Chapter 807: Sundance, and the Sun (3)

Sometimes when I’m browsing the web, there are posts I find especially entertaining.

[17 Behind-the-Scenes Stories About This Movie]

Posts that collect interesting anecdotes about a film’s production process or what happened on set.

What I had just heard sounded exactly like something that would end up in one of those bizarre behind-the-scenes compilations.

Before the film was even produced, Sun Wooju was reportedly told at a meeting with another studio, “How about changing the father’s character to a Black actor?”

You know how there are those behind-the-scenes stories that are so absurd and ridiculous you think, “There’s no way that actually happened,” and yet—

One of those was unfolding right in front of my eyes.

“Excuse me.”

“I’m sorry” slipped out of my mouth first.

“Did I hear that correctly? Just now...?”

“Yes.”

The studio’s rights executive, Chris Finn, repeated himself.

“We would take inspiration from the life of Sun Myungju and cast an African American actor in the leading role.”

“......”

“Of course, this may be somewhat surprising.”

Somewhat? It’s extremely surprising.

“From the perspective of Asian media—particularly countries like Korea that take a conservative approach to racial distinctions—it may come as a shock. But recent Hollywood is different.”

“Specifically...?”

“It’s a time when barriers between races are being broken down. In hero films, white heroes are cast with Black actors. Characters who were Black in the original work are sometimes changed to Hispanic.”

But that’s not the same thing, is it?

Seokhwan asked the question for me.

“But our case is different. We are real people.”

“That’s why I gave the example of British historical dramas. Haven’t they changed the race of real-life nobles as well?”

The tone was so natural that for a second I wondered if I was the strange one.

No.

When you actually think about it, how strange is this?

Korean audiences go to the theater because a film about Sun Myungju has been released. The title sequence ends, and suddenly a Black or white actor appears on screen.

Then subtitles appear below, like in a historical drama.

[Sun Myungju]

Korean. An unparalleled star born of Korea.

I could vividly imagine the expressions on Korean viewers’ faces—“What on earth is this...?”

I didn’t even have to imagine far. The expressions on Seokhwan’s face and the other Koreans sitting beside me said it all.

I smiled and asked,

“If we’re going to break down those distinctions, how about changing the racial backgrounds of other white or Black musicians as well?”

“Well, that would be a bit...”

“Difficult?”

“I don’t believe that’s a decision I can make at my level.”

“So my father’s character is something you can decide at your level, Mr. Chris Finn?”

“......It seems the atmosphere has become a bit sharp.”

He gave a picture-perfect smile and raised both hands.

“If I have offended you, I apologize. But...”

He continued.

“We also have to consider realistic factors.”

“Realistic?”

“Yes. Everything we are proposing is with the intention of offering the best possible goodwill for you and for Mr. Sun Myungju.”

If this goodwill happened twice, I felt like we’d end up with a white samurai version of Sun Myungju riding a robot to defeat King Kong.

The silver-haired American smiled charmingly.

“We want to produce Mr. Sun Myungju’s film on a grand scale. Massive capital, spectacular graphics. A musical commercial film that draws the public’s attention.”

He continued explaining to us as we listened quietly.

“But none of that is possible without box office revenue, is it?”

“That’s true.”

“Off the record... let’s pause the recording for a moment. The demand for films with Asian leads is extremely low. That’s not my personal opinion—it’s the industry reality.”

The blond staff member beside him turned his laptop around to show the numbers.

“To be honest, the demand is lower than films led by Black women. So... there are doubts from higher up about profitability. The question is whether this film can make money.”

At last, the entire flow connected into one.

In the end, it was about money.

All that talk about open-minded racial restructuring was simply about moving toward what would earn more.

Chris Finn clasped his hands and asked me seriously.

“Do you want your father’s film to be a commercial success? Or do you want it to sit in the corner as an art film or independent film?”

“May I be honest?”

“Yes.”

“I want a properly well-made film.”

He smiled as if he didn’t understand.

“Wouldn’t it be better if it became a tremendous success? The OST alone could be a great opportunity for you, Mr. Wooju. Isn’t NewBlack still a rookie artist in the United States?”

“We are rookies, yes.”

We’re treated as rookies—but since we were active in Korea, we’re not included in rookie award nominations. That kind of position.

He continued persuading.

“Are you familiar with Director Robert McGinnis?”

“He’s a giant in the film industry.”

A legendary Hollywood producer who had worked on films everyone recognizes just by name.

“If you give the green light, he will come on board as producer. There have already been favorable communications between us.”

While Seokhwan continued the exchange, I consulted the interpreter sitting to my left.

“He said producer just now, right? Not directing.”

“Yes. He said producer.”

The interpreters we hire are usually specialists in their fields.

Because technical terms fly everywhere.

Mr. Kim Heeseong, who was here with us, frequently worked when there was communication between Korea and Hollywood.

He added quietly,

“In Hollywood, unlike Korea, the producer’s power is extremely strong—to the point you could call it producer-driven.”

“I see.”

“But in McGinnis’s case, he probably has around ten films a year credited under his name as producer. In many cases, it’s more of lending his name. He’s known to respect directors’ creative freedom and doesn’t interfere much.”

I remembered movie posters boasting, “Produced by So-and-So Famous Director!” and how the actual quality sometimes fell short.

At that moment, Chris Finn—who had been struggling slightly in conversation with Seokhwan—turned his gaze toward me.

With our agents and representatives proving difficult, he seemed to be targeting the supposedly easier, younger one.

“We would like to offer benefits to you as well, Mr. Wooju. I’ve heard you’re interested in composing. How about venturing into film scoring?”

“Well. I’m not sure why it’s considered a benefit to me, since I’d be the one doing the work.”

There was also something else he didn’t know.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but I’ve already worked with Director John Edwards and composer Frank Chow on the musical film Nostalgia because of its OST. I’ve also received occasional proposals regarding film music from Mr. Frank Chow, who is a musical producer.”

“......”

“I may not have fully established myself here yet, but I don’t see why that would be a benefit.”

Our American agent smiled as if to say, well done.

He had been flipping them off under the table the entire time we’d been speaking.

“I see. That’s a fair point.”

Apparently unaware of that research, Chris Finn glanced toward his staff.

Judging by the way they swallowed, they hadn’t known.

From the beginning, they had tried to lowball the conditions.

I couldn’t shake the impression that they had come in thinking we’d be easy prey.

Did they assume that if a world-class studio promised us a golden future and said, “We’ll take good care of you,” we would automatically accept?

“There seems to be a difference of opinion between us. Ha ha.”

Chris Finn carefully chose his words.

And somehow, I had the feeling that what he was about to say next was the real point.

“In that case, how about we move toward reconciling those differences? We don’t want to miss this opportunity either.”

“Sounds good.”

“First, I would like to apologize for what was said earlier. It may have been a bit premature for Korean audiences.”

The tone was polite, but it felt more like, Here—take an apology.

In any case, we agreed to continue the discussion constructively.

“Let’s adjust the actors.”

“Yes.”

But there were certain aspects we had no intention of conceding.

Scenes set in Korea, spoken in Korean.

At the very least, it would have to be a Korean American actor fluent in Korean for us to even consider it.

“First, please hear our proposal. We would like to cast Asian actors.”

“Hold on.”

Our American agent, picking up on the nuance shift, spoke up—still flipping them off under the table.

“That sounds slightly different from earlier. Not an ‘Asian American’ actor, but an ‘Asian’ actor?”

“Yes. That’s correct.”

“This is still under review, but... we are considering casting a Chinese actor.”

This was different from the casually tossed-out Black actor suggestion.

This was closer to what they had truly wanted.

It felt like a strategy of, We’ll concede on the Black actor. In return, you’re fine with a Chinese actor, right?

Before I could respond, Seokhwan asked, stunned,

“The protagonist is Korean, and you’re proposing a Chinese actor?”

“It would be a win-win strategy in many ways.”

Chris Finn spoke seriously.

“Due to NetPlus, Hollywood’s revenue structure has recently been shaken. Theatrical income for non-hero films has declined, so we must consider global box office.”

In other words, money had to come from outside the United States as well.

“If we cast a Chinese actor, we could expect strong performance in China.”

At first I wondered if this was a joke.

But looking at his eyes—it wasn’t.

Truly...

Encountering it in person made it legendary. Hollywood people.

Deeply interested in Asian money, yet astonishingly ignorant about Asia itself.

Do they really think Chinese audiences would watch a Korean biopic starring a Chinese actor and say, “Wow! How wonderful!”?

“......”

While Seokhwan and I stared blankly, he continued.

“And there are additional advantages to casting a Chinese actor. Along with guaranteed box office performance... Chinese media companies are lining up with investment proposals.”

“Investment proposals?”

“Yes. Most are extremely generous.”

Listening to it, it almost sounded like free money.

“Just so there’s no misunderstanding, these are not proposals to interfere with the film’s content in exchange for investment. We plan to include clauses in the contract stating they will not interfere.”

“......”

Still, I felt uneasy.

Nothing in this world is free.

And something else felt strange.

Could Chinese companies freely invest in Korean-related content without government approval...?

If they could, that would imply approval at a national level.

The thought of national-level involvement left a bad taste in my mouth.

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact intention, but sometimes I felt this faint, ominous instinct.

I whispered to Seokhwan.

“This is weird, hyung.”

“It’s weird. Seriously weird.”

We had encountered similar situations abroad before.

Whenever some strange, dubious capital crept in, it was often China or Japan. And whenever an absurd rumor erupted, it was Taiwan.

As I thought that, Chris Finn asked,

“So, what do you think of our proposal?”

“We’ll need some time to consider.”

One thing I’ve learned in business is that you must know how to refuse properly.

Without leaving resentment behind.

As we prepared to discuss how to decline, I asked one more question—to shake off any lingering attachment to this “world’s greatest studio.”

“Before that, I have one question.”

“Yes. Please ask anything.”

He had mentioned watching my father’s concert video recently.

“Among the newly released songs, which of my father’s songs from Part 1 did you like the most?”

“Hmm...”

He smiled.

“I liked Answer the most.”

“I see.”

He referred to Answer—released after the concert ended—as a Part 1 song.

I nodded with a smile.

After politely declining World Art Studio’s proposal.

The next day.

I finished meetings with the remaining three companies in a refreshed mood.

“Haa.”

In the hotel room, the TF team staff and we loosened our ties and drank carbonated water, staring blankly ahead.

Everyone slumped like cats on a sofa.

Seokhwan removed his glasses and said,

“You know that saying, once you see it again, you realize she was a fairy, Wooju?”

“Yeah.”

“It might actually be true.”

“Seems like it.”

When we first heard World Art Studio’s proposal, we thought:

This is the worst proposal.

But after meeting the other three, something came to mind.

Like that old presidential election poster from modern history textbooks—‘The old official is still the best!’

– We’ll be waiting with an open mind.

I remembered Chris Finn smiling at us yesterday.

A polite smile, but one of those American smiles that sometimes feels faintly condescending.

– Once you meet the other studios, you’ll realize we’re the best in the industry.

Not just him—the other staff too.

They wore confident smiles, as if we’d inevitably return to them.

At first, we set out determined not to even glance their way.

But the next day, we realized the reality of Hollywood.

– How about producing it as a musical film? Of course, the budget won’t be sufficient, but... passion is what matters, right? Huh? Revenue sharing?

Studio 1, giggling about passion—until revenue distribution was mentioned and their faces changed instantly.

– Honestly, we can’t say when it would be produced. Nothing is firmly decided internally. Oh. And about the clause allowing us to transfer the rights to another production company...

Studio 2, clearly intending to buy the rights and resell them at a premium.

– He succeeded under a system oppressively constructed by white people. We deeply respect Mr. Sun Myungju. We’d like to infuse the film with proletarian resistance against bourgeois structures...

Studio 3, uninterested in music and obsessed with anti-system ideology.

We just sat there, stunned.

“Hollywood people are something else. Really.”

A TF team member muttered.

“They were practically trying to rob us blind. On paper, everything looked perfect back in Korea...”

“That’s why you have to meet in person,” Seokhwan replied.

“Documents and reality are different.”

“I didn’t expect it to be this different. We were all grinning when we saw those proposals.”

The proposals had been so good we thought, Should we meet them? Then the story changed completely in person.

It felt like going to see a doctor for a headache and having a veterinarian ask, “Mr. Seokhwan, have you been neutered?”

“That metaphor is weird, Sun Wooju.”

“Maybe my head hurts.”

My temples throbbed.

One of the TF team members asked,

“So... should we contact World Art Studio again and renegotiate? Their conditions were the best, after all.”

I shook my head.

“I’m against that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t intend to compromise.”

A biographical film about my father.

It would be nice to have.

But not something to beg for or concede over.

It would be better to make it domestically.

Seokhwan sipped his soda.

“Actually, a domestic film director made an offer. Do you know Director Kim Gyewon?”

“Who?”

“He specializes in patriotic films.”

Someone explained.

Apparently he recently made a film about Korean soldiers deployed overseas.

There was a scene where a foreign militia, inspired by the Korean army, saluted the Korean flag.

I laughed silently.

“......”

An image popped into my head.

My father performing in Moscow, shouting “Korea!” while waving the flag, and a million Russians cheering.

Suddenly the employees of World Art Studio sparkled in my mind.

– The old official is still the best!

– See? We’re the best option.

No.

Not you either.

“Well. It’s not an urgent project anyway. It’s not related to our album.”

“That’s true.”

“Anyway, the conditions they proposed are hard to accept.”

The other staff nodded in agreement.

It was disappointing, but unavoidable.

Unless a new proposal came in, doing nothing was better.

Or maybe I should find a director myself.

I laughed at the half-joking thought.

Knock knock.

A knocking sound came from the door.

– Knock knock. Is Mr. Sun Wooju here?

The maknae’s cheerful voice made the staff and me burst into laughter.

When I opened the door, the juniors entered with flushed, rosy faces, as if they had just been blowing frosty breath.

Puffy jackets and bread-shaped hats—like the protagonist of Home Alone.

It seemed they had been having a snowball fight outside.

“We had a snowball fight with some kids staying at the hotel.”

“Oh.”

I asked the most important question.

“So? Did you win?”

“We lost......”

The maknae looked away, staring into the distance.

I asked the others,

“You lost to kids?”

Junhyun replied with a tragic expression.

“They were elementary schoolers....”

“Ah.”

“We tried seriously, but we lost. They outplayed us strategically....”

Everyone burst into laughter.

Biju rubbed his stinging red nose and looked at me.

“Hyung, were you getting ready?”

“Hm?”

“We need to start getting ready soon, don’t we?”

“Ah. Right.”

Come to think of it, it was about time to start preparing—makeup and all.

The screening scheduled for 9 p.m.

Tonight was the night we would attend the screening of our documentary film opening the Sundance Film Festival.