Jihoon, now thousands of miles away in Los Angeles, never imagined how much his name had started to mean to people back home.
The success of his previous two films—SECRET, YOUR NAME, and even SHOPLIFTERS directed by his company director Jongbin—had already earned him a quiet but growing reputation among Korean moviegoers.
But what was happening now… this was something else entirely.
Because SUNNY wasn't supposed to be a blockbuster.
It started as a casual conversation on one evening, Sun Yejin and a few of her close friends—actresses he knew but hadn't worked with before—approached him about making a movie together.
Something light, meaningful, and fun.
Jihoon took it as a small project, something heartfelt but simple.
No one expected it to explode the way it did.
On its first day, SUNNY premiered across 1,200 screens in Korea, pulling in USD 2.4 million at the box office—a phenomenal opening for a film made on a modest budget of USD 5.5 million.
By the second and third day, as netizens shared clips, quotes, and tears online, the buzz turned into a wave.
Word of mouth caught fire, and attendance soared by nearly 45%. Cinemas rushed to respond, expanding the screening count to over 2,500 screens—nearly three-quarters of all the theaters in Korea at the time.
By the end of its first week, SUNNY had already earned USD 5.8 million, recouping its entire production cost.
From that moment forward, every ticket sold was pure profit.
But the surprise didn't stop at home, it also expand abroad.
In Japan, Studio Ghibli—who had helped promote the film due to Jihoon's growing reputation after his Oscar nomination—pushed SUNNY with the kind of marketing reserved for prestige films.
Within the first three days of release, Japanese audiences flocked to see it, bringing in a remarkable USD 4.2 million.
The power of the Hallyu wave, combined with Jihoon's growing clout as a filmmaker, gave the film a warm welcome across Asia.
In China, SUNNY debuted at number two in the monthly box office rankings, pulling in USD 6.8 million—second only to the domestic epic Red Cliff. For a film without big-name stars or action spectacle, this was unheard of.
Meanwhile, in Southeast Asia, even a limited arthouse rollout in Singapore, Thailand, and Vietnam managed to bring in another USD 2.3 million combined—something no one had expected from a female-centric, nostalgia-driven Korean film.
And then the headlines started rolling in.
Dispatch News: "Director Lee Jihoon's new film SUNNY breaks USD 10 million at the box office within just one week. A film carried by supporting actresses and unknown young newcomers—what kind of magic is behind this?"
Star News: "Tears and laughter on screen—SUNNY surpasses USD 10 million in one week. A tissue box with every ticket? Director Lee Jihoon proves why he's Korea's leading international filmmaker."
OSEN News: "Buy a ticket, get a tissue—SUNNY becomes a phenomenon in Korean film history. Director Lee Jihoon is now more than a filmmaker—he's a cultural force."
While the spotlight shone brightly on the young actresses of SUNNY, behind the glittering headlines and box office triumph, a quiet storm was brewing in the heart of the Korean entertainment industry.
Jealousy.
It wasn't just a film—it was a phenomenon.
SUNNY had catapulted a group of mostly unknown actresses into the stratosphere of stardom.
These girls, once considered second-tier or completely off the radar in the showbiz world, but were now the faces of Asia.
Invitations to star in dramas, film offers from major studios, and luxury brand endorsements came pouring in like rain during monsoon season, turning them into overnight sensations.
And with that, their fees? Skyrocketing.
Their popularity? Explosive.
Sun Yejin, already a well-established top-tier actress before SUNNY, only soared higher—cementing her name not just in Korea, but across Asia.
The rest of the cast weren't far behind.
What took others decades to earn, they were now offered in months.
Their net worth ballooned.
Their faces were on every billboard in Seoul.
And all of this didn't sit well with many.
Veteran actresses—women who had spent years grinding through the industry, taking every supporting role thrown their way, weathering dry spells, scandals, and the cold indifference of the business—found it hard to swallow.
Some had spent over a decade slowly clawing their way into the spotlight, only to watch these so-called "newcomers" waltz into stardom off the back of a single film.
And it wasn't just the actors who had complaints.
Film directors, talent agencies, even makeup brands—everyone who missed the SUNNY train was left biting their nails.
Agencies that hadn't gotten a slice of the SUNNY pie were especially bitter.
They watched helplessly as the value of actresses not under their contract shot through the roof.
And when the film's revenue reports came in—with box office numbers breaking records and streaming rights selling across Asia—the industry turned green with envy.
Meanwhile, Jihoon? He was thousands of miles away in Los Angeles, sipping a lukewarm latte when he got the call from Jaehyun back in Seoul.
"It's madness here," Jaehyun laughed over the phone. "You made everyone angry without even trying."
Jihoon chuckled, half-expecting the backlash.
The truth was, he never played by the industry's rules. And that was exactly why people in power were upset.
His casting process didn't involve open auditions.
There were no rounds, no camera tests, no desperate actors lining up outside his studio.
Jihoon didn't conduct "casting." He conducted "selection."
He picked his actors quietly, deliberately. Then sent out private invitations.
That was it. No second-guessing, no agency lobbying.
If he saw something in you, you got the role. If not, you didn't even get a meeting.
People called it unfair.
They claimed it gave no one else a chance.
But Jihoon didn't care about what was fair. He cared about the story—and who could bring it to life for the audience.
And the results spoke for themselves.
Ji Changwook, for instance, had starred in SHOPLIFTERS—a film written by Jihoon and directed by Yoon Jongbin. T
he film shocked the world by winning the Palme d'Or at Cannes.
Overnight, Changwook's value doubled, then tripled.
He was now one of the most bankable actors in Korea, and it wasn't from a TV drama—it was from an indie-style art film.
Hyunbin, already a respected veteran, starred in Jihoon's Hollywood co-production INCEPTION.
The film hadn't even been released yet, and still, his casting fee and brand value skyrocketed.
Everyone knew Jihoon's projects had reach—global reach.
And when you joined one of his films, you weren't just acting. You were rewriting your career.
So naturally, there was anger.
"How can a bunch of newbies sell out theaters?" people grumbled.
"How are they earning more than actresses with ten-year resumes?"
That kind of talk had become common in the industry. Whispers, complaints—echoes of frustration from actors and actresses all across Korea.
What they couldn't grasp was that Jihoon wasn't just handing out roles—he was offering transformation. His films didn't simply tell stories. They built legacies.
And that, more than anything, was the real source of envy.
Because in Jihoon's world, it wasn't about connections. It wasn't about seniority or fame. It was about timing. It was about heart. It was about finding the right person to tell the right story—and letting that story change everything.