Seoul Short Film Festival
Seoul Short Film Festival
Whoosh—
"The first screening has now concluded. As previously announced, Gigabox will clean the auditorium for the next twenty minutes to ensure a more comfortable viewing experience…"
The dry, administrative voice faded out, and theater staff filed in to clean.
The audience rose in a clumsy shuffle and began filing toward the exits.
But Baek Yi-seo, president of Giljabi, could not get up from her seat.
She sat with her head bowed, both hands covering her face.
"Excuse me, miss. I'm sorry, but would you mind stepping out so we can clean? The next screening starts again in thirty minutes—you're welcome to come back then."
A staff member offered the gentle reminder to the last remaining person in the theater.
"Ah—ah! Yes! I'm so sorry."
Only then did Baek Yi-seo snap back to herself. She scrambled to gather her things.
The dampness on her palms told her, without words, just how hard she had been crying.
With Baek Yi-seo as the final holdout, every last person left the auditorium.
"……"
Out in the lobby by the ticket counter, Baek Yi-seo simply stood staring blankly at the doorway she had just come through.
An indescribable feeling soaked through her entire body.
She had just glimpsed one person's entire life.
Even if it was a fabricated world, Baek Yi-seo and everyone else in that theater had been completely immersed—and they had cried for it.
She achieved her goal, but lost her dream.
She saved the person she loved, but was forgotten by everyone.
And in the end, she scattered alone somewhere no one was watching.
A death met without a single person left to remember her.
Lonely death, in the truest sense of the words.
Suddenly, a phrase rose to the surface of her mind.
"I think, therefore I am."
The famous words of the philosopher and scientist René Descartes.
What did it mean to exist?
Cheon Eun-bin, who had thought so fiercely and poured out such raw will, had clearly been a living person.
But.
Could something that would never be remembered forever truly be said to exist?
She didn't know.
Baek Yi-seo asked herself a question she had never once posed before.
If there was any comfort—she, and everyone who had watched the film today, would remember Cheon Eun-bin.
She had existed so vividly in their hearts that it could hurt this much, that it could make them this sad.
So for the woman who had died alone—
To let the world know what she had willed—
They would hold a funeral for her, in their own way.
Tap-tap-tap-tap—
Baek Yi-seo's fingers flew across her phone screen.
The funeral might have been a little crude. So what.
By sharing it, more people would find her—and feel what they had felt.
Seoul Short Film Festival, Day One. Monday.
Word of mouth from the people who had seen the film that day began to spread, little by little.
But in the end, it was still just a short film.
Public awareness of short films sat at a very low level. Plenty of people who had no interest in cinema didn't even know short film festivals existed.
So every year, any number of short film festivals came and went in near-total silence. That was the norm.
The staff at Seoul Gigabox Art Hall knew that better than anyone.
They fully expected this year's festival to end just as quietly as all the others.
For now, at least.
A staff member cleaning the auditorium muttered to himself.
"Everyone's eyes were crazy red. Guess that last one was pretty sad."
Seoul Short Film Festival, Day Two. Tuesday.
Nine in the morning—the start of the first screening.
Part-timers watched the people arriving for the festival and talked among themselves.
"More people today than yesterday, huh?"
"Yeah."
Word of mouth, maybe?
More people filled the seats than the day before—but empty ones still showed clearly.
Then afternoon came. The first screening ended, the second began, and two hours later—
Two part-timers stood staring in blank awe.
"Whoa…"
"Damn."
What they were looking at was the seat map for the Seoul Short Film Festival.
A few empties still dotted the board, but most of it glowed red.
"Something really good must be in this year."
"Right? We've never seen this before."
They shrugged it off as nothing special.
By the end, every seat was full—and Day Two of the festival was over.
T_T T_T T_T
The rumor was putting on weight, little by little.
Seoul Short Film Festival, Day Three. Wednesday.
"Uh, what is this. Crew-nim, why are there so many people?"
One in the afternoon.
A part-timer just clocking in stared at the remaining seats for Theater 5 and turned to another crew member.
"From what I heard—you know Gil Ara, the one who's been blowing up lately?"
"Yeah."
"Apparently the short film she did with Kim Jae-jun and Ryu Mi-so is that good."
"Whoa…… Those three are in it? So the fans showed up, huh."
"Yeah, looks like it. We've been slammed since morning. Probably more coming later? Hang in there, Crew-nim~"
"Got it. See you."
The morning-shift part-timer clocked out. A little time passed—and before the first screening of the day had even fully finished, there was not a single empty seat left in the festival theaters.
"I'm sorry. Every seat is currently full. We'll be able to help you in again starting at 5:10 p.m. today."
People who had come for the short films either waited—or turned around and went home.
Those who stayed took hastily printed queue tickets and settled in to wait.
Five-ten p.m.
"We'll now begin seating and entry in number order."
The people who had waited and the people getting off work flooded in together, and every seat filled in an instant.
Whatever their reasons, people were paying more attention to the short film festival.
Seoul Short Film Festival, Day Four. Thursday.
Eight in the morning.
The festival didn't start until nine—and yet a huge crowd had already pulled waiting numbers and claimed spots in the lounge.
"Guest number 186!"
"Guest number 187! Your drink is ready!"
Even at that early hour, the part-timers were making busy noise.
Nine a.m.
The first screening began, and the seats were already sold out.
Everyone who arrived after that had no choice but to turn around, faces full of frustration and regret.
Before the first screening had even ended—
Three in the afternoon.
Complaints started pouring into the Gigabox customer center and the grievance board.
"Uh, what do we do? People are losing it online right now……"
"Ha……. What's the SSFF organizing committee saying?"
The festival organizers.
"They say this has never happened before, so they're panicking too. They're in a meeting with HQ and the branch manager right now—said they'll call back later?"
"Alright, got it."
A little while later.
"Ah. Branch Manager. How did it go?"
"We're proceeding as is. Nothing we can do about it."
"Sorry?"
"We've already allocated our capacity. And we have to think about the other films too. We can't just cancel reserved screenings. My head's killing me right now."
"I see. But people are definitely going to keep complaining."
"HQ and the committee will put out a separate notice. We just keep doing what we always do."
"Understood."
In the end, for a host of practical reasons, expanding the Seoul Short Film Festival was rejected.
Time passed, and the notice from Gigabox and the SSFF was shared across Giljabi and the film communities.
We thank all citizens for the great love and interest you have shown the Seoul Short Film Festival, and would like to address recent discussions regarding expansion of festival screening venues. …… Additionally, once the awards ceremony has concluded, all films that advanced to the finals will be made available on various OTT platforms. We ask for your kind understanding.
And so Day Four of the festival closed under a cloud of controversy.
Seoul Short Film Festival, Day Five. Friday.
A news anchor's voice spilled from the television.
The camera panned across the long line of people.
"The reason for a line this long is simple: nationwide, the short films are only being screened in a single place—Theater 5 at Seoul Gigabox Art Hall."
"I see. Then why is this happening? I understand nothing like this occurred last year. Is there a cause?"
"Yes. A flood of review posts from people who have seen the shorts is the main driver. In particular, the film Stalker—starring rising star Gil Ara alongside Kim Jae-jun and Ryu Mi-so—is the primary reason."
"I see. Understood. And the organizers' position?"
Questions and answers continued as the news segment rolled on.
"Thank you, Reporter Kim. Now let's hear from some citizens on the ground."
The screen cut to interviews—people who had already seen every short film, people still waiting in line, and finally people who had failed to get tickets and were heading home empty-handed.
And just like that, the Seoul Short Film Festival had made the news.
Word reached even more people, and the communities exploded with conversation.
In a place where envy, frustration, and bragging all lived side by side, a new post rose to the top.
(link)
The link led somewhere completely unexpected.
Seoul Short Film Festival — Selling waiting number 176.
Seoul Short Film Festival — Waiting number 130 ₩₩
Festival waiting ticket #76 ₩₩ (SOLD)
On a secondhand marketplace, people were listing not tickets—but waiting numbers.
The lower the number, the higher the price.
Then, Friday afternoon.
An emergency notice from the SSFF committee and Gigabox.
Starting Saturday, waiting numbers would no longer be required—seats would be assigned immediately in the order people lined up.
Most people took the news with pure, gleeful satisfaction.
And just as that little celebration was getting started, another post began climbing the board again.
(link)
The link led to JobHell—a site for hiring and finding every kind of part-time work.
SSFF. Saturday, 2nd screening. Hiring line stand-ins. Up to 2 people.
SSFF. Saturday–Sunday full-time line stand-ins. Up to 4 people.