Chapter 155: Cannes (3)
Chapter 155: Cannes (3)
After the red carpet event, the host announced the official opening of the Cannes Film Festival.
After the opening film was screened, the official opening gala dinner was held.
The jury, world-famous directors, and invited actors gathered in one place and enjoyed the celebratory atmosphere together.
Clink—
All around, champagne glasses tapped, and an elegant jazz melody flowed.
Normally, Director Baek Junbong and Moon Ganghyeok should have attended with me, but—
—Sorry, Sunho…
……
The two of them were sprawled out in their hotel rooms right now.
They had eaten breakfast in the morning, and it seemed it didn’t sit well.
With the two of them out, I almost didn’t come either.
But I figured I should at least take a quick look at the atmosphere, so I dropped by for a moment.
At least one person from our film should show their face.
While I was slowly looking around, Gong Hajin was clinking champagne glasses with some unknown Western actor and chatting.
Then, as if he noticed me, he glanced over.
He looked me up and down while I was alone, then curled one corner of his mouth into a smirk.
See?
That was exactly the look in his eyes.
So it really was inferiority.
Constantly comparing your situation to others and searching for whatever part let you feel superior.
A typical defense mechanism of someone with an inferiority complex.
Han Seungwoo really did have a good eye for people.
Still, it was funny.
Someone who had already reached the level of a top star and achieved so much—why would he feel inferior toward me?
He’s getting impatient, so the inferiority he’d been hiding is leaking out.
Maybe this inferiority had been there for a long time.
Because ironically, a sense of superiority was often just the cover label of inferiority.
It seemed Gong Hajin had finished his conversation, because he walked over to me.
The guy who ignored my greeting earlier now acted as if he had plenty of room to spare, lightly patting my shoulder.
“Sunho, it’s your first time in Cannes, right? Feels unfamiliar? Where did your people go, and why are you alone?”
“They’re not feeling well, so they’re resting. I’m just going to stay a moment and then leave.”
“Hm, really?”
Gong Hajin made a face like he felt sorry.
“As a senior who’s experienced Cannes first, I’ll give you some advice. It looks like you should swagger around a bit like you did back in Korea. Right now you look too much like a passive Asian. You look intimidated.”
Then he continued in a lecturing tone.
“What do you think the jurors will think when they see you like that? It’s easy for them to misread it as, ‘Does he lack confidence?’ Don’t create unnecessary preconceptions. Junior.”
So it wasn’t advice at all.
He was just trying to shrink me.
If I snapped back and overreacted here, it would be easy for me to look overly sensitive and weird.
He probably said that expecting that kind of reaction—trying to provoke me.
But that level of poking didn’t scratch me.
Playing ego games with actors was nothing compared to managing advertisers’ moods back when I worked at an ad agency.
“Thank you for the valuable advice.”
When I stayed relaxed, Gong Hajin’s brow creased slightly.
As if it wasn’t the reaction he wanted, he was about to add another line—
when someone behind me lightly patted my shoulder.
“Hey! Ryu!”
Who is it? I turned around, and it was a familiar face.
Blond hair, playful blue eyes.
Evan Harris—the Hollywood top actor I had seen at the UK hotel.
“Evan?”
“You remember! Long time no see! I’ve missed you!”
He flashed a bright smile and suddenly pulled me into a tight hug.
It was such an intense embrace that people nearby stared in surprise.
…?
Were we this close…?
I thought all we did was exchange a few words at the hotel and follow each other on Instagram.
Still, he was acting this happy to see me, so if I threw up too much of a wall, it would be awkward.
I smiled too and patted his back.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Haha, the movie I shot isn’t finished yet, but I participated this year as a juror.”
As expected, world-famous actors were on another level.
He was serving as a competition juror.
Watching me and Evan Harris chatting warmly, Gong Hajin’s expression started to rot.
He had just said jurors might look down on me, but now I was clearly friendly with a juror—so he had nothing to say.
Then Evan wrapped an arm around my shoulder and whispered confidentially.
“But hey, Ryu. Did you mess up somewhere here?”
Mess up?
“Why?”
“That grumpy-looking older guy over there has been staring only at you for five minutes. Like a predator watching prey.”
I looked where Evan pointed with his chin.
Among the tuxedos, a man in noticeable suspenders stood with arms crossed.
A man with messy hair like Hagrid.
…Quentin Marino?
The moment our eyes met, he strode straight over and bluntly spat out, “I’m not a juror. I’m just here to watch movies.”
“…Pardon?”
“So it’s a shame. If I were a juror, I would’ve given your movie the worst score imaginable.”
…?
Why was this guy suddenly angry out of nowhere?
Seeing my confusion, he added brusquely.
“I sent you a DM, and you completely ignored me. Leaving me on read… do you know how hurt I was?”
“…Me?”
I thought he was talking nonsense.
Then a memory suddenly flashed past.
A few months ago, among the many messages piled in my Instagram DMs, there had been an account called [Quentin_M].
But it had no posts and no followers, so I thought it was a common impersonation account and ignored it.
That was really him…?
No, but he sent something like, “You’re the next protagonist,” all of a sudden.
How was I supposed to believe that?
Even if I had known it was him, I probably would’ve had to think about what to reply.
That aside, I had to explain.
That there were so many impersonation accounts, I didn’t know it was him.
“Ha! Ryu treated the director like a fake!”
Evan joked beside me, making my sincere apology feel pointless.
“…A fake? I created an SNS account for the first time in my life just to contact you. Damn it.”
“Not recognizing that honor and kicking it away yourself… how pathetic. Next time I’ll message you first, so please read it and ignore me.”
He seemed properly sulky, so I soothed him with some exaggerated teasing.
Only then did Quentin’s stiff expression loosen a little.
Then he grinned and gripped my shoulder hard.
“Anyway, just wait. I’m almost done with a script for you. You won’t be able to refuse this one. Even I think it’s fun.”
After that, the glamorous opening ceremony ended, and the Cannes Film Festival began in earnest.
A twelve-day, blazing film celebration for cinephiles around the world.
A weekly Korean film magazine reporter, Park Hyeonseong, also arrived in Cannes with a heart full of excitement.
“Hoo… Cannes really is Cannes.”
It was already his fifth visit to Cannes, but the city’s unique excitement and tension never became something you got used to.
Especially this year, the weight feels different.
Because two Korean films had been invited to the Competition section.
This was a big event that would be remembered in Korean film history.
“Any gossip threads come up?”
While waiting for the shuttle bus to the Grand Théâtre Lumière, Park Hyeonseong habitually opened his smartphone.
Local reactions mattered, but checking what was being posted in Korea in real time was also a reporter’s duty.
The place he mainly checked wasn’t a regular entertainment community.
It was a film-specialist community where real movie obsessives gathered: “Amazing Movie.”
[Dropping a few on-set staff stories about “Mueon:ga”]
“Oh…?”
An anonymous post from a staff member who claimed to have worked on “Mueon:ga” was sitting at the very top of the trending list.
Reading it, there were rumors that Director Baek Junbong and Ryu Sunho had great chemistry, and especially that Ryu Sunho’s acting “didn’t seem human.”
The comments were swelling with anticipation.
“I keep hearing ‘Mueon:ga’s vibe was good’ everywhere. At this point, it sounds like it’s basically confirmed.”
Meanwhile, talk about “Boundary,” the competing film, was relatively quiet.
Now and then, whispers about Gong Hajin’s personality controversies or on-set bullying would pop up, but they were quickly deleted or buried.
Park Hyeonseong let those slide with blurred eyes.
He didn’t have the experience to get shaken by unproven rumors.
Either way, it was incredible that two Korean films were invited to Cannes Competition.
Park Hyeonseong put his phone into his pocket and straightened his chest.
As a Korean film reporter, pride swelled in him.
If possible, he hoped Korean cinema wouldn’t come home empty-handed.
Even if it wasn’t the Palme d’Or, he wanted them to take at least one award—Best Actor or Best Director—and arrived at the theater with that wish.
Competition films were screened sequentially during the festival.
Park Hyeonseong’s first schedule today was Gong Hajin’s film, “Boundary.”
“Boundary” is a psychological thriller about the diverging fates of twin brothers, right.
While he sat in the theater seat, recalling the information he’d researched, the lights went out, and the movie began.
It’s good.
A solid scenario.
Clean direction.
And even a socially critical message.
It was a well-made work that evenly included elements Cannes would like.
And Gong Hajin’s acting… as expected, it lived up to his name.
Good and evil.
His acting, moving between two roles in one body, was stably flawless.
His diction and facial acting were veteran-grade too.
Park Hyeonseong nodded throughout the runtime.
Thud—!
The film ended.
As the end credits rose, the audience erupted into a standing ovation.
Park Hyeonseong also stood and clapped, then sat back down and wrote in his notebook.
[A stable, well-made film. Could aim for Screenplay Award or Jury Prize.]
Gong Hajin’s film was an excellent film, clearly within winning range.
And the next afternoon, the time he had been waiting for finally came.
The screening of “Mueon:ga,” Director Baek Junbong’s return work, and the film that promised Ryu Sunho’s shocking transformation.
The Grand Théâtre Lumière was packed so tightly with reporters and critics from all over the world that there was nowhere to step.
The atmosphere today… feels different.
It was a different air from yesterday’s “Boundary” screening.
Anticipation and curiosity, mixed tautly with a sliver of doubt.
Doubt about an experimental silent film with not a single line of dialogue.
Some conservative critics Park Hyeonseong recognized were already sitting with arms crossed, watching with a guarded posture before the film even started.
Right before the film began, a single white instruction line appeared on the black screen.
[To fully immerse yourself in the film, please refrain from making noise during the screening.]
It was a rather provocative line.
To mention viewing etiquette to strict cinephiles and critics with sky-high pride in films.
A French critic in the front row snorted as if offended.
“Arrogant.”
Cold sweat ran down Park Hyeonseong’s spine.
This feels like a misstep that makes the standards stricter from the start. Isn’t Director Baek pushing too hard?
But that anxiety vanished within five minutes of the film starting.
…Is this even possible…?
For the entire screening, Park Hyeonseong couldn’t think at all.
He forgot the notes, analysis, and criticism he was supposed to do as a reporter.
A silent film with not a single line of dialogue.
But the silence wasn’t empty—it was packed.
The actor’s rough breathing, the sound of fabric brushing, footsteps striking the floor.
Each sound of movement slammed his eardrums louder than dialogue.
He understood to the bone why that instruction line had been included at the beginning.
The immersion was so suffocatingly overwhelming that even the audience’s breathing would be a disturbance.
And at the center of it was Ryu Sunho.
That… is Ryu Sunho?
On the screen, only the monstrous creature called Gu Sunwoo was living and breathing.
Without a single line, he dominated the screen with only his eyes and movements.
It felt like he was acting even the joints of his fingers, the veins of his neck, even the trembling of his pupils.
A hundred minutes of focus so intense he forgot to breathe passed like an instant.
And then the shocking ending scene.
After the scene of Gu Sunwoo collapsing among countless mirrors ended, the end credits rose over a black screen.
Only then did Park Hyeonseong finally exhale the breath he’d been holding and regain his sense of reality.
His whole body was drenched in sweat.
Holy shit… that was insane…
At Cannes, when the end credits roll, standing and clapping is customary.
As a matter of etiquette, it’s an unspoken rule to applaud for about five minutes.
But—
These people… aren’t just standing up and clapping politely…
Looking around, the faces of the audience giving a standing ovation weren’t normal.
It wasn’t just courtesy or goodwill.
It was a mix of shock, shivers, and awe.
Someone was crying with tears in their eyes, someone was clapping blankly while staring at the screen with an empty expression.
Then someone shouted first.
“Bravo!”
As if that shout was the signal flare, a roar erupted that felt like it would lift the Grand Théâtre Lumière off the ground.
“Incroyable!”
“Masterpiece!”
Watching that, Park Hyeonseong thought to himself.
When did they say the awards ceremony was…? If this keeps up, maybe we can expect something big at the ceremony…
The festival wasn’t over yet.
But he had a feeling that something historic might happen here.