Sangsoo glanced at Changdong, then back at Jihoon. It was time to stop circling around the subject.
"It's not my film," he said finally. "It's Changdong's hyung film that needs your help."
Jihoon's brow lifted slightly. Turning toward the older man, he found Changdong sitting quietly, hands clasped together as if deep in thought.
Jihoon gave him a look—a silent invitation to elaborate.
Changdong met his eyes and understood immediately. He sighed softly, the weight of the unspoken hanging between them.
This wasn't just about one film.
It was about something larger—a collective ambition shared among a small circle of Korea's emerging filmmakers and actors.
They called themselves a creative group, but in reality, it was more like a survival pact.
Unlike the Chungmuro circle—the traditional film elite of Korea who were deeply intertwined with political and financial backers—Changdong and Sangsoo's group lacked institutional support.
They were artists first, businessmen last.
Their works leaned toward the poetic, the philosophical, the raw truths of human life.
But art alone didn't pay the bills or secure funding. Recognition did.
To keep their projects alive, they needed international acclaim—something that could attract investors, critics, and audiences alike.
A single award from a place like Cannes could open countless doors back home.
After a pause, Changdong finally spoke.
"It's my film, Secret Sunshine," he said, his tone calm but earnest. "It's competing in the official category. I was hoping… you could help recommend it—for Best Actress."
Jihoon was about to respond when a woman appeared at their table, walking briskly across the terrace.
She was in her mid-thirties, dressed simply yet elegantly, her movements full of nervous energy.
The moment she reached them, she bowed deeply.
"Sorry, sunbae… and Jihoon-ssi," she said breathlessly. "I rushed over as soon as I got the call. I didn't mean to be late."
Sangsoo, ever the senior figure, waved his hand with a warm chuckle.
"It's fine, Doyeon-ah. Come, sit here."
He pulled out a chair beside him and motioned for her to take a seat. Once she did, he turned to Jihoon and said, "Jihoon-ah, this is Doyeon—the actress from the film we're talking about."
Jihoon smiled and offered a polite nod. "Doyeon sunbae, it's nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too," she replied, still catching her breath.
As Jihoon looked at her more closely, recognition flickered in his mind. Of course—Jeon Do-yeon.
The actress who would soon make history as the first Korean to win Best Actress at Cannes.
It was fated to happen this very year, with or without his intervention.
The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him.
Here they were, nervously asking for his help in something that history had already decided.
Still, he kept his expression neutral, his thoughts his own.
From the moment Sangsoo and the others mentioned "recommending" their film to the jury president, Jihoon had known the request was complicated.
For one, they weren't close—not personally, not professionally.
And second, while they all shared the same nationality, Jihoon had never believed in the unspoken rule that he owed favors to his so-called seniors simply because of age or hierarchy.
His career no longer lived within the borders of Korea.
He owed nothing to its industry politics.
Besides, he knew exactly how this would all play out.
None of the four people sitting before him would become giants in the years to come. They were respected, yes, but not destined for power. Helping them was not an investment—it was charity.
And Jihoon wasn't in the business of charity.
Even so, he couldn't ignore the potential advantages.
If word got out that Jihoon had enough influence at Cannes to recommend a Korean film to the jury president—even if that wasn't entirely true, since the one who could actually sway the vote was Jim, not him—it would still boost his reputation back home.
People would start to talk. The same opportunists who once deem him and his company as theirs might think twice before underestimating him again.
In the end, perception was power. And Jihoon had learned that in both cinema and life, image mattered more than truth.
He leaned back slightly, swirling the remaining coffee in his cup, and said with a faint smile,
"Well… recommending is a strong word. But I can see what I can do."
...
Wednesday, May 14, 2008 — 61st Cannes Film Festival, Grand Théâtre Lumière, Palais des Festivals, Cannes, France.
The sun had barely risen over the French Riviera when the red carpet outside the Palais des Festivals began to stir with life. It was only 7 am, yet the energy in the air felt electric.
The 61st Cannes Film Festival had officially begun—ten days of glamour, politics, art, and ambition, all culminating in the grand closing and award ceremony on the final night.
Now came the part everyone had been waiting for: promotion season.
For filmmakers, Cannes wasn't just about showing their work—it was about selling it.
By the time the opening ceremony kicked off, every corner of Cannes was plastered with posters and banners.
It felt like Christmas, except instead of jingling bells and fairy lights, the city glowed with spotlights and movie billboards.
Every wall, every lamppost, every cafe window bore the face of some actor or the title of some film vying for attention of each passer-by.
Aside from the opening film, every director and producer in the competition had to fight for the same thing—visibility.
Massive posters hung from hotels, elegant billboards lined the Croisette, and even the taxis carried film decals.
Producers from all over the world moved like hawks through the maze of theaters.
Some slipped into a screening only to walk out ten minutes later, shaking their heads in quiet disappointment.
Others stayed for the full runtime, emerging an hour later with satisfied smiles and a glint of victory in their eyes.
The rule of thumb was simple: the longer a producer stayed seated, the better the film probably was.
But nobody shared their opinions. Not here.
In Cannes or in general of everey award festival, film information was gold, and silence was strategy.
A good film was just like a hidden treasure, and the last thing anyone wanted was competition swooping in to steal the rights.
This dance was routine at every festival—the cat-and-mouse game of acquisition.
Producers acted like sports scouts, jumping from theater to theater, evaluating talent and potential.
They weren't here for the art alone; they were here for the market value.
Every purchase was a gamble, and the stakes were high.
One wrong move meant millions lost and reputations damaged.
But if they were to land the right film—especially one that won a major award before the closing ceremony—and you'd be like striking a gold mine overnight.
Of course, every seasoned producers had their ways of identifying potential winners.
The safest bet?
Follow the track record of the director.
Past box office numbers and critical acclaim spoke louder than any trailer or speech could.
That's why, at this year's festival, all eyes were on Lee Jihoon.
In just a few short years, Jihoon had built a record most filmmakers could only dream of.
Every film he touched turned into box office gold.
Industry reports of his ROI were being passed around like stock tips.
And with both 2006's Cannes Palme d'Or and this year Oscar's Best Screenplay under his belt, he was no longer just another promising Korean director—he was the name producers wanted on their portfolios.
It was no exaggeration to say that Jihoon had become the most sought-after filmmaker in Cannes this year.
Wherever he went, heads turned and whispers followed.
To investors, he wasn't just a director; he was a walking jackpot.