Because of cultural differences, there were scenes they might not fully understand like the sequence on draft-dodging scandals, so once I explained those, the audience nodded with interest and began asking questions.
[It was a truly engaging film. I especially loved the way the underdog brings down the powerful. Not in a clichéd way, but with a fresh approach. That really heightened the film’s appeal, I think.]
A reporter led with praise, smiled, and then, with a look that undercut the compliment, turned to Kwak Yeon-ji.
[I have a question for Actress Kwak.]
At the word “Kwak,” Yeonji’s eyes went wide; she grabbed the mic, startled.
[The slapping scene was quite striking. It looked like you were actually hit. Was there any pressure on set to do it for real?]
At that question, the mood went cold. The warm atmosphere from moments before vanished, and everyone waited for Yeonji’s answer.
“I was the one who insisted on being hit. The director said there was no need, but I wanted to push for an even better scene.”
With her smile, the chill in the air melted in an instant.
[Ah… I see. But why go that far?]
“I’m not what you’d call a hotshot in Korea. In fact, I used to get slammed for my acting.”
Her words set the crowd murmuring in puzzlement.
It was natural. In the movie they’d just seen, the actress who had yanked the audience toward the screen with ferocious acting was now saying she’d once been panned for her skills. It was hard to imagine.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a lead role in a film. So I wanted to give it absolutely everything. That’s why, even though Director Gyeong said it wasn’t necessary, I pushed to take the slap myself.”
When the audience applauded her answer, Yeonji’s eyes looked a little misty.
[Right… I understand. And your short hair makes a strong impression. Do you usually wear it like that?]
“Uh… no.”
She glanced at me, then flashed the reporter a cute grin.
“I really didn’t want to give up my hair, but I believed the director when he said he’d make this a success, so I cut it.”
At her smile, the audience seemed to melt, gazing at her with fond expressions and hanging on her words.
“Just setting foot in Cannes as the first Korean actor to do so… On that alone, I think the director’s promise has already been kept.”
After the interpreter relayed her words, the audience applauded Yeonji’s courage.
And the questions from other reporters and film people didn’t let up.
Direction, behind-the-scenes stories, praise for Junsik’s performance.
There were questions for me, too, but since they were all within what I’d anticipated, I could answer with ease.
After a while, we took a final question.
An East Asian man stood up, took the mic, and asked:
[How were you able to make a film like this in the Republic of Korea? As far as I know, Korea is quite slow in terms of cinematic development.]
The man who asked was Asian. With a whiff of superiority, he looked at me rather arrogantly.
[I’m curious where you studied film. Did you study abroad…? Please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m asking in genuine curiosity. I can’t deny that such a magnificent work has bloomed like a lotus in the mud of a country that’s been churning out low-quality films.]
With that preface laid down, my brow knit on reflex.
The phrase “low-quality” slammed into my ears.
“Where are you from?”
[Excuse me?]
Thrown off by my counter-question, he blinked and answered:
[I’m from Japan.]
“Ah, I see.”
I answered with a smile, and he, a bit flustered, waited for my reply.
“I never studied abroad. If you mean I learned by using the works of famous foreign directors as my textbook, I suppose you could say I studied.”
The Japanese man blinked, taken aback, and I gripped the mic firmly with an arm that felt like it might give out from muscle pain.
“And Korea’s cinematic development is slow, you say?”
[Yes. Isn’t that an undeniable fact?]
I’m not some flag-waving patriot, but if the person trashing my country is Japanese, the tone changes.
I wanted to snap that proud nose of his right off, so I paused and chose my words.
[The Japanese film market is drawing global attention right now, whereas hardly anyone cares about the Korean market. Doesn’t that, more than anything, determine the level of Korean cinema?]
Running down Korea while boosting his own country. That’s routine in Korea–Japan relations.
Stirring up patriotism at home by stoking anti-Korean sentiment is a tired trick.
Mao Asada vs. Kim Yuna, or a soccer player to surpass Park Ji-sung—whatever can be compared gets hauled out so the Japanese press can “prove” they’re superior.
“Hm… My view is a bit different.”
Once the interpreter rendered it into English, the audience leaned forward, expecting my answer.
“I know the Japanese film market quite well.”
Japan’s great directors like Akira Kurosawa, Hirokazu Kore-eda and their interviews.
Those interviews had stayed with me for a long time.
Our environment isn’t wonderful either, but compared to Japan, Korea’s far better.
Especially in Japan, the industry structure makes it much harder than in Korea for original, auteur directors to emerge.
“In Japan, what share of a film’s box-office revenue goes to the people who made it?”
[…Pardon?]
“As I understand it, 50% goes to theaters, 10% to the distributor, and the remaining 40% to the production committee. Most of that doesn’t go to the director.”
[…]
He blinked, wrong-footed by a counterattack he hadn’t seen coming.
“At Seonghyeon Productions—yes, I’m a co-CEO, but setting that aside—we also produced Director Kim Eunha’s film. We give 40% to theaters, and the remaining 60% is split 60–40 between investors and the production company. With that money, the crew are motivated to make even better films.”
[But…]
When he tried to jump back in, I gestured that I wasn’t finished and continued.
“If Japan’s situation keeps repeating, directors won’t earn a living. They’ll go hungry, right? And hungry directors… can they really create original cinema?”
[Even if they go a little hungry, for the sake of cinematic art… no, for the greater aim of the nation’s arts industry itself…]
“That kind of outdated thinking… Are you living alone in the 1950s by any chance? World War II ended over fifty years ago.”
The audience broke into laughter at my quip, and the Japanese questioner, face flushing scarlet at that laugh, snapped back at me.
[Even so… the Japanese film industry has a vision. Thanks to our population, the domestic market will be more active than Korea’s.]
“That’s true. But will those hungry directors you mentioned even stay in the film industry? Isn’t Japan the place where, unless a talented director moves to animation, he’s treated like an idiot?”
In Japan, the status of live-action film directors is low to begin with.
They’re more often recognized abroad.
Even Hirokazu Kore-eda, who won the Palme d’Or1 at Cannes with Shoplifters, has said he has to fight for even 1% of the profits.
“If the talent has flowed to animation, who’s making those domestic live-action films? Directors without money and without talent, churning out disposable garbage while taking dictation from conservative production houses?”
[…]
“Do you truly believe that’s a foundation that produces lots of good directors? Can you really say the Japanese market is superior to Korea’s based solely on the size you mentioned?”
As soon as the interpreter finished, the audience burst into applause.
Beside me, Junsik and Yeonji looked at me with shining eyes.
[But animation films are—]
“If you’re going to shift the goalposts to animation, I’ll concede that point. But please remember I’m speaking strictly about live-action cinema right now.”
The Japanese man, who looked like he had more to say, scowled and set the mic down.
Conservative Japanese cinema will eventually eat itself.
“Netflix poisoned the well”—that sort of complaint—about live-action adaptations of anime.
The reason those get made is purely profit.
If the original has fans, you at least hit break-even.
But repeating that cycle drives Japan’s film industry deeper into stagnation.
Those future outcomes were clear in my mind, which made swatting him aside quite easy.
Right after the screening of Jawol, Lee Junseong was blindsided by the sudden flood of people.
“This is insane…”
At the Seonghyeon Productions booth, he could only stare, amazed, as foreigners poured in.
From the staff reports, he just blinked, trying to tell if this was real.
“Sir—Cine Quanon in Japan is offering a $1.5 million minimum guarantee, plus additional royalties…”
“Hong Kong is at $400,000…”
“Singapore, $400,000…”
“North America, $700,000…”
“They also want the DVD and VHS rights for Director Gyeong Chanhyeon’s Jawol, plus Night and Desirelessness.”
Junseong had never expected it to go this well.
Up till yesterday, the booth was a ghost town; he’d long since given up on making big money here.
But the tide had completely turned.
Just from overseas distribution rights, they’d already made nearly five million dollars.
Five million in foreign money, before opening in Korea at all.
“Good grief… Chanhyeon. What on earth did he do at the Q&A to make people swarm like this…?”
If it sells this broadly overseas, the marketing alone will be powerful enough to crush any competitor.
[Gyeong Chanhyeon’s new film wins recognition abroad first—Sold to 20+ countries!]
With a headline like that, and if they even bag an award…
Junseong thought of the “ten-million admissions” film Chan-yeon talked about.
Maybe, just maybe, it was really possible, and a smile spread across his face.
- The Palme d’Or is the highest prize awarded to the director of the Best Feature Film of the Official Competition at the Cannes Film Festival. ↩︎
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