Sundance Film Festival, Part 3

At the Sundance Film Festival, the "Opening Premiere" held a symbolic status. As the film that marked the official start of the festival, its importance was paramount. And Swing in Chicago, starring Sion Lee, was chosen for that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠very spot.

It was an indie film that had generated massive buzz from the moment he auditioned. However, cinephiles—who valued artistic integrity over Hollywood's commercialism—couldn't bring themselves to expect much from the project. In fact, echoing the cynical whispers of the media, they dismissed the film before it even premiered, whispering that Sion Lee was merely pulling a stunt to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shed his "brat" image and cover up his lack of acting skills and messy personal life.

In that sense, Sundance choosing Swing in Chicago as the opener was a massive gamble.

"Well, what can we do? We've already come this far."

In the Sundance Film Festival organizing office in Park City—a temporarily rented space—Robert sat at his desk, chain-smoking. The legendary good looks that had once taken Hollywood by storm were now weathered by age and fatigue.

"Everyone probably thinks we gave it the Opening Premiere slot purely for the buzz, not the artistic quality. And after seeing yesterday's opening reception, they're probably even more convinced of that. Don't you think?"

"It's honestly ridiculous," one of the programmers agreed, taking a deep drag of his cigarette and sighing. "I mean, is this the Academy Awards? We went out of our way to charter a helicopter so he wouldn't be late, and then he shows up dressed to the nines like that..."

"He didn't just dress up; he's just naturally high-maintenance. Every single step he takes probably spawns ten news articles. Damn, for a second, I thought James Dean had risen from the grave in his prime."

"And to think he used that gorgeous face to play such a ruined, unkempt character. That's practically cheating."

"Which is why he's going to completely dominate the festival. Have we ever seen an actor like him before, Robert?"

"Well, I've seen a few similar cases, but..."

Robert recalled the various iconic actors he had encountered during his career in Hollywood. Whether they possessed striking looks, overwhelming acting talent, unparalleled star power, or some indefinable, unique charm.

An actor who excelled in even one of those areas was bound to exude an aura that captivated people. And with that aura, they drew in a level of public fascination that ordinary humans could never hope to replicate.

If someone were to ask if Sion Lee possessed such an aura...

"I can't pinpoint exactly what he is just yet, but I will say one thing."

At the very least, his actions at this year's Sundance were nothing short of iconic. Because of that, everyone was certain of one thing: this festival would completely rewrite the public's perception of the young actor named Sion Lee.

A dark, desolate alleyway.

Alex stood at its entrance, looking utterly terrified. His expression practically screamed, What on earth am I doing here? Yet, driven by a desperate search for a turning point, the man could not stop. He slowly pressed forward.

Night had fallen over the industrial district of Chicago. A place louder than anywhere else during the day was now dead silent, devoid of any human presence. Mumbling the address he had been given, Alex walked on until he finally spotted a small crossbody bag lying on the ground. He picked it up cautiously and reached inside to check its contents.

Right at that moment, the blaring siren of a police car echoed from somewhere. Startled, Alex bolted.

"Freeze!"

A harsh shout cut through the darkness. Red and blue lights flashed wildly. But Alex didn't stop. Clutching the bag tightly to his chest, he just ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

The rapidly moving camera shook the audience's senses, leaving them breathless and slightly nauseous until Alex finally managed to escape, hiding in a narrow alleyway to catch his breath.

"Haa... haa..."

Alex gasped, drenched in sweat. The slight tremor in his shoulders spoke volumes about the sheer terror gripping him. And before he could even fully catch his breath, he checked the bag again.

"Holy shit... how much is all this worth?"

Alex's green eyes gleamed in the darkness. A belated shiver of excitement ran down his spine.

"I thought it was just some elaborate prank call... but with this..."

But the moment of awe was fleeting. Startled by a sudden noise from nearby, he whipped his head around. His hands trembled violently as they gripped the bag. Yet, the option of dropping the bag and running never crossed his mind. His wages were delayed, and his life was a miserable, repetitive grind. A tiny sliver of hope that he might finally escape this hellhole blossomed within him. He took the bag and headed home.

The next morning. Alex woke up on his sofa. Hearing the news broadcast that had been playing continuously, he checked the bag he had brought home the night before. His face turned deathly pale as he muttered, "It wasn't a dream..."

"And I went and picked up that exact bag... Ah, damn it. Heather. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

He had acted on impulse, but faced with the news broadcast that held sway over the masses, Alex fell back into deep anxiety. Yet, in the end, he couldn't bring himself to return the bag or report it to the police.

In this world, you either use others or get used. To climb up, you have to be willing to take risks. Alex believed this was the final opportunity handed to him. A life-changing chance granted to a poor, blue-collar worker—all because he had acquired a bag containing 'something.'

"But what do I even do with this?"

The caller hung up abruptly after delivering the instructions. As a skeptical Alex slowly lowered the receiver, the scene transitioned.

An over-the-shoulder shot introduced a Black man in a leather jacket. The camera and the music followed him with tense urgency. Walking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠down the streets of Chicago, he entered a building and knocked on a door. A moment later, another man, clad only in his underwear, appeared from inside the smoke-filled room.

"Police. Can we have a quick chat?"

"...Got a warrant?"

*Slap!*

The detective violently slapped the man across the face for his sarcastic tone.

"Here's your warrant."

"S-Shit! Is a cop allowed to do this?!"

"To you? Yes. Sit down. Cooperate nicely, and you won't have to experience anything worse."

Detective Cobbs pressed his suspect ruthlessly. The introduction of the detective, who was tracking the "dead drop" drug operations running rampant in Chicago, expanded the scope of the film by presenting a counterweight to Alex. Cobbs interrogated a man with a prior drug record, piecing together how the operation was currently running.

His investigation led him to a certain pub. As the screen faded to black, loud music began to play, and a neon sign reading "Jackson's" flickered against the backdrop of the Chicago night. Right then, the perspectives of Alex and Detective Cobbs, both entering the establishment, began to intercut. The exquisite use of zooms and perspective shifts in this sequence was masterfully executed.

Sitting at a table, Alex looked around anxiously. A dirty, disheveled man sitting in a pub without ordering, unable to keep his composure—it was the kind of sight that would inevitably draw the attention of anyone familiar with the night scene. Cobbs, too, took note of Alex as he took a sip of his beer.

Their eyes met once more. Alex and Cobbs did not know each other. The audience, however, knew both. This disparity in information between the viewers and the characters generated a palpable suspense. Those familiar with the trope felt a thrill, while those unaccustomed to it felt their knees weaken with tension.

As tension hung thick in the rowdy air of the slum pub, Alex averted his gaze. Clutching his bag, he slipped away to the restroom and stared into the mirror, trying to steady his nerves.

"Whew. It's okay, Alex. It's okay. You can do this... But shit, what am I even supposed to do? Am I just supposed to wait here until they pick it up? Is this line of work always this disorganized..."

Someone walked into the restroom. Alex shut his mouth instantly. Awkwardly pretending nothing was wrong, he barely managed to squeeze past them and exit the filthy restroom.

He sat back down and, with a parched throat, finally ordered a beer. The outsider had finally anchored himself to a spot in the bar with an order. Yet, it felt as though many eyes were still on him. Indeed, the gazes of the rough-looking men in the pub and Alex's anxious glances kept crossing.

Before long, one of the drinking men approached Alex's table.

"Haven't seen your face around here."

"Huh? Oh, haha... ha."

"What brings you here?"

"...Are you looking for me, by any chance?"

"I asked the question first."

The burly-armed man sat down next to Alex with a sinister grin.

"This place is a bit too rough for a pretty boy like you."

His hand slid up Alex's arm. Startled, Alex slapped his hand away. The man let out an amused chuckle, about to press further, when the bartender, who had been wiping glasses, intervened to break it up.

"Didn't I say I'd shoot anyone who picks on the weak in my bar?"

"Alright, alright. It's just that this bastard keeps staring and ruining my drink."

"Hey. You too, stop staring like an idiot. Are you trying to hit on him?"

At those words, Alex's face flushed bright red.

"Oh, look, he's gonna cry."

"Haha, the bartender's words were way more brutal."

The other men in the pub openly mocked Alex, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠snickering. Unable to bear it any longer, Alex grabbed his bag and bolted out of the pub. Having watched the entire sequence of events, Detective Cobbs's instincts flared, and he quietly followed him out.

Outside, Alex walked down the street, still clutching his bag with an anxious expression. But as he passed a dark alleyway, he was grabbed by a street thug. Watching from a distance as Alex was dragged away without putting up any proper resistance, Cobbs crept closer to get a better look. In this way, the film illustrated how a character like Alex was perceived by the outside world.

"Hey, pal. When you walk around here clutching a bag like it's some kind of treasure, people are bound to get curious."

"W-What?"

"Hand over the bag and get lost, asshole. Unless you want to be found as a corpse tomorrow morning."

"N-No! This bag... it's not mine!"

A fist flew at Alex, who had "politely" declined. The sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh reverberated through the theater as the frame jumped. The camera captured Alex's pathetic state from a distance, framed from Detective Cobbs's perspective.

"Argh! Ahh!"

"You piece of shit, when I tell you to hand it over, you hand it over! Stop talking!"

Alex was brutally beaten. Rolling on the ground, he clung to the thug's leg and cried out.

"Y-You'll regret this!"

"...What?"

"I-If you knew whose bag this is, you'd know it's too dangerous to take!"

"S-Shit... is this related to that guy?"

"Y-Yeah! This bag has a specific place it needs to be 'dropped'!"

"Damn it... I almost made a huge mistake."

The flustered thug quickly demanded, "So, what's his name?"

"W-What?"

"The guy who gave you the bag. What's his name?"

"...Fuck you."

"Why, you little shit—!"

*Thud!*

The sound of a heavy kick to the stomach echoed. Alex, who had briefly grown bold thinking the tables had turned, ended up getting beaten even worse without gaining a thing. Cobbs, who had only been watching until now, approached the battered Alex and the thug, showing that he still possessed a shred of a detective's conscience.

"Huh? Who the hell are you?"

Instead of answering, Detective Cobbs threw a punch straight into his face. Reeling from the blow, the thug instantly lost his temper and drew a pocketknife. Standing in front of Alex, Cobbs faced him down with an utterly indifferent expression. Sizing up his opponent, the thug slowly backed away. Only after the thug had retreated a safe distance did Cobbs turn around, only to find that Alex had already fled.

"Fast on his feet, at least," Cobbs muttered dryly.

Meanwhile, Alex, having successfully escaped, was making his way back home. Gasping from the pain of the beating, he slumped down in a corner of the street. Escaping from the cage of the paint factory and his dilapidated apartment onto the streets, he was nothing more than a defenseless herbivore.

The Chicago night carried a lukewarm, sticky scent of tar, as if to soothe the coldness of the day. Neon signs flickered everywhere, and people dressed in flashy clothes walked past. Alex could not blend in with them at all. He sat huddled on the pavement, clutching his bag in silence.

That backdrop, that posture, that face, that gaze. The loneliness he felt transcended the screen. People passed him by naturally, but he remained frozen. Though they shared the same pavement, he was starkly, painfully distinct from them.

Time began to accelerate, and the camera slowly zoomed out from Alex. As the time-lapse sequence played, Alex remained completely motionless, as if sinking into a swamp. He looked like someone who had stopped breathing.

Watching the desolate streets, the melancholy soundtrack, and the slumped figure of Alex, the audience was swept up in an indefinable emotion. The world of cinema was usually clearly divided into good and evil, protagonist and antagonist. Yet, Swing in Chicago blurred those boundaries, posing a question to the audience: What of the evil committed by a protagonist who is weak?

In the slums, neither safety nor quality of life was guaranteed. As time sped up, people collapsed on the streets, wasted on drugs. Their wretched states intercut with the "bag of evil" Alex held in his arms. Alex groaned, clutching it as if it were his last hope.

Right then, the payphone next to him began to ring.

"Huh...?"

It was now the deep, quiet hours of the early morning. There was no one around. Realizing he had spent hours on the cold street in a daze, Alex picked up the receiver as if possessed. A familiar voice came through the line.

The sorrow he had bottled up exploded. Inside the phone booth, Alex poured his emotions into the receiver. He wept miserably, yet he still refused to let go of the bag, clutching it tightly as if it were his last shred of hope. Watching his sheer desperation, the audience felt utterly overwhelmed.

A slightly eccentric but otherwise ordinary and pathetic protagonist had been swept into the Chicago night and deeply scarred. What hurt more than the bruises on his face and the ache in his abdomen was the scratch on his pride. He was a nobody, nowhere. Just like most people.

It was the first time Alex's desperate cries, which had never been heard by anyone before, finally reached another human being.