The Man Who Judged Him
“It's the man who judged you.”
“This movie is really good.”
“Thank you for watching it.”
The sound design and OST, painstakingly crafted to suit a music film. The tangled, shifting shapes of the emotions the characters held toward one another. And a story anyone could relate to — all of it had left a deep impression.
“That's really JJ, isn't it...?”
Among the applauding audience were people who had old ties to Yoon Jay from his past.
They had spotted the Intermission poster on the festival banners plastered around Park City, and wondering, Is that really our friend?, had come to see for themselves.
Intermission drew rave reviews at Sundance, too. Word of mouth spread among the attendees until crowds began lining up just to get a seat — a sight no one had expected.
“That movie was amazing. What did you think, hyung?”
“Same here. That scene in the middle, you know the one...”
The four actors of Intermission wandered from screening to screening, watching the other films submitted to the festival and enjoying it to the fullest.
They snapped photos here and there for social media and sat in on Q&A sessions, where directors and actors took the stage to field questions.
“Hello, everyone. It's been a while — are you sick of seeing my face yet?”
Since this was his second go-around, Director Shin Ji-won handled the audience's questions with practiced ease. Yoon Jay, too, took up the microphone and answered each question from the audience with genuine sincerity as an actor.
Yoon Jay arrived at the café earlier than the appointed time and sat gazing blankly out at the street beyond the window. Every now and then, it was nice to while away an hour like this with nothing pressing to do.
“Excuse me — are you the actor from Intermission?”
“I am.”
“We loved the movie!”
Between his imposing frame and his handsome face, Yoon Jay was impossible to miss. Several people who recognized him stopped by to say hello and take a photo together.
“Beautiful scenery out there, isn't it?”
“Yes, it is.”
Kwak Dohyun, who had recognized the old man, quietly rose from his seat and slipped away somewhere.
Who is that?
For the moment, Yoon Jay offered the old man the seat Kwak Dohyun had just vacated. The old man thanked him and sat down.
“The name is Giuseppe Argento.”
“I'm Yoon Jay.”
Even as he clasped the old man's hand in his own, a strange flicker of familiarity made Yoon Jay tilt his head. A name he'd heard somewhere before, hadn't he?
At that, the old man smiled faintly.
“You may not know me, but I know you quite well.”
“May I ask how—”
Yoon Jay stiffened slightly. From a mere glance he could usually tell whether a person was dangerous, and for now, the man didn't seem suspicious at all.
Considering Managing Director Kwak had surrendered his seat, the man was likely someone from the film world... someone famous, perhaps?
“I was one of the judges who evaluated you. At Cannes.”
“Ah. You mean The Child.”
So he's a man straddling my past, in more ways than one. Yoon Jay let out a quiet breath.
“Thank you for the kind assessment. Did you happen to see Intermission as well?”
“I did. That's why I dragged this old body all the way here in the first place — to see it.”
So he didn't just strike up a conversation after happening to attend the festival. He came all this way to see me.
Yoon Jay found it a little surreal. He knew The Child was famous in Korea, but that a foreigner would travel this far just to watch his comeback film... Was it because Yoon Jay happened to be in a film he'd judged — something special to him?
“How was the film?”
“Wonderful. Might I ask what was in your heart when you played the role?”
“Yoo Tae-hyuk was, personally, a character it was easy to lose myself in.”
Though they were meeting for the first time, the two men fell into an easy conversation about film. Giuseppe Argento studied Yoon Jay's face. He has grown into such a fine young man.
“Were you disappointed, then?”
“In what sense?”
“If you knew the me of the past, I imagine you'd compare the me of then with the me of now.”
The truth was, Yoon Jay had always suspected the reception he received in Korea wasn't entirely objective.
Park Dong-hwa in The Child had so many visible, surface-level traits that simply portraying them well got you halfway to acclaim — and since he'd been a child when he did it, he'd always assumed the praise came laced with allowances for that.
Intermission was no different. Yoo Tae-hyuk and Yoon Jay shared so many similarities that playing him hadn't been difficult.
So what would the eyes of a foreign director from an entirely different culture see? He wanted to hear the honest opinion of a man who had judged him with his own hands.
“...When it comes to acting, I concern myself with nothing but the acting itself — whether the actor is young or old, what they look like. It was no different back then.”
Giuseppe Argento understood why Yoon Jay was asking. He must be forever measuring his present self against the weight his old name carries.
“I was not disappointed. On the contrary — I found it magnificent. The young actor I once ached to see in a next film turned out to be undimmed, exactly as he was.”
This wasn't a problem unique to Yoon Jay and Yoon Jae-hee — it was one that haunted many others as well.
He had seen genius directors who burst onto the scene like comets writhing through slumps, time and again. Giuseppe had weathered such struggles personally, too.
“And besides — are you really a man who needs someone else's approval?”
“Haha.”
“Why do you laugh?”
“Director Lee Young-chang said the very same thing to me.”
“He's a fine director.”
The old man thought of Yoo Tae-hyuk in Intermission — the way he rendered that inferiority complex toward others so delicately, so palpably, you could feel it on your own skin.
A fine character worthy of a fine script, carried by a fine actor, woven together with the direction itself into a magnificent ensemble.
What made Intermission shine even brighter was the lead's presence and expressive power — just as young Yoon Jae-hee's had in The Child.
“Actors these days live so entwined with the media that I understand the sensitivity to other people's gazes and judgments.”
“That's true.”
“But none of that matters. Is the acting good, or isn't it?”
“Hmm... yes.”
It is good. That's why I came back. But whether it's the same fun I felt as a child... I honestly don't know yet.
Even that hesitant answer did not escape Giuseppe Argento's notice.
“From what I understand, you've been through a difficult stretch of years... Do you resent me for it?”
“What would I have to resent? It's not as if the jury was made up only of old men. It all happened because I was too good for my own good, as a kid.”
“Haha! Well, if that's how you see it, I'm glad.”
At Yoon Jay's quip, Giuseppe threw his head back and laughed heartily.
“Don't let it weigh on you too heavily. The boy you were then and the man you are now are both fine actors. I look forward to your next work. Ah — since it's come up, have you decided on your next project?”
“I'm waiting on a screenplay from Director Lee Young-chang.”
“Oh! A reunion of two geniuses... I suppose I'll have to stay alive until then.”
At the old man's death-tinged joke, Yoon Jay simply smiled. Giuseppe rose from his seat, and Yoon Jay offered a short farewell with a promise to meet again.
“Did your conversation go well?”
“It did. Why didn't you go over and introduce yourself?”
“I'll wait my turn. I suspect I'll be seeing him plenty more from now on.”
Bill Clement, like his teacher, had been deeply moved by The Child — and now he had watched Intermission alongside him.
Both men agreed they'd been right to make the trip. Yoon Jay remained an actor who stirred inspiration in those around him. Not that he seemed to know it — he was still far too strict with himself.
“Are you bragging that you're younger than me right now?”
“Which is exactly why you should take better care of your health.”
A man who had been circling past the two of them, headed for Yoon Jay, stared intently at their retreating backs. And Kwak Dohyun, returning from his brief absence, settled back into his seat.
“Wasn't that man just now Giuseppe Argento?”
“It was.”
“Whoa...”
“He said he enjoyed the film.”
The man suppressed the urge to run over and greet the master right then and there, broke into a wide smile instead, and extended his hand. The appointment with Yoon Jay comes first.
“Ah — forgive me, where are my manners. I'm late with the introduction. Miles Wilson, producer at Palace Film Company.”
“Kwak Dohyun of Astra Entertainment.”
The two men exchanged business cards, and Yoon Jay shook Miles's hand briefly.
“I'm Yoon Jay. Please, call me JJ.”
“I saw Intermission before we ever met. That was some remarkable acting.”
“Thank you.”
“I don't say that lightly — I mean it.”
What Yoo Tae-hyuk had shown in Intermission had burrowed deep into Miles Wilson's memory. He was brash and arrogant, sure — but Miles had a personal fondness for the story of a man who overcame his past and his inferiority complex to stand back up.
“Have you acted before? I heard you debuted only three years ago... Did you study acting in school, perhaps?”
“Ah. So that part of my history hasn't made it over here yet, has it.”
“Sorry?”
Miles Wilson didn't follow what Yoon Jay meant — though later, when he finally learned of Yoon Jay's former name, he was stunned. Youngest-ever titles weren't the kind of thing just anyone picked up.
“In any case — the performances in Intermission. Did you play the instruments yourself?”
“I did.”
“All of them? That many?”
In Intermission, Yoo Tae-hyuk had reached for the drums, the guitar, and more, all in his desperate attempt to catch up to Jung Yi-hyun.
It was the scene that maximized his inferiority complex — Tae-hyuk was skilled in his own right, but even so, he realized he could never surpass a true genius like Jung Yi-hyun.
When Yoon Jay nodded with a faint smile, Miles Wilson let out a soft sound of admiration.
“So it's true... everything I've heard.”
“What exactly did Jayden say about me?”
“That you're overflowing with talent — that once you've seen something done, you can replicate all of it.”
“Him? That's not exactly his style when it comes to praise...”
“Well, don't we all get a bit generous with the compliments when we're introducing a friend to someone new?”
After a round of brief small talk, Miles Wilson cleared his throat and got to the point.
“The reason I asked to meet you like this is simple. For the film adaptation of The Fall of Evil, I've come to ask you directly — to appear in it as 'Ten' himself.”
“...There are plenty of Asian actors working in Hollywood besides me.”
“And none of them carry the symbolism you do. You're the hero who took part in that very operation — and as it happens, you're an active actor as well.”
Not to mention your acting is first-rate... Miles Wilson flashed a slick grin at Yoon Jay, who was still smiling pleasantly, but Kwak Dohyun had already sensed that Yoon Jay's mood had turned prickly.
“Why The Fall of Evil, of all things?”
“I'm sorry?”
“There's no shortage of military propaganda screenwriters out there.”
Miles Wilson was one of Hollywood's rising producers. Every film that passed through his hands succeeded, and the no-name actors he championed became top stars drawing fees in the hundreds of millions.
His nickname, after all, was the 'Top Star Maker.' Which was why, frankly, he'd assumed that a man of his stature arriving in person would make the contract an easy thing to win.
“Just because it's a national project of sorts? A way to secure military support for your future films?”
But Yoon Jay thought differently. He wanted the story of LIS to be more than a passing spectacle — more than fodder for cheap thrills.
No doubt Jayden had stressed the same thing, but the position of military personnel who saluted and complied when ordered from above, and the position of an actor deciding whether to take the role, were not the same.
With a man like this, I need to meet him in earnest.
Even this guardedness of Yoon Jay's struck Miles as magnetic, making him all the more determined to cast him.
“I'll be honest with you — yes, that's part of it.”
“Judging by your tone, though, I'd say that's not your first priority.”
“My parents were caught in a terror attack carried out by LIS. They didn't survive.”
Yoon Jay and Kwak Dohyun both drew in a sharp breath.
“I'm so sorry. My condolences.”
“No need — and I understand your concern. You've lived it in your own skin, so of course you wouldn't want it reduced to a piece of propaganda.”
“...”
“I intend to produce The Fall of Evil with almost no dramatization at all. Like a documentary. Not for the box office, not to trumpet America's greatness — but transparently, as one of the victims of terror.”
Miles added, of course, that if the government stepped in, the odds were high that things would change.
Still, in the hope that his noble intentions would be understood, he had shown Yoon Jay his sincerity — to make clear that this adaptation was not something he was pursuing on a lark.
“That's why I want you in this film, JJ. You — more than anyone — know that organization's cruelty in your own skin, and you're the only one who can truly bring it to the screen.”
The man was painting on a far grander canvas than Yoon Jay had expected. And Yoon Jay, liking the answer, deliberated only briefly before he spoke.
“...I'll consider it favorably.”