Sundance Film Festival, Part 4

Inside the dark theater, nothing could be heard except the sound of the movie. Even the breathing of the audience filling the space had fallen dead silent.

On the giant screen, a familiar face was speaking, looking like an entirely different person.

"..."

At the back of the theater, Sion Lee, who had slipped in unnoticed, watched the scene in silence. Memories of filming flashed through his mind like a panorama. The result of his complete immersion into the role, of giving his absolute best, was now being etched into the minds of the audience before his very eyes.

Daniel Summit was, as Sion had "known," a talented director. And right now, his greatest asset—even more than his raw talent—was his youth. Armed with nothing but passion and grit, he had painted a picture unlike anything seen before.

But in my past life, that youth probably curdled into narrow-mindedness, ruining the production.

In the original script, Alex was merely a passive figure, tossed about by the various evils of societal systems. While the realistic and cold narrative focused on building empathy for Alex as a victim, it had lacked depth.

If it had been a picaresque, it might have finished filming instead of being dropped halfway through, but it was too ambiguous.

It was, quite literally, a bleak indie art film of the exact kind a fresh film school graduate would make. However, everything that happened before and during production—including Sion's casting—had expanded the director's artistic horizon. A director with a keen sensitivity toward "life" had realized he was trapped in a conventional dichotomy of good and evil. Because of this, he had subtly adjusted the details of the direction and dialogue, shifting the focus to the protagonist's inner psyche while balancing the weight of the characters.

As a result, Swing in Chicago had transformed into a work open to multiple interpretations and deep reflection. Alex was undeniably an ordinary, everyday citizen of this era. But as this average man gradually unleashed his inner madness, the drama gripped the audience's undivided attention.

After Detective Copse, who had visited his house due to the previous day's events, left, the phone rang again.

The man on the other end of the line had adopted a slightly gentler tone. Alex, speaking with him, wore a smile like a child's. It suggested that he had never truly shared his story with anyone before—and how desperately he had yearned to do so. Even if the person on the other end was someone whose face he had never properly seen, it was exactly what Alex needed.

At this point, the sharper members of the audience began to suspect something.

Is he actually on the phone with someone?

The voice sounds... kind of similar, doesn't it?

Those who realized the strangeness of the phone call watched with suspicion, while those who remained unaware simply lost themselves in the aesthetically directed film, following the director's intent. Both sides watched Alex's journey with rapt fascination.

Night fell once more. After waking from a brief nap, Alex threw on his black vinyl jacket and stood before the door.

What he needed was certainty. The courage to believe he could pull this off, and the anticipation of the reward waiting for him. After hesitating for a long moment with his hand on the doorknob, he turned back and rummaged through a storage bin near the entryway filled with random junk. He pulled out a hammer and shoved it into his inner jacket pocket.

The night streets of Chicago were as cold and unforgiving as ever.

As the film entered its second act, the perspective shifted to Detective Copse. He was a character who symbolized the external gaze. Having investigated the dead-drop drug operations for some time, he sat in a small hotel room, explaining the situation over the phone to someone who seemed to be a fellow detective.

Detective Copse's eyes wavered slightly. At the paint factory, he was just... He hung up the phone and lit a cigarette.

He chuckled.

He didn't particularly suspect Alex, who seemed like a clumsy, ordinary citizen. If anything, such innocence was rare on these harsh streets. A guy like that would be eaten alive by hyena-like thugs in an instant, just like during their first encounter. Though his profession forced him to act tough, Detective Copse possessed a deeply righteous streak, genuinely wishing to protect ordinary citizens like Alex. Yet, it was this very righteousness that drove a wedge between the two leads at this pivotal moment.

The audience grew increasingly immersed in Alex as he descended further into corruption. While attempting to drop off the goods at the designated spot, he was brutally beaten by a gang member guarding the area. In a desperate struggle, he managed to pull out his hammer and retaliate. Though he hesitated at first, the strike—aimed first at the shin, then at the head of the collapsing thug—felt brutally visceral. Blood splattered from off-screen, staining Alex's cheek.

At that exact moment, a shout echoed from behind. Alex threw his bag and began to run like mad. A chase with an unknown pursuer ensued. The camera, shaking continuously as if pursuing Alex from behind, slowly caught up to him in a single, unbroken long take. As the camera spun around to finally capture Alex's face, he was wearing a wide, utterly incongruous grin.

Seeing this, many in the audience thought:

How did he end up like that...?

Is he out of his mind? No, why did he turn out like that?

That was likely the consensus. But the most fascinating part was that not a single person in the theater associated the figure on the screen with "Sion Lee." At this very moment, they could not reconcile the actor—who, despite gaining weight, still possessed undeniable beauty—with the protagonist on screen. That irony was the very force sustaining the narrative.

The protagonist commits evil to make his life better. The detective inflicts violence to do good. A brutal but undeniable reality. The power to blend extreme, condensed situations designed for thematic impact into something the audience accepts as reality. Just as important as the director's vision or the camera crew's technical skill was the actor's presence, which elevated a fictional character into a living, breathing human being.

Returning home after committing the crime, Alex was a completely changed man. He had been liberated through violence, overflowing with confidence. As if sending a silent cheer to the night streets that no one could defeat him now, he lit a cigarette and spoke to a woman standing on the curb.

The woman, taking in his shabby appearance, spoke coldly.

That interaction planted a new goal in Alex's mind. Alex returned to his apartment. The voice on the phone spoke.

Hearing this, he checked the mailbox and found a thick stack of bills. Without even counting how much it was, Alex brought it inside. As he talked to Heather in his cramped apartment, laughing hysterically, he looked truly insane. No, that wasn't it. Heather didn't exist. But there was someone who did. Someone real. He went back out into the night and met a prostitute.

The first prostitute he had ever paid for. Yet, all Alex did was talk. His crimes continued after that. He made money, and every time he did, he met with the prostitute. The two of them were shown through the pattering rain. Then, a single raindrop fell onto the camera lens, and when it was wiped away, the prostitute was gone.

The audience fell into confusion.

What's real and what's fake?

He got paid? Is there really someone hiring Alex for these drops?

Many cinephiles watching the film harbored doubts, but that only drew them deeper into the story. That was their greatest strength and virtue: to lose themselves purely in the unfolding film. The evil of the weak, struggling for their own sake. A structure that seemed to subtly validate it through direction and immersion. Yet, the film would suddenly inject a jarring sense of dissonance by showing Alex harming someone with a hammer. It felt like the subtle bitterness left at the end of a sweet cocktail.

Continuing in this manner, Alex's crimes steadily marched toward ruin. The film depicted the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠evil of the weak as something trivial. To him, "evil" was merely a means to obtain what he needed: recognition, attention, a single handful of conversation. The dialogue with the prostitute after a drop, that tiny sliver of connection, made Alex smile. So did his conversations with the mysterious voice on the phone... It was profoundly pathetic and lonely. Because of this, everyone in the audience found themselves silently hoping for Alex to meet a slightly better end... even as they questioned whether he truly deserved one.

Inside a factory. He picked up a new bag. Just as he was about to slip away, Alex realized this was the very paint factory where he used to work, and he paused, lost in sentimentality. He walked over to the attendance sheet and stared silently at his crossed-out name. A complex swirl of indefinable emotions filled his eyes. Yet, the audience understood exactly what he was feeling, so deeply had they synchronized with the character of Alex. And in the next moment, someone stood behind him.

Detective Copse, who had arrived here while tracking the dead drops. This was the end. Exhausted by his long criminal run, Alex raised both hands above his head. But Detective Copse's reaction was not what he expected.

Detective Copse grew wary. But Alex's mind was already scarred beyond repair. He had turned to crime to escape the suffocating life of a blue-collar worker. He thought he had achieved so much through it. He had become friendly with a man who seemed to be a key figure in a criminal organization, and he had made enough money to afford a prostitute. But to everyone else, Alex was still the same. A cog in the factory machine. An ordinary citizen looked down upon by a detective. That realization shattered his sanity, and the background music swelled to a deafening roar, capturing his escalating emotions. Alex lunged forward blindly.

Sharp strings shrieked. A heart-pounding drumbeat echoed. In a wide shot filmed from a distance, the two men tangled and rolled across the floor. Detective Copse tried to subdue Alex, but even for a veteran, pinning down a man fighting like a rabid beast was no easy feat. To make matters worse, Alex targeted only vital spots like the eyes. Panicked, Copse fired a shot into the air.

Bang! The old ceiling light shattered, raining glass shards down on them. The camera began to race. Startled by the gunshot, Alex fled in terror. Detective Copse immediately gave chase. The scenes shook, cut, and crossed in a dizzying blur. And before long, Alex stood waiting behind a corner, clutching the hammer—the source of his confidence. His eyes gleamed, his eyelids twitching violently.

As Detective Copse rounded the corner, the hammer swung down toward his head. Darkness fell, leaving only the sound of heavy, ragged breathing. Crack! Bang! And then, everything fell silent.

"..."

"..."

No one could tear their eyes away from the screen.

In the early dawn, Alex emerged from an alleyway and walked slowly down the street. He was a battered mess, clutching the bag tightly to his chest. He paused briefly at the spot where the prostitute who used to talk to him always stood. In the bleak dawn, she was nowhere to be seen. Just as he was about to give up and turn away, she appeared—accompanied by another man. She glanced back at Alex, but when the man wrapped an arm around her shoulder, she walked away without a second look.

Alex slowly turned back. No one looked at him as he walked away. It felt almost as if they were desperately trying to ignore him. Passing through the crowd, he returned home. Stumbling inside, he set the bag down on the side table next to the sofa and collapsed onto it—the very sofa where he had said he hated sleeping alone.

Wheezing in a raspy voice, he reached out toward the poster hanging on the door. Blood seeped vividly from the abdomen of his vinyl jacket. With that, Alex's hand slowly went limp and fell, brushing against the bag on the table. The bag tipped over, its opening spilling open. The camera zoomed in on it as classical music began to play. The screen cut to black, and a melancholy concerto accompanied the slow crawl of the end credits. Without showing whether Alex lived or died, or what was actually inside the bag, the film came to a lonely end.

A screening of about ninety ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠minutes. The audience, who had watched every single frame in rapt silence, slowly began to applaud. At first, it was just a few cinephiles reacting purely to a great film, but the applause quickly spread until everyone in the theater was clapping. And it didn't stop there. Moved by the profound immersion they had just experienced, someone stood up in a standing ovation. Joining in, others began to rise like meerkats here and there, until soon, every single audience member was on their feet. The thunderous standing ovation of over four hundred people echoed throughout the entire theater.

I never expected an ending like this. But it's good. Bold, and the direction is so fresh.

It leaves room for the audience's imagination. The ending changes depending on how you perceive Alex as a character.

It's probably right to interpret it as him dying. But I want to believe Alex is alive. He's a character who absolutely shouldn't be sympathized with... so why do I feel for him?

In the end, we never found out if there were actually drugs in the bag. Was all of this just Alex's delusion? Or was there really someone pulling his strings? But then, what about the money?

Oh, Alex... poor guy. But he shouldn't have done those things.

If things go wrong, I could end up just like him. I need to work harder... but does that even mean anything?

It has that uncomfortable edge typical of indie films... but I think it could easily appeal to the general public.

Is there a post-credits scene? No post-credits scene?

Amidst a flurry of thoughts and questions, many resolved to watch the film again. As the credits finished rolling and the audience slowly emerged from the film's spell, a sudden realization struck them.

Oh, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wait a minute...

...This movie.

Sion Lee was the lead actor, wasn't he?

It was a fact they had barely registered since the opening scene, completely masked by the actor's sheer talent and physical transformation. The very actor ridiculed in Hollywood for his terrible acting had delivered a monumental performance as the lead. And he had done so without relying on his good looks—the one thing everyone claimed was his only saving grace.

...How is this even possible?

Recalling that truth, they were struck by a massive wave of cognitive dissonance.