Chapter 140. Do You Know Do Jun-hyeok?
For the Academy Awards in America, each country can submit only one film.
In Korea's case, the submission is selected by the Korean Film Council.
So if a Korean film wins at the Academy Awards, that means it was chosen through two separate rounds of judging.
The film needed to be selected by July 2024.
No.
Waiting until the deadline would actually be too late.
For the sake of the advancement of Korean cinema in 2024, they needed to decide immediately.
This year as well, the Film Council was holding meetings to choose which movie to submit to the Academy Awards.
Normally, they should've been preparing to close submissions around now.
These days, most films ran longer than two hours, so if they wanted to watch every submitted work, they needed to stop accepting entries soon.
Yet nobody could bring themselves to declare the deadline.
Most of them were university professors.
Naturally, each hoped as many works from their own students as possible would be submitted.
"Professor Kim, two films from your students were submitted, weren't they? And the director who used to work as Professor Lee's assistant submitted one too. I'm really looking forward to that one."
"He's not particularly talented. Still, please watch it sincerely."
"I heard four films came from the major distributors too. How do those look?"
The committee members deliberately dragged out the conversation.
Pretending they had plenty of time somehow made them feel as though they actually did.
But they didn't have the luxury of relaxing like this.
Academy submissions closed in August.
The ceremony wasn't until February next year, but judging hundreds upon hundreds of films would naturally take months.
On top of that, eligibility required the submitted film to have been screened in the United States for at least one week.
They needed to decide soon and connect the chosen film with a distributor as quickly as possible.
"Then perhaps we should start closing submissions..."
"No. Professor Choi Gyu-sik's film hasn't been submitted yet."
The moment the chairman spoke, Professor Lee immediately objected.
Everyone had been thinking about Choi Gyu-sik.
It was true that Choi Gyu-sik had spent the past few years working on tentpole films for major production companies.
But nobody could call him a director lacking artistry.
On top of that, rumors said that this time he was releasing the project of his life, something he'd poured years into.
Naturally, the other professors were looking forward to it too.
But even with the deadline approaching, the film still hadn't arrived.
Everyone was getting impatient.
"You're right. If it's Director Choi Gyu-sik's work, it could have a real chance at the Academy Awards. Even I'm getting nervous waiting for it. Hahaha."
"Ahem."
When the good-natured chairman praised Choi Gyu-sik like that, Professor Kim cleared his throat.
"From where I'm standing, Professor Choi doesn't seem interested in submitting at all. Otherwise, why would we still have heard nothing?"
"I don't know. The last time I heard him speak about it, he said he was making it with international film awards in mind."
"And that automatically means the Academy Awards?"
Nobody truly knew what Choi Gyu-sik was thinking.
He might replace his cast right before filming.
Or suddenly tear apart and rewrite the entire script.
When he was younger, he'd even spent two years filming one project before completely deleting several actors' footage, leaving everyone dumbfounded.
But the finished products were always excellent.
Because of that, people sometimes called him the Korean Wong Kar-wai, after the famous Hong Kong director.
That director was also talented but notorious for shooting without much of a plan.
Choi Gyu-sik had mellowed somewhat with age.
But when it came to never knowing where he might suddenly leap, not much had changed.
That was exactly why waiting indefinitely just because of his name was exhausting.
"Come to think of it, maybe he really doesn't intend to submit. He's always disliked some of the Film Council's policies too. And he's the kind of person who believes that if a movie is good enough, it'll succeed commercially anyway."
Another committee member agreed with Professor Kim.
"Come on. When did Professor Choi ever say that? He's not someone who treats commercial success as the ultimate standard."
"Of course not. But even Professor Choi likes a film doing well at the box office. Who doesn't? People are watching your work."
Professor Lee and Professor Kim argued briefly.
Eventually, Professor Lee realized his objection had been a little pointless and shut his mouth.
Professor Kim summarized the issue.
"Anyway. The question right now is when we close submissions, isn't it? We don't even know whether Professor Choi intends to submit. And honestly, even if he does, it's still wrong for everyone to wait solely for one person. Would we do this for some third-rate director?"
"That's true, but..."
Professor Lee quietly thought before speaking again.
"Since we've already admitted we all care about commercial success, let's keep being honest. Professor Kim, don't you also want Professor Choi's film to be submitted? That way we can judge whether it's suitable for the Academy Awards. And if his film ultimately wins a major award there, that's good for all of us."
"Honestly, yes."
"Then what else can we do but wait? He's something of a dark horse in Korean cinema. There's no need to be so rigid about it."
Professor Kim sharply turned his head as if displeased.
Still, he subtly nodded in agreement.
"Closing immediately would be too harsh. Let's set a minimum extension. Could we wait another month from now?"
"Hmm..."
"If a month is too long, then two weeks?"
Or one week?
Professor Lee gradually reduced the proposed extension until he began pulling the committee toward a consensus.
I told Kim Hye-jin in advance that Blue Moon was going to participate in United Talenet Live, though it was still a secret.
When I told her she was the only fan who knew, her eyes began burning with excitement.
The best way to deal with shit was to avoid it.
At first, I had planned to simply warn her not to film at United Talenet Live.
But I knew how amateur fansite photographers like her felt when they filmed idols.
No matter how nicely I phrased it, if a manager came all the way to her workplace with the member she loved and told her not to record the performance...
She might get so hurt that she'd tear apart the grotesquely stretched Do Jun-hyeok photo stuck to her desk.
My job wasn't to warn her to avoid the shit.
If there was shit in the road, I should remove it.
She wasn't the only fan who filmed performances and participated in fandom activities.
So I changed my strategy.
I would let Kim Hye-jin film.
I'd even pay for her plane ticket.
And I would deal with United Talenet Live myself.
The future video had been dated September 28, while United Talenet Live was in July.
Apparently, it took some time for her video to become influential enough to cause trouble.
Once we officially received the invitation, I could negotiate the fan-video issue beforehand.
That should be enough to save Kim Hye-jin.
After finishing my secret conversation with her, Youngchae and I went together to Choi Gyu-sik's workspace.
Last time, I'd only seen his professor's office.
His actual workspace smelled much staler and felt darker.
Still, the screening room was surprisingly clean.
Choi Gyu-sik said he'd just finished watching the film there with several other directors.
"I think we'll finish the theatrical edit in about a week. But there's one thing I'm worried about."
"What is it?"
"The Film Council contacted me... No, never mind. Watch it first."
Guided by Choi Gyu-sik, Youngchae and I sat in the center of the screening room.
The film soon began.
It opened with a young married couple who had lived in poverty in the city for several years before moving to a pleasant rural village.
They had a child.
There was no department store nearby, but the movie made it feel as though a decent life was waiting for them.
Then the scene changed.
Time was brutally skipped over in less than a second.
And suddenly, an elderly husband appeared, living an exhausted life on an American farm.
Serin's first appearance happened there.
She looked completely like an ordinary Korean girl.
And because her Korean was so fluent, there were moments when I almost forgot she was supposed to be in America.
Sitting beside us, Choi Gyu-sik whispered that he'd intentionally minimized stereotypical images of America.
He wanted the audience to have difficulty telling whether Serin's family was living in Korea or the United States.
"Dad always says he wants to go back home. But honestly, I don't really understand. I was born here in Camp Wood."
It was Serin's first English line after acting only through facial expressions until then.
Her pronunciation was perfect.
And despite sounding like such a casual line, it carried a strange heaviness that made my heart drop.
After all, from the audience's perspective, they clearly remembered watching that young married couple give birth to Serin in rural Korea.
Serin continued to stand out throughout the film.
The veteran actors playing her parents were excellent too.
But what made their lives feel even more miserable was Serin's indifferent attitude.
Choi Gyu-sik said he'd wanted to naturally show how poverty and pain passed from one generation to the next.
And that psychology completely reversed during a scene where Serin picked through bracken.
"There was something I'd misunderstood. I thought that if someone became accustomed to pain, then it stopped being pain. But the character Serin interpreted can't eat bracken because it looks foreign to her, just like she herself appears foreign. And eventually, it becomes clear that deep inside, Serin has always believed that she herself is naturally an outsider."
The movie had considerable depth.
Serin's acting was also excellent.
But even putting all of that aside, the film was objectively outstanding.
Eventually, the movie ended and the credits rolled.
Apparently noticing how deeply Youngchae and I had been drawn in, Choi Gyu-sik smiled brightly and turned on the lights.
Youngchae immediately turned her head away.
"Oh? Youngchae's crying. The movie was sad, wasn't it?"
"N-No. No, I'm not. The lights are just bright."
We decided to accept that explanation.
"What did you think? Youngchae seems to have liked it. How about you, CEO Do Jun-hyeok?"
"I don't know enough about film to feel qualified to judge it, but it looks like you've already won an award."
"Really?"
Choi Gyu-sik looked delighted.
"Ah, but the Film Council's judging deadline is exactly one week from now. What you just watched was the director's cut. For submission, it'd be more advantageous to shorten it into the theatrical version. I was thinking about other awards, not the Academy Awards, so this caught me off guard."
Apparently, because a Korean film had to pass Film Council review before being submitted to the Academy Awards, he'd only been considering other film festivals.
But recently, directors on the Film Council who knew him had started pressing him to submit.
That left him with no choice but to think seriously about it.
"Can't you submit this version to the Film Council first, then submit the edited version to the Academy Awards later? Is that not allowed?"
"As long as they're still recognized as the same film, it should be possible. But even for the Film Council review, the edited version would have an advantage."
Come on.
Why worry about that?
"This movie will pass no matter what. Start editing now, and if you can't finish in time, submit the director's cut."
"You really thought it was that good?"
"It's the movie of my life. Five stars on Watflix."
Calling it the movie of my life wasn't even an exaggeration.
Apparently gaining confidence from my words, Choi Gyu-sik began explaining the Film Council and Academy schedules.
He said Academy submissions would close in August.
Choi Gyu-sik estimated his chances of passing the Film Council at around fifty percent because he wasn't particularly close with the directors on the committee.
But I'd already confirmed through future spam that he would pass with certainty.
An award in February...
By then, Blue Moon's activities would have settled into a clearer direction.
Maybe Serin could even participate in overseas promotion.
〈Come Out of There〉 was quietly gaining traction in America.
It had steadily entered the Billboard chart at around #160 out of 200.
In Korea, nobody would care about ranking around 160th or 200th.
But Billboard was different.
It was practically saying the song was the 160th most-listened-to current track in the world.
More than 〈Come Out of There〉 itself, I could feel the change through Seo Hoe-dong's Universe documentary.
While Yoo Jong-hak continued producing 〈Aran, Do You Know or Not?〉, Seo Hoe-dong had begun filming Universe's second documentary.
We released Episode 1 with English subtitles.
That was enough to start bringing in foreign fans.
Interest in Dessault and judge Moon Hee-jung shifted toward me, raising the view count on Universe's documentary.
I wasn't going to attribute all of this entirely to my planning skills and Moon Hee-jung's.
Until a few years ago, K-pop had faced a fairly mainstream level of resistance in America.
Now, the situation had improved considerably.
If circumstances weren't like this, who knew what would've happened?
Not that there was any point thinking about that.
Just feeling proud of this level of success was already doing wonders for my mental health.
Then one day, Britain's BBH network contacted me for an interview.
When I asked what had happened, they said Moon Hee-jung had introduced me.
Normally, Moon Hee-jung reported every tiny development like this to me.
Apparently, she was feeling so good lately that she'd gained enough emotional room to throw me surprise events.
I coolly accepted the interview.
Blue Moon was about to make a comeback too.
The more attention we could gather now, the better it would be for the members.
Dae-hun nearly lost his mind when a group of foreigners suddenly stormed into the company.
The Blue Moon and Heenari members poked their heads out of the practice room to stare at them.
We occasionally saw one or two foreigners.
But seeing more than a dozen suddenly walking around the company was a sight worth living long enough to witness.
I asked the simultaneous interpreter hired by BBH for permission, then called Anna over.
It was a perfect opportunity to show English-speaking fans, including those in Britain, just how charming Anna was.
"We're hearing that New Dimension's recent popularity in America is largely thanks to you, CEO Do Jun-hyeok. What kind of help did you provide?"
The middle-aged female anchor looked extremely distinguished.
"Yes. I gave them some money. It seemed like money was the only thing Planner Moon Hee-jung lacked."
"So you're saying you didn't help with anything except funding? We heard you also gave input on music video ideas and song selection."
"Hahaha, no. You know how people sometimes show their work to someone who isn't particularly involved and ask for an opinion? I just played that kind of role."
After listening to Anna's interpretation, the anchor smiled warmly and nodded.
I'd always wanted to act humble at least once in a place like this.
"There are analyses suggesting this could become the starting point for a properly established Korean-style idol fandom in America. Britain is also closely watching the trend because we're heavily influenced by American culture. To turn that analysis into the accepted view, what additional efforts do you believe are necessary?"
"Hmm..."
After thinking for a while, I answered.
"Fans need to be safe. Fans are a little different from ordinary business customers, aren't they? We continue planning idols and releasing new music through our emotional bond with fans. I know there are conflicts between fandoms in America too, but those conflicts shouldn't be used as a marketing strategy. People even die over things like that."
"That's true."
"Rather than being a condition for success, I think fan safety should be the result of genuine success. The real condition for succeeding is being able to actively understand what fans like, and how sincere their support is for the activities we show them. To do that, you need a bond. That's also why, unlike Dessault, Universe artists haven't rushed into the global market. There are too many things that need to come first."
The anchor tilted her head slightly at my answer before asking another question.
"Anna's rap 〈Kim Serin〉 has become quite a phenomenon lately. And isn't Kim Serin herself currently participating in one of Korea's most anticipated films?"
It was a reasonable question.
"That's right. But as far as I know, that project was made with Korean audiences as the priority."
"I see."
"But if that film wins an award overseas, or starts receiving international attention..."
I spoke.
"Then I suppose we'll have to visit America at least once."
