An-mo Is Movie (2)
“Huh?”
“Oh.” Film critic Yang Yeon-gyu and I looked at Yoo An-mo, the webtoon artist.
An-mo seemed embarrassed. “Uh-oh, was I wrong? I just said it because it came to me.”
“No, not at all. In fact, that was the conclusion we’d reached too. You really do have a sharp eye for a writer.”
“Haha, thank you, Critic Mok.” He wasn’t just being polite. In the end, a good work had to send every element in the same direction. In Color-Dong, murder and sex were tightly bound together.
If that connection was color, then that color, in turn, led back to cult fantasy.
In other words, even murder and X-rated material belonged under the umbrella of cult fantasy. To have noticed that...
So webtoon artists really weren’t just anybody. I said, “I’m glad we came here. It’s not easy to gather people from such different fields and still have everyone speak the same language.” Yang Yeon-gyu replied, “I feel the same way, Critic Mok. I can’t even remember the last time I had such a genuinely enjoyable conversation.”
“Ah—exactly...!” Yoo An-mo couldn’t hold back any longer and rapped his fist lightly against the table. “I’m so glad I brought you two together! This is the best thing I’ve done all year. I’m so excited I feel like I’ve been dosed with something or other, for real.”
“That’s a little dangerous to say, isn’t it?”
“Ah. At this rate I’m going to get forcibly cut off because of me. I’ll shut up now.” The chat window exploded with endless rows of “lol.”
I wanted to read the comments buried between all those “lol”s, but the speed made that nearly impossible. Still, the stream that followed was deeply satisfying.
Even when sexual topics came up without restraint, talking with Yang Yeon-gyu transformed them into something intellectual.
That was definitely a power I didn’t have. Still, it was a relief. I hadn’t expected to spill out all the things I couldn’t possibly let loose in Gyeongseong Geul like this.
And so the allotted two hours passed. “We’re about ready to wrap up, but before we do, would any of you like to say a final word? Let’s start with Yang Yeon-gyu, film critic.”
“Hmm—personally, there’s one question I’ve always wanted to ask Critic Mok.” To me? “Ask away.”
“You work adeptly in both film and fiction, don’t you? Hmm... this may be a rather difficult way of phrasing it, but have you perhaps found the thesis that runs through both genres?” Thesis.
It was a famous concept in German philosophy.
If you thought of it as the foundation of a line of reasoning, a basic proposition, a starting point, you’d be roughly right.
If you knew the idea of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis, then it corresponded to the “thesis” part.
Yoo An-mo jumped in skillfully. “I-I don’t get the question. Could you simplify it a bit for the viewers?”
“Haha. I didn’t mean to make it difficult on purpose, but when you’re asking a precise question, there are moments when you need a technical term. If I were to put it more loosely and ask again, I suppose I could phrase it like this: if film and fiction share some fundamental basis, what do you think that is?”
It was a precise, sharp, necessary question. In short, the sort of question a critic would ask.
And as another critic, I found myself immediately hooked. The thesis of fiction and film. On the surface, the answer would be “screenwriting.”
Screenwriting is language, after all, so it naturally overlaps with fiction.
But... there was something more fundamental and compelling at the core. “Here’s how I see it. Fiction, screenplays, and all sorts of other arts use language, right?”
“They do. And so does Yoo An-mo’s webtoon, in the end.”
“...Are you seriously going to drag me into this incredible conversation?” Yoo An-mo exclaimed theatrically.
I smiled and kept going. “I think the language of art has no limits.”
“Ah.”
“Whether it’s film, fiction, or some other language-based art, I take that limitlessness as my thesis. And I read while wondering just how far that language can go—that’s one of the greatest pleasures I get from it.”
When I closed my eyes, the world of language spread out without end.
In the realm of the sixth sense, beyond the five senses.
In the fourth dimension, beyond the three-dimensional world.
When I drifted through that world, I felt as though I, too, became a limitless being.
That was why I loved this work.
Yang Yeon-gyu quietly savored my answer.
Then he smiled gently and replied, “The limits of language... that’s wonderful. It’s a perspective very different from ours, those of us who have no choice but to think primarily in terms of images. I like it very much.”
The YouTube broadcast, which had begun so noisily, came to an end with a lingering aftertaste.
Once the camera was off, Yoo An-mo bowed and scraped with exaggerated courtesy. “Ah, everyone, thank you so much for all your hard work. I really think today’s stream is going to go down as a legend. To think I got to be part of such a highbrow conversation. I’ll put serious effort into editing it and get it uploaded!”
“What if it’s so indecent it gets slapped with a yellow tag?” I asked jokingly.
He waved both hands frantically. “Ah, even if it does, no, actually, please let it! The people who don’t watch it will be the ones missing out, that’s all. Hahaha!” Yoo An-mo insisted on treating us to dinner.
Yang Yeon-gyu had a schedule and couldn’t join us, but before leaving he gave me his business card. “Let’s do something fun together sometime. I’m not saying that just out of politeness.”
He didn’t seem like the type to say things he didn’t mean.
And I wasn’t the kind of person who made casual promises about work, either.
Still, I said it without hesitation. “I’ll be waiting.”
I handed him my own card as well. The time had been short, but the conversation we’d shared had been thoroughly enjoyable.
─┼
“You’ve really worked hard today. Eat plenty.” The place Yoo An-mo took me to was a Chinese restaurant.
A round table that turned and turned.
Greasy Chinese dishes set out on top of it. The main editor who had come along gave a thumbs-up. “The stream response was really great too. Honestly, I was worried the atmosphere might get too heavy, but it never did. It was light enough for YouTube, yet still substantial in content—it found that balance perfectly.”
“I’m glad the response was good. Honestly, I wanted to check the chat, but it was moving so fast I couldn’t read a single thing. Personally, that was the most disappointing part.”
“Ah, so you didn’t see any of it. I pulled out some meaningful comments for you—want to take a look?”
“Oh? Already?”
“Speed is basic survival in the YouTube trenches. Here, look. The reaction was seriously good.” The editor passed me his phone.
The memo app was neatly filled with copied comments.
-So this is why Yoo An-mo started a YouTube channel.... You’d never hear these kinds of conversations anywhere else. Precious. Truly precious.
-Make the two of them recurring guests.
-They took a black-and-white film I’d never even heard of and turned it into something insanely delicious.
-Not the cheap, tacky flavor you get from other movie channels. This has class.
-The two guests are on another level, whoa. First time I’ve seen Yang Yeon-gyu this excited while talking.
-Even if the field is different, when three experts get together, you get a conversation this overflowing with emotion.... Make them recurring guests.
-If language has no limits, then damn, he’s a philosopher.
-Wouldn’t regret getting demonetized. This was a damn sex broadcast.
-Talking philosophy through sex. Is this the power of a critic?
.
.
.
I handed the phone back to the editor. “Whether the response is good or not, it’s pretty witty.”
“That’s the power of YouTube. Though I did filter it a bit for you, of course. Oh—hang on a second. A call...” The editor picked up his phone and stepped out of the room.
Then Yoo An-mo glanced at me cautiously. “Uh, Critic Mok?”
“Yes?”
“This is a little out of the blue, but could I ask you for a favor?”
“A favor?”
“Yeah. Back when I was a rookie, I made a short webtoon that totally flopped... and I still can’t figure out why it failed so badly. Could you take a look at it once? You could really get through it in no time.”
“I’m not really a webtoon expert.”
“Aw, but webtoons have language too~ And language has no limits.” Yoo An-mo mocked me by repeating my own line.
Well, if it was just a short piece, there was no reason I couldn’t look. “I’ll give you my impressions as a reader. Since we’re here, let’s look at it now.”
“Huh, really?! Thank you.” As he searched for the file on his phone, he said, “Honestly, it’s the work I put the most effort into out of everything I’ve drawn. I didn’t even put this much into Movie Admission Ticket. But it just completely bombed, and it still breaks my heart.”
Oh? Really?
Even while we were on the stream, I’d sensed it again.
Yoo An-mo was not only a gifted creator but also someone with real analytical talent. And this was the work he’d put the most effort into, yet it was also the one that had failed most completely.
...Maybe this would be interesting.
“I made it in two parts. The first part was free, so people did read it to some extent, but the second part, which required payment, saw its views drop dramatically compared to the first. Maybe to one-tenth?”
It was only natural for free chapters and paid chapters to differ.
But if it was down to one-tenth...
Then it was clear he hadn’t managed to show its appeal early on. At any rate, I read the webtoon on his phone. The title was Paper Mask.
Paper Mask was a kind of black-comedy hero story. Paper Mask was a superhero made of paper.
He was vulnerable to fire, water, and wind,
but he protected justice with sharp edges and the ability to transform his shape as though folding origami.
It was exactly the kind of story a webtoon could make charming.
Or, to put it another way,
it was also a story perfectly suited to the webtoon medium. Paper Mask, who fought for humanity, was loved by many.
The pure white color symbolized innocence,
while the way his shape could change at will symbolized creativity and flexibility.
Above all, there was that light, fluttering material.
It seemed to symbolize the unambitious life he led.
The President of the United States pinned a medal on him,
and at times he fought enemies alongside the military.
But the more people he saved and the more enemies he fought, the weaker Paper Mask became.
Just like paper, he crumpled and grew dirty.
I can’t unfold.
I’m sad because no matter what I do, I can’t become perfectly flat again. Paper Mask muttered to himself every time he looked at his body.
As time passed, new heroes were born, and Paper Mask gradually faded from memory as a hero.
He had enough fame and money, but... he wanted to be a hero.
Then, one day, a crisis struck Earth.
A giant meteor of fire was about to fall.
So Paper Mask dragged his crumpled body into one last sortie.
The webtoon vividly showed Paper Mask fighting the meteor,
saving the Earth in the end and burning to death in a glorious blaze himself. “...What do you think?” Yoo An-mo asked carefully.
There was at least one thing I already knew I would say. “The art is beyond reproach—excellent. The direction is good too. If I had to offer any criticism at all, it would be the dialogue.”
“Yes, yes, anything is fine.”
“The dialogue is too dark.”
“Ah.”
“At least the successful webtoons I’ve seen tend to use a lot of positive lines. Or they use what you might call dopamine-boosting dialogue. But if I were to reduce this webtoon to a single line of dialogue... it would be ‘I’m sad.’” That was an important point. I’m sad because no matter what I do, I can’t become perfectly flat again. That line was practically the center of Paper Mask.
“When you show emotion through dialogue, it hits readers more strongly than you might think. The moment the writer says, ‘I’m sad,’ readers start thinking of this as a sad webtoon.”
“...That’s true. I wanted to show that solemn, beautiful sacrifice as something sad.”
“If that was the intention, then you succeeded. It just wasn’t a fit for a major webtoon platform.” He nodded grimly. “So that’s what it was. Come to think of it, there really are almost no successful webtoons that are openly, blatantly sad. Sigh... that clears up the mystery, at least. Bitter, but...”
It was unfortunate.
That didn’t mean Paper Mask was a bad work, though.
The emotion of sadness.
And a superhero story. On the face of it, they were two genres that didn’t seem to belong together, yet the work managed to persuade readers of that combination brilliantly.
It was just that the appeal was probably for a small niche—in other words, it was cultish. Huh? Wait. Cultish?
Then this... would actually review pretty well for Soom.