Words drifted across the terrace, light but deliberate, before Hong Sangsoo finally set down his coffee cup. He gave a faint, almost dismissive smile as if to brush aside the weight of Jihoon's unexpected bluntness.
"It's nothing much…" he said, waving his hand to smooth over the sudden directness.
After all, it wasn't common in Korea for conversations to cut straight to the heart of things.
Face value, appearances, the art of circling politely around a subject—those mattered here.
What's more, their small talk had been enjoyable.
They had wandered from Korea's politics to the state of filmmaking, to deeper discussions of art and artistic vision.
At first, it had felt like casual chatter, the kind of filler conversation that greased the wheels of social custom.
But the longer Sangsoo listened, the more he realized Jihoon's mind worked differently. His perspective was sharp, unusual, sometimes startlingly fresh.
The way he dissected a subject—whether politics, art, or human behavior—carried a strange brilliance.
It inspired him.
Each new thought Jihoon voiced sparked something inside Sangsoo, ideas swarming in his head as if a floodgate had been flung open.
By rights, he should have been the one to eventually steer the talk toward why he was here tonight.
Normally, that would take time. Hours of small talk. A lavish dinner. Wine flowing until the atmosphere softened and the request could be slipped in without pressure.
That was the custom—especially in Asia.
In Korea, in China, it was the same.
There was even a word for it in Asian culture: the "dining bargain deal."
You fed the person, made them comfortable, showed respect at the table.
The negotiation unfolded over plates of food and glasses of alcohol, and if everything was handled with enough grace, the outcome leaned in your favor.
To put it bluntly, the host's job was to ease the guest into goodwill—physically, socially, even emotionally—until the deal practically made itself.
But Jihoon? He didn't play by those rules.
He had gone straight to the point after only a few minutes of talk. No dining table. No pleasantries stretched to hours. Just one direct question.
It caught Sangsoo off guard.
Yet, as a veteran of the industry—someone who had stepped under the international spotlight and learned to adapt—he wasn't embarrassed by the shift.
Instead, he changed his tone, leaning forward slightly as his smile sharpened with intent.
"It's like this," he began carefully. "Do you know who this year's jury president is?"
The question made Jihoon pause. It seemed almost out of place at first, but then he understood where the conversation was heading. Keeping his composure, he nodded.
"Yeah," he replied evenly. "I heard. It's Sean Penn an American actor and director. Why?"
At that, Sangsoo's hand lifted almost shyly to his bald head, rubbing the smooth crown that had long since surrendered most of its hair.
Jihoon's imagination, always quick to wander, immediately took a detour.
He couldn't help but picture the scene differently: if Sangsoo kept rubbing like that, would a wisp of smoke curl out as if an old lamp were being polished?
Would an Aladdin appear?
And if one did, would it still be the familiar blue genie—or, since it was an Asian hand rubbing the lamp, would it turn out yellow instead?
Maybe not a genie at all, but a "Kimchi-din."
The thought almost made him laugh, but before his humor could betray him, Sangsoo noticed Jihoon's eyes fixed a little too long on his shining scalp.
Embarrassed by the fixed stare, he cleared his throat gently.
"Cgh… cgh…" A polite cough to reclaim the younger man's attention. Then, with a flicker of hesitation, he pressed on.
"Jihoon-ah, it's like this… I know it's too much to ask, especially since we only just met. But… if it's possible, could you ask your producer to recommend our film to the president?"
His tone carried both frustration and reluctance, as though the words themselves were fighting their way out.
Normally, in Korea's unspoken hierarchy, such a request wouldn't be unusual.
Seniors leaning on juniors for favors was almost ritual.
It wasn't limited to film or art industry; in office buildings across the country, white-collar workers ordered their juniors to fetch coffee, pick up groceries, or even clean their home without a second thought. It's a true story, junior or newbie in the company are practically a slave before there is a new one to replace them.
Some people defended it as respect, others called it tradition.
But everyone knew the truth—it was systemic bullying dressed in cultural clothing.
A norm carved too deeply into society to be erased.
And yet, here the dynamic felt strangely inverted.
Sangsoo wasn't asking out of authority; he was asking because he knew the balance of power tilted away from him. Jihoon wasn't just some junior director.
He was a rising figure with international connections that far exceeded his own.
What weight could seniority really carry against global influence?
The chips on Jihoon's side of the table were heavier, undeniable. Sangsoo's only bargaining piece—age and reputation in Korea—suddenly felt fragile.
Jihoon, snapping back from his wandering thoughts, blinked before answering.
"Eh… about that," he said casually. "Which film are you asking me to recommend to the jury president?"
The question was not strange.
This sort of maneuver happened all the time.
Unlike the Oscars, with their sprawling thousands of Academy voters, Cannes operated with only a small handful of jurors.
At the top of that handful sat the jury president—his vote powerful enough to sway others in the room.
But Cannes was not like Hollywood.
Money couldn't simply buy influence here.
The people chosen as jurors were already titans of the industry, revered for their artistry and legacy.
They lacked nothing in wealth or fame. Which meant the usual methods of bribery fell flat.
Instead, what mattered were favors.
Not cash under the table, but subtle exchanges: an investment for a jury member's next project, a casting offer, perhaps even leverage to support their future award bids in Venice, Berlin, or the Oscars.
This was the invisible language of Cannes. The rule of Cannes.
To play in this kind of arena, one needed more than just a good film.
They needed reputation, international presence, and above all, the ability to return the favor once the chips were down. Without that, asking for help was nothing more than a shot in the dark.