”
At Chester’s words, the jurors murmured among themselves.
“We’ve already locked in twenty competition slots. And the competition judging is done. Are you saying we should pull one and put in this Hyeon person’s film?”
“It’s worth it. You’ll only understand what I mean when you see it…”
The jurors grimaced.
Then a middle-aged actor carefully spoke up.
“Wouldn’t it be better to invite it to Un Certain Regard1? How old is he?”
“Twenty-nine.”
When Chester answered, Brian, the film-director juror who’d been most heated, jumped in.
“Even so, let’s be diplomatic and keep it non-competition this time. Cannes has its stature! He’s from a country no one knows, a director nobody’s heard of. Do we need to anoint someone their own country doesn’t even recognize?”
Chester scowled at Brian’s words.
“Stature, my ass.”
“What did you say?”
“You think a tux and evening gown equal ‘stature’? The films have to be good. Otherwise it’s pearls on a pig.”
“Is that something that should come out of the mouth of the Cannes selection committee chair!?”
Face flushed and finger jabbing, Brian fumed, while Chester just smiled lazily at him.
“You’re laughing? You think this is funny…?”
“Let’s all calm down first.”
At Chester’s words, the agitated Brian, flustered, sat back down.
He couldn’t help it. The Chester he knew would have traded insults and gone to war here, but for some reason he let it slide with a smile.
Which left Brian looking like the only fool in the room.
“Then let’s invite it to Un Certain Regard. Everyone okay with that?”
Chester asked the jurors politely, and they nodded.
Only then did Brian realize he’d fallen for Chester’s little game, and he ground his teeth.
“Director Brian, you alright? Haha, looks like steam might start puffing out of your head.”
“…”
When Chester teased him, Brian nodded silently.
“Then let’s take a short break. Director Brian got a bit worked up. Haha.”
“…”
Brian shot to his feet and stormed out.
A few others followed him into the corridor.
“That sly fox… He meant to put it in Un Certain Regard from the start…”
With a cigarette between his lips, Brian glared at Chester, who was grinning from afar like he’d gotten everything he wanted.
Chester seemed to notice he was being watched; he smirked and waved.
Brian forced a smile back and murmured to the juror beside him:
“Hyeon? Some nobody with a nothing name…”
When Brian spoke, the other juror sounded worried.
“But it’s been ages since Critic Chester praised a film this highly, hasn’t it?”
“You don’t know he’s lost his touch? He got the chair gig off old reviews. He can’t even write like that anymore. He’s past his sell-by date.”
Brian couldn’t make sense of Chester’s call.
His own film from last year hadn’t even been invited to Cannes.
And rumor had it Chester’s influence had been decisive.
But now he was inviting some director nobody had ever heard of…
“Hyeon? I’d better watch that guy’s film real closely.”
- Un Certain Regard is a section of the Cannes Film Festival’s official selection. The section presents 20 films with unusual styles and non-traditional stories seeking international recognition. ↩︎
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