Auditory storytelling had existed long before Jihoon, but few ever dared to use it the way he did.
To him, sound wasn't just a supporting element—it was the heartbeat of a film.
Yet, what truly set him apart wasn't the idea itself, but how he chose to present it.
The minute-long black screen at the start of Buried wasn't some avant-garde gimmick to confuse the audience.
It was the foundation—the soul—of the film.
For sixty full seconds, the screen remained dark.
Only the faint sounds of panting, the scraping of wood, and the muffled rub of fabric echoed through the theater.
No visuals, no titles, no guiding light—just sound. It forced the audience to listen, to imagine, to feel.
Those unsettling sounds weren't random effects either; they were a deliberate substitution for sight.
Jihoon wanted the audience to perceive the world exactly as the protagonist did—blind, suffocating, trapped.
There was another layer to it, too.
The film's lead, Ryan, had long been known for his carefree and charming screen persona—always the funny, likeable guy.
Jihoon knew that this typecasting could ruin the immersion of a serious psychological thriller.
So, he decided to shatter that image in the opening minute.
By plunging the audience into absolute darkness, he stripped Ryan of his past identities.
Within seconds, viewers no longer saw the charismatic actor from romantic comedies—they heard a desperate man gasping for breath, clawing for survival.
It worked.
The entire theater fell into silence, breath held, eyes wide open, yet seeing nothing.
The darkness pulled everyone into Paul Conroy's world—a world of confinement, fear, and slow-blooming panic.
This was more than a scene. It was a test of empathy. And Jihoon passed it flawlessly.
To many filmmakers, such a technique might look deceptively simple. Any experienced director could throw a minute of darkness onto the screen. But few would have the courage—or the vision—to make it the centerpiece of a mainstream film.
Jihoon didn't just use the darkness; he weaponized it.
Even the seasoned directors in the audience couldn't deny the audacity behind it.
Hong Sangsoo, sitting a few rows away, felt his jaw tighten.
His expression darkened, his cheeks flushed red.
Though he had always greeted Jihoon with polite words and a smile, deep down he carried the pride and restraint ingrained by years of Korean seniority culture.
To see someone so much younger—and far more daring—achieve what he himself hadn't, stirred something bitter in him.
He couldn't help but think: "How can someone his age already be so far ahead?"
But the film didn't care about anyone's pride. The story unfolded ruthlessly.
On the screen, the pitch-black frame slowly gave way to a flicker of light. The faint flare of a lighter revealed the protagonist—Paul Conroy—sweating, gasping, his eyes darting in confusion.
He realized, with growing dread, that he was trapped inside a wooden coffin buried underground. The space was so tight he could barely move.
Around him were only a handful of items: a lighter, a cell phone with a dying battery, a glow stick, a flashlight, a knife, a hip flask, a pen, and a note scrawled by his kidnappers.
The air was thin, dry, heavy. His breaths came faster.
Every sound—his heartbeat, the creak of wood, the faint hiss of sand outside—became part of the film's score.
At one point, Paul noticed faint scratches and a carved message on the coffin wall. Someone else had been here before him.
That realization hit harder than any jump scare.
He tried everything—forcing the lid open, kicking the boards, even using the knife to pry a gap—but nothing worked.
Panic began to clawed at his throat.
Finally, he grabbed the phone, dialing desperately through static-filled service.
First he called 911, then the FBI and his company—but every attempt was met with either cold bureaucracy reply or hollow sympathy that as cheap as the hooker in Bobby Womack's 'Across 110th Street' .
The 911 operator sounded detached.
The FBI promised to "look into it."
His company, hiding behind fine print, refused responsibility.
And then came the kidnappers' call.
They demanded he record a ransom video, threatening to leave him to suffocate if he disobeyed.
That was when the audience finally understood who Paul Conroy really was: an American truck driver working for a private contractor in a post-war region.
A man caught between systems, forgotten by everyone who should have protected him.
From the very first frame—or rather, the lack of one—Jihoon had trapped not only Paul, but everyone watching.
The darkness wasn't a void. It was a mirror—reflecting helplessness, fear, and the quiet cruelty of indifference.
And as the screen continued to flicker between dim light and pitch black, Jihoon proved one thing beyond doubt:
Sometimes, you don't need to show the horror. You just need to let the audience feel it.
"Amazing," Sean Penn murmured, his voice filled with admiration. "Such a young actor's performance—he's on par with the veterans."
Throughout the entire film, Ryan Reynolds stood alone—literally the only actor on screen—and yet he carried the full emotional weight of the story.
Every breath, every flicker of panic, every silence screamed louder than any line of dialogue. His performance wasn't just convincing; it was raw, visceral, and painfully human.
What impressed Sean even more was how many scenes were shot in a single take.
No quick cuts, no fancy tricks—just pure, uninterrupted acting. It made him think.
What if a film could be made entirely in one take?
No edits, no second chances. Just one continuous shot of pure storytelling.
The thought made Sean's pulse quicken.
It was bold, almost reckless—but revolutionary ideas often were.
In film language, a "one-take" or "single-shot" movie means capturing an entire scene—or even a full-length film—without any visible cuts.
The camera moves fluidly, following the characters in real-time, immersing the viewer in the story without ever breaking the illusion.
This technique dated back to the 1890s, when the Lumière brothers filmed Workers Leaving the Lumiere Factory, one of the earliest motion pictures ever made.
It was simple—a single, static shot—but it set the foundation for cinema itself.
Over a century later, directors like Alexander Sokurov redefined the art with 'Russian Ark' (2002), a breathtaking 96-minute film shot entirely in one continuous take inside the Winter Palace of Saint Petersburg.
But what Jihoon achieved tonight was something else entirely.
He didn't rely on movement or spectacle—he relied on stillness.
His method stripped away the noise, forcing the audience to feel every tremor of fear that Ryan's character, Paul, endured. It wasn't just visual storytelling—it was emotional entrapment.
Sean felt a rush of inspiration, the kind that made his creative mind spark like wildfire. Ideas for his next project began swirling in his head. He wanted to gather his crew, lock himself in a studio, and chase that same level of immersion.
But he held himself back. The film wasn't over yet.
And so, the story continued.
Inside that suffocating coffin, Paul refused to surrender.
His oxygen was running out.
The flickering light of his lighter cast shadows on his face—sweat, dirt, despair. Then came the calls from his family.
His mother's voice trembled with confusion, and his wife's sobs broke through the static. It reignited his will to survive, even as his situation grew bleaker by the minute.
But the outside world was already writing him off.
The media had labeled him a "dead contractor."
The U.S. government refused to pay ransom, standing firm on its policy of "no negotiations with terrorists."
And with that, Paul's last strand of hope began to unravel.
For ninety minutes, the audience wasn't just watching him—they were with him.
Trapped.
Suffocating.
Every gasp he took was shared by everyone in the theater. The tension was unbearable, but no one dared to look away.
Then came the final twist.
Over the phone, the FBI assured Paul that they had found him and that help was moments away. He clung to that fragile hope as sand began to pour into the coffin, rising higher and higher.
He fought, screamed, gasped for air—until finally, the agent's voice returned.
"I'm sorry," came the quiet, distant response.
In that instant, Paul understood.
He had been abandoned from the very beginning.
No one had ever planned to save him. His death was the easiest solution, the cheapest way to close a file and move on.
The last flicker of his lighter went out.
Darkness swallowed everything.
The screen faded to black.
And then—nothing.
Silence.
Not a whisper, not a cough, not even a shuffle from the audience.
The entire theater sat frozen, staring into the void.
That silence spoke louder than any applause ever could.