CHAPTER 056: Bucheon International Fantastic Film Festival
CHAPTER 056: Bucheon International Fantastic Film Festival
[Exclusive] Quentin Marino makes a surprise visit to the Bucheon International Fantastic Film Festival… “Unofficial schedule” [Cine Journal]
“Hollywood master Quentin Marino, famous for the ‘Kill Me’ series, rushed to Korea on the 14th to attend the 39th Bucheon International Fantastic Film Festival (BIFAN).
With no film screening at this year’s festival, Director Marino is not included on the official invitation list, making his visit all the more shocking.
According to festival officials, Director Marino expressed his intention to ‘fully enjoy Bucheon’s films purely as a viewer,’ and is said to have refused all conveniences such as protocol vehicles or guides provided by the festival.
As various speculations circulate about why he has unusually come to a Korean film festival in person, his bold move calls to mind his cinematic world, which has long rejected traditional formality…”
‘…Quentin Marino is coming to the festival?’
Reading the article in the car, I almost blurted it out without realizing.
It was something I never expected.
If I remembered right, even in my previous life Quentin Marino had never visited Korea even once.
What wind blew him here, to make him come to the festival?
But I forced down any sign of surprise as hard as I could.
There were countless small cameras installed inside the car right now.
With the release of the film Vacuum State approaching, my promo schedule as an actor had begun in earnest, too.
Appearing on MBS’s flagship variety show, Omniscient Manager’s Viewpoint, was part of that promotional push.
There was no pressure to be witty like on a talk show, and since it was an observational variety show, there was no need to force myself to “perform” anything.
And since today was the opening ceremony of the Bucheon International Fantastic Film Festival, it was the optimal choice—something that could naturally connect into promoting the movie.
‘The show has a pretty solid core viewer base, so the promotional effect won’t be small.’
But there was a different variable.
Manager Jeong Daeyeop.
With a face full of tension, he kept acting awkwardly as if trying to manufacture screen time.
“Mmm, as expected, maybe it’s because I made coffee in the tumbler Sunho gave me as a gift—this tastes very good.”
…What is he doing?
He can just act like he normally does.
Why is he suddenly acting?
What’s even funnier is that his awkwardness infected the other team members too.
Makeup artist Yoon Heeju suddenly pulled out hand cream from her bag, then, conscious of the camera, said:
“Because of the air conditioner breeze, my hands got dry. I should make them moisturized again with the high-class hand cream Sunho gave me.”
Not to be outdone, stylist Woo Minha joined in.
She suddenly stomped her feet inside the car and shouted:
“Oh my, I was wearing shoes? Maybe it’s because they’re the sneakers Sunho gave me—they’re so cushy, I thought I was barefoot!”
Mm…
At this rate, everything filmed in the car is probably going to get cut wholesale.
We arrived at the festival venue.
We moved straight to the waiting room prepared by the organizing committee.
The staff rushing back and forth, and the fans’ cheers echoing from beyond the corridor, made it feel real—we were at the film festival.
On top of that, there was even a strange tension in the air.
“Sunho, Sunho—come here.”
The team that had been doing awkward “acting” in the car became completely different people the moment we got here.
Professional faces.
“When I checked earlier, the lighting is strong today, so colors that are too dark might get swallowed. So let’s put you in this. It fits your image perfectly.”
Stylist Woo Minha, with sharp eyes, picked an outfit from the wall filled with clothes and dressed me in it.
Makeup artist Yoon Heeju was the same—her face solemn.
She waited for me in front of a vanity arranged like an operating table.
“The lighting is strong, so if we make your skin tone too bright, you can end up looking blown out. I’ll keep it natural and just bring out your contours.”
The moment we returned to our real workplace, everyone turned into an ace.
Manager Jeong Daeyeop…
He stood solidly, guarding the waiting room door.
Once we finished getting ready, Park Juwon, freshly done up, entered our waiting room.
He looked at my face and took a small step back.
“Holy shit… your form is insane these days, seriously.”
If even Park Juwon was saying that, it meant the jump in my looks grade was something you could clearly feel.
It felt good—like I’d gotten it certified by a pro.
Keeping his distance from me, Park Juwon said:
“No approaching within one meter. I can’t stand next to you today. When we take photos, don’t stick close to me.”
“…There are only two actors participating today, me and you. How are we supposed to stay apart?”
“Can’t we just pretend we’re on bad terms for today?”
“No. There are a lot of reporters.”
“Tsk… wait. I’ll go touch up my makeup.”
The red carpet event that followed—
Contrary to Park Juwon’s worry, the real victim was someone else.
“Director! We’ll take a photo with you standing between the two actors!”
At the reporters’ request, the director ended up standing between me and Park Juwon, half against his will.
In a flustered voice, the director shouted:
“…This feels like… something is wrong.”
With cheers from countless audience members and reporters, the opening ceremony began in earnest.
Quentin Marino was weaving through the festival’s chaos, avoiding it.
He wanted the film itself, not cumbersome pomp and ceremony.
But his tacky overalls, Hagrid-like hair, and the red hat perched on top stood out anywhere, and movie buffs recognized him instantly.
“Hey, hey. Quentin’s over there.”
“Wow, he really came? I never imagined I’d see Quentin in person in my life.”
“Should I ask for an autograph?”
“With Quentin’s personality, he’ll never do it.”
The murmuring spread like waves.
One brave fan approached and asked for an autograph, but Quentin waved him off and rejected him decisively.
Because of Quentin’s bizarre conviction.
‘Putting pen to paper is only for writing.’
Because of that, even when signing contracts, Quentin wouldn’t sign—he went so far as to have a stamp made and used that instead.
Considering how unfamiliar stamps are in the West, you could tell just how obsessively he’d kept this belief.
“Hm… the first day is packed with movies. Good.”
As if people’s stares meant nothing, Quentin had his nose buried only in the screening schedule.
Even though James had “sold” him on a film called Vacuum State and dragged him all the way here, since he was here anyway, he planned to sample everything the festival offered.
And so he started with the festival’s symbolic opening film.
But Quentin kept letting out heavy sighs.
‘A predictable three-act structure, smoothness with no passion. This isn’t a film made by an artist—it’s made by a committee.’
He forced himself through it, but his heart didn’t move an inch.
The moment the ending credits rolled, he sprang up like he’d been waiting for it and walked out.
Outside, he heard people who’d been waiting whispering.
“Quentin’s out! How’s his face?”
“It’s totally rotten. Guess the movie sucked.”
“Okay. Let’s follow him and check his reactions.”
“This would be good as a ‘Quentin reaction list.’”
He watched a few more films after that, but his impressions were similar.
Technically excellent, but lacking the raw energy that made your heart race.
“They call it Fantastic, but there isn’t a single truly fantastic film.”
Quentin’s disappointment wasn’t hidden.
And the one line he spat out quickly spread through film communities.
[I just heard Quentin grumbling, ‘There isn’t a single fantastic film’ㅋㅋㅋ]
-Fuck, we’re done. Quentin’s never coming to Korea again, is he
-Quentin’s a hardcore movie nerd; makes sense his standards are high
-Still, please don’t leave halfway—please stay to the end and watch!! I’m taking leave tomorrow and going to Bucheon
-What kind of reaction will Vacuum State get
└Don’t expect much from Korean films
└Yeah, feels like Quentin won’t vibe with Korean sensibilities
-Day 1 of praying for Quentin I-love-Korea
└What is this now;
└You dumped Bae Seonggeon and switched to Quentin
└Probably switched because Quentin pulls attention better;
Just as Quentin’s disappointment was nearing its limit,
it was finally time for Vacuum State, the film James had recommended.
The front of the theater was already packed shoulder to shoulder.
The hype from the marketing and trailer, plus the rumor that Quentin Marino was going to watch this film, drew people in like a mass of clouds.
‘James, if this movie is garbage too, I’m kicking your ass.’
Grumbling, Quentin sank into the plush seat.
The lights went out, and the film began in darkness.
The room of Jeong Dogyun, a shut-in.
The audience felt suffocated, as if trapped with him in a painfully narrow space.
[…J-jeong. Do. Gyun… is what I’m called.]
Not friends, not family, not the world—no one tried to look at him.
But Jeong Dogyun constantly craved attention and stared at others. Persistently, almost voyeuristically.
The theater was still quiet, but tense breathing could be heard here and there.
Then the first turning point.
The moment Dogyun stepped out into the world and no one recognized him, a small murmur leaked from the seats.
‘…Did he become invisible?’
The audience felt a brief sense of release in the freedom on Dogyun’s face, then experienced along with him the process by which isolation gradually changed into terror.
Quentin still looked unconvinced.
‘A slight twist on a cliché. Not bad, but even this is obvious.’
But as the film entered its middle, Professor Baek appeared.
With weird glasses, spouting “vacuum” and “quantum roles,” his eccentricity made the audience laugh through their tension.
The highlight, especially, was the “observation induction experiment” scene.
When Jeong Dogyun mercilessly smashed a sports car with an axe, a faint smile spread at the corner of Quentin’s mouth.
‘Ha! This is it!’
His crossed arms loosened, and his body leaned toward the screen.
The film began to run wild along an unpredictable trajectory, and Quentin was completely captivated by that madness.
Especially that East Asian actor playing the lead.
Raw energy erupting violently, a crazed gaze that tore through the screen.
Sharper, more solid than the “Kang Seoho” he’d seen in the drama.
He was exactly the kind of actor Quentin loved.
[What are we breaking this time, Professor? Your car?]
[…That’s not allowed. I still have payments left. Instead—]
[What is this? Fireworks?]
[People’s eyes gather explosively toward color and sound, and toward threats. Today, let’s put on a performance in the middle of the market!]
[This will get the police again—]
[Don’t worry! Galileo died in prison in the end too!]
[…That’s what I’m worried about.]
While the audience relaxed for a moment and laughed at the comedy Jeong Dogyun and Professor Baek created—
the mood abruptly shifted.
People who’d been staring only at their smartphones despite all of Dogyun’s bizarre actions began bursting one by one, like balloons.
At the same time, short, sharp cracking sounds.
-Pop! Pop! Pop!
Before the audience could recover from the shock—
Quentin finally let out a “heh heh” laugh.
Because it was direction he loved exactly: B-movie sensibility and artistry walking a tightrope.
An extreme expression of indifference toward others and the severing of communication.
As people stopped truly seeing and hearing each other, even their physical presence began to vanish.
In the end, even Professor Baek burst, and Jeong Dogyun, having lost everything, was screaming.
The actor’s desperate performance felt like it swallowed even the air inside the theater beyond the screen.
[Ghk… ghk. Now… there’s… nothing left to see.]
At last, as Dogyun’s body—flattened against the ground—began to swell ever so slightly, Quentin held his breath and sank deeper in. The theater also fell into silence.
-Pop!
With a flash and a burst, the screen suddenly zoomed out.
The camera showed the entire Earth—and that Earth was held in the hand of a gigantic extraterrestrial being, like a toy inside a sphere.
“What the…?”
A low exclamation escaped Quentin.
All around the audience, bewildered gasps leaked out—“Hhk!”
And then—
[Communication Experiment #3721 Failed]
The moment the alien’s words appeared as subtitles, the theater filled with shock.
The alien pulled out a new sphere labeled “Earth 3722,” and Dogyun appeared again.
Unlike before, Dogyun looked brimming with vitality.
He jolted upright in bed, and the moment he opened his eyes, he spewed sentences like a dialect, his gaze soaked in madness.
[Is it morning? It’s morning already? Oh right, I didn’t even eat, but should I eat ramen instead, ramen’s too salty so I’ll get thirsty, but where is water, if I drink water I have to go to the bathroom right away, but why does the bathroom door always squeak, the squeaking sound in my ear—]
Breathlessly rattling lips,
a chin trembling uncontrollably,
bloodshot eyes—each was closed in on, one after another.
There was no background music.
The more the silence piled up, the stranger Dogyun’s voice felt—multiplied.
With Dogyun’s face filling the screen—
the screen slowly, very slowly, faded to black.
“……….”
“……….”
The ending credits rolled and the lights came on, but not a single person moved.
Quentin was the same.
His thinking had gone numb.
And at the same time, a shivering thrill ran over his entire body.
‘Let me see a crazy masterpiece like this…’
Only then did shock vanish from Quentin’s face, replaced by a sharp, electrifying exhilaration.
At last, he burst into the laughter he’d been holding back.
“Bwahahahaha!”
Other audience members in the theater stared at Quentin with blank, dazed faces, but he didn’t care.
Instead, he looked at the on-screen notice about the GV session.
It didn’t take even a second to decide.
“I need to see that actor in person.”
.”