Cheongsang Arts Awards (1)
With the broadcast of the third-quarter mega-hit Fly High finally over, a bitter winter had settled in before anyone quite noticed.
And the hottest topic of the season — hot enough to burn right through that cold — was who would take home the Grand Prize at the Cheongsang Arts Awards.
The Cheongsang Arts Awards held the highest authority in the television category, and as the only major awards ceremony dedicated to dramas and variety programs, its importance needed no explanation. Attendance among industry figures routinely topped ninety-five percent, so every other year-end ceremony either shifted earlier or pushed into January just to avoid colliding with it.
The Grand Prize, in particular, was awarded to only one recipient across every terrestrial, cable, and general programming network — drama and variety combined. Some years it went not to a person at all but to a work itself, which only made winning it that much harder.
Public consensus had narrowed the contenders to two productions and one actress.
Meanwhile, Seo Eunwoo was skimming the community boards for the public mood. From what he could tell, people who had no say in awarding the Grand Prize were fighting tooth and nail over who deserved it.
Well… debates like this do make for entertaining conversation, I'll give them that.
"Hey, Seo Eunwoo. You listening?"
His friend Cha Musik was staring at him with a distinctly unimpressed look.
"Weren't you just talking about games?"
"This bastard wasn't listening to a single word. I was talking about the chaos going on in Japan right now."
"Hm? Why's Japan suddenly in an uproar?"
"Sigh… Fine, I'll explain from the top even though it's a pain. This is info my dad got hold of under the table…"
The whole thing had started when Welcome to Cafe Violet began airing in Japan.
A few months earlier, Japan's drama market had been in freefall right alongside Korea's — and the problem wasn't limited to those two countries. Why else would Eunwoo have surveyed every film and drama in this world and come away in despair? Look anywhere on the planet and the offerings fell short of his standards. Hollywood movies and Korean dramas were about the only things that looked halfway decent to him, and that alone said everything about how bad things were. Even The Warm Princess — a drama Eunwoo had ranked among the absolute worst — had managed a respectable showing overseas.
Then, out of nowhere, a drama of an entirely higher caliber had appeared in Korea. The first overseas broadcaster to react to this anomaly was a Japanese network. Its director, Tadayoshi, was a well-known Korea enthusiast who made a point of watching nearly every drama trending there. Naturally he came across Welcome to Cafe Violet, then in the middle of its runaway domestic success, and a single thought seized him at once.
Our network has to secure the broadcast rights for this drama. Exclusive, if at all possible!
Years of experience had honed Tadayoshi's instincts. He was certain this show would jolt Japan's stagnant drama market with something extraordinary. The moment the thought landed, he contacted Executive Director Yoo Yeonjung of Studio NMIX — someone already in his network — and made an extraordinary offer: he would meet any condition Studio NMIX set.
From Yoo Yeonjung's perspective, it was hardly a bad deal. The one sticking point was that the latter half of the story was set during the Japanese occupation. Negative pushback from the Japanese government was all but guaranteed. Tadayoshi, however, saw it differently.
Even if those people try to slap sanctions on us, they'll be the ones taking the hit.
Just as he had predicted, Welcome to Cafe Violet posted staggering numbers in Japan. Then episodes fifteen and sixteen aired, and the Japanese government demanded that Director Tadayoshi ban the show entirely for violating broadcast review standards. Faced with that brazen order, Tadayoshi simply decided to wait and watch — after first leaking the absurd ban demand to the press with full force.
The Japanese government had overlooked one crucial fact: how media control actually worked in the modern age. And when the drama in question already commanded that kind of cultural power, how exactly would audiences react?
The result was a tidal wave of public fury. Then Writer 927's statement delivered the finishing blow.
This is getting ridiculous. Why don't we just ban the export of Fly High entirely, the way their government wants?
"Thanks to that, the atmosphere in Japan is absolutely brutal right now. People have completely turned on the government. At this rate, they'll wave the white flag any day."
"Well… things are unfolding in a pretty interesting way."
Seo Eunwoo allowed himself a wry smile. The mere fact that a situation like this had erupted meant his drama was that entertaining, that artistically accomplished. It was a good sign, no question.
"Forget interesting — if this keeps going, isn't Writer 927 going to end up with a Nobel Peace Prize?"
Yeah, that's just nonsense.
"Anyway, Seo Eunwoo. You've been glued to your phone this whole time. Don't tell me it's that girl you keep texting?"
"Buddy, just shut up for a second."
"What? Why are you suddenly grinning like that? It's creepy."
Just as Cha Musik said, Seo Eunwoo was smiling for some reason — because of the message that had just arrived from Seol Soyoung.
The surgery, of course, was Lee Hwayang's. She had apparently beaten the forty-percent odds and come through successfully. He could almost feel Soyoung's joy from here, and that alone was a relief.
Fly High. Looking back on it now, he was glad he had written it.
A few days later, I got a call from PD Na.
"Ah, Eunwoo. I'm calling about the Cheongsang Arts Awards. An invitation came for Writer 927."
"I'll be declining, of course."
"Understood. If the writer ends up winning anything, I'll accept it as your proxy, so don't worry about it."
His mindset already assumes I'm going to win, huh?
If I did take home an award, it would almost certainly be for Best Screenplay. And PD Na wasn't the only one who reached out.
What? Look forward to what, all of a sudden?
Still turning that over in my mind, the day of the Cheongsang Arts Awards arrived. I watched from the living room with my family. The broadcast opened on the red carpet — actors filing into the venue, a storm of camera flashes wrapping around them.
And then it was Seol Soyoung's turn, and I understood immediately what she had meant by look forward to it.
Click. Click.
Against a darkened backdrop, a girl in a pure white dress gathered her skirts and set one delicate foot onto the red carpet. Clear amber-brown eyes, black-and-white hair. With every soft strike of her heels, the shutter-clicks of the cameras somehow grew quieter.
…From that moment on, the star of the evening was decided. How much work had gone into that makeup? Someone already that beautiful showing up looking like this was basically foul play.
I watched her with my mouth slightly open, taking in every detail of that luminous figure. Then she spotted a camera, gave a little wave, and smiled — a soft, intimate smile, as if she were greeting someone she knew was watching right then.
Every guy in the country tuned in to this broadcast was probably thinking the same thing. But I'd appreciate it if they didn't get the wrong idea.
That greeting was for me.
…Probably?