Chapter 810: Sundance, and the Sun (6)

Salt Lake City. A hotel room.

"Hyung, I’m done showering. You can go wash up now."

"I’ll go in a bit."

The maknae, drying his wet hair into fluffy curls with a towel, padded over in his pajamas.

He tilted his head at the sight of me sitting at the table, staring intently at my laptop.

"What are you looking at?"

"The profile of the person Director Yoo Geon introduced earlier."

"Ah."

He cracked open a can of beer and asked between sips,

"Is it about your father’s film?"

"Yeah."

"What was her name? I might know her."

"Deborah Kim."

He said she was a Korean American with considerable recognition in the independent film scene.

Director Yoo Geon’s words from the screening earlier came back to me.

—When it comes to making music films, she really knows her stuff. I’m not just saying that because she’s an acquaintance. She’s genuinely talented.

When he asked if I wanted to meet her, I had agreed for now.

Well. Nothing was finalized.

We hadn’t even decided what production model we’d use yet. I was just thinking of it as meeting a strong directing candidate.

"Hmm."

The maknae’s eyes widened brightly.

"I feel like I’ve heard of her. Maybe I’d recognize it if I saw the films."

"Really?"

I turned the laptop screen toward Jiho.

Just as I knew a lot about music, Jiho was thoroughly versed in film and drama.

On his days off, he would marathon movies and dramas in the living room all day, and if you saw him in the morning, he’d look like a disheveled cat who’d pulled an all-nighter.

"The TF team looked her up and compiled this profile. If you scroll down, you’ll see the film titles listed. The Korean release titles are next to them."

There were about three films.

Jiho took a sip of beer and studied the screen.

"She’s not that prolific. Looks like she’s been active for a while, though."

I asked casually,

"If a director makes fewer films, is that a bad thing?"

"No, not necessarily. Actually, among people like that, there are some real hidden gems."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Some directors only come back every three or four years while others make one film a year. And among them, there are a lot who make true film enthusiasts’ hearts go all soft and fluttery."

"So that means they pour more care into each project."

Jiho nodded and skimmed the three titles again.

Then he tilted his head.

"Hmm?"

"Do you recognize something?"

"Wait a second."

He searched on his phone, then lit up.

"Oh! I’ve seen this before. Back when I was a trainee, I went to Itaewon and watched this."

"What is it?"

"This one. The one listed in English here. It’s seriously good!"

He was so excited he was practically spraying spit.

I turned the laptop toward myself and saw the Korean title next to it.

Two Men, One Country.

It seemed the Korean distributor hadn’t bothered hiring translators.

"I think it’s on Netplus too. You haven’t seen it, right?"

"No."

"You have to watch this. It’s one of the most fun indie films I’ve seen... Wait."

Immediately, the big ‘N’ logo appeared on the hotel TV, and Jiho started clicking through the search bar.

Youth definitely helped with search speed.

He patted the sofa beside him.

"Hurry up. I’m starting it."

"One sec."

I closed the laptop, turned off the lights, and sat down on the sofa.

I had thought the TV was a bit too big for just the two of us, but once the movie started, it was actually nice.

I handed a glass bowl to the maknae, who had brought popcorn from the suitcase.

"So what’s it about?"

"When you listen to a song, do you look up what it’s about first?"

"No."

"You have to watch movies the same way for it to be fun. Ah~ someone who doesn’t know how to watch films~"

"Just give me the popcorn."

I chewed on the salty popcorn and looked at the screen.

After the Sundance Film Festival award logo appeared, the film began immediately.

Whoooooosh—

Golden rice fields swayed in the wind.

Like a field of reeds.

There was a dark-skinned Korean boy herding cattle.

In front of scenery that Ri Hyuk would probably introduce as the 1950s, a young boy led a cow by its rope.

When the maknae pressed both hands to his cheeks and whispered that the mise-en-scène was insane—

[.......]

The boy shaded his eyes and looked up at the sun.

It seemed meaningful, though I wasn’t entirely sure why.

As if showing the boy’s gaze toward the sun, the camera moved from the sky downwards.

A large Western-style house came into view.

It looked like the home of a village landlord.

[.......]

The boy, holding the cow’s rope, stared at a wealthy child playing in that yard.

[Whaaaaaang—]

A deafening roar echoed from somewhere.

Flap!

Birds burst from the trees in fright, and the cow bellowed.

Where the boy turned his head, a giant steel monster—a tank—was rolling through the village, its cannon exposed.

Close-up on the boy’s shocked face.

Then—

[Braaaam—]

With the roar of a passing car, the camera slowly zoomed out from the pupil of his eye.

A wrinkled old man.

Soon, subtitles appeared beneath the image of a Korean American elderly man walking down a New York street with a cane.

[directed by Deborah Kim]

Jazz music by New York–born musicians played in the background as the old man struggled toward some destination.

"She uses music really well."

"She does?"

"Yeah. It matches the scenes perfectly. Her sense is incredible."

I didn’t know if a film of this scale even had a separate music director, but it was undeniably tasteful.

You notice what you care about.

While the maknae focused on framing and direction, music was the first thing I heard.

"She only used music by New York musicians. Remember Camila Baker, who we met before? That’s her song."

"Oh, really?"

"The saxophone. That’s definitely her."

"?"

Jiho tilted his head, then nodded as if accepting it.

I smiled, satisfied.

I liked the way the director used music appropriately.

It felt like she had real knowledge of sound and music, or at least had put in significant effort.

While I paid attention to those aspects, the story unfolded quickly.

[He will need proper rest.]

After being told during a health checkup that he should take it easy,

and after his laundromat’s revenue was being pushed out by a nearby coin laundry,

and after relatives in a rural town in Louisiana suggested he come stay there for a while,

the old man, Jung, decided to move.

Arriving in the countryside, Jung reunited with relatives and attempted to settle into retirement life.

Someone watched him from behind a curtain.

"Don’t even speak to the man who lives over there, Grandpa."

"Why?"

"There’s a North Korean."

"North Korean?"

It seemed to be set in the 80s or 90s, with the premise that Jung had emigrated from Korea to the United States.

At the word North Korean, Jung was horrified.

He resolved not even to make eye contact.

[.......]

Of course, like in any film, they met immediately.

They encountered each other at a music class for seniors hosted by the rural town.

The two old men, deeply hostile from the start, disliked each other immediately.

And then, both of them fell for the same elderly woman in the class.

The story unfolded as the two old men creatively sabotaged each other to win her affection.

I couldn’t help laughing at every scene.

"Hahaha!"

"It really is funny."

Comedic scenes continued one after another.

Even the twist at the end was something I never expected.

Who would’ve guessed that about the grandmother?

As the final credits rolled, the maknae asked with shining eyes,

"What do you think? It’s really good, right?"

"It’s good."

"Right? I recommended it well, didn’t I?"

"Yeah. It’s fun."

In its brief 50-minute runtime, it contained everything it needed.

If it weren’t for my current mindset, I might have simply called it decent.

But right now, I was very satisfied.

Because what I had focused on while watching was something else entirely.

What would it be like if this person directed Seon Myungju’s biopic?

In biopics about musicians, the most important element was always the music scenes.

In that regard, Director Deborah Kim’s film had left a strong impression on me.

Not just her sense in placing music effectively, but how naturally she integrated the concept of a “music class” into the film.

"Now I understand why Director Yoo recommended her."

"Right? She mostly makes indie films, but she’d do well in commercial films too."

"Does she have any other films?"

"Hold on. I haven’t seen the others yet... Oh! There are! There are."

I met the maknae’s sparkling eyes and nodded.

"Let’s watch."

"Should we?"

We immediately decided to run through the remaining two films by Director Deborah Kim.

The first official day of the Sundance Film Festival.

"Movies! Movies! Ha... I think I studied English just for this day. To watch American films without subtitles! Ah, I’m so glad I studied English. Mike, are you watching? Your student can watch American movies without subtitles—!"

Watching the maknae jump up and down in excitement, I said to the others,

"He looks like a dog going out for a walk for the first time in a hundred years."

"Jiho must be really excited."

I told Biju, who covered his mouth while laughing,

"Take good care of him today. If you have to, tie a leash to his wrist."

"I’ll try... Ah, I’m already drained."

"I’ll keep him under control."

I nodded at Ri Hyuk and Junhyun’s words and released the maknae.

"Kyaaaahahaha!"

"Jiho!"

After our ecstatic film buff was escorted away by the members and security,

I moved separately.

To visit a restaurant on the edge of Park City, which was buzzing because of the festival.

"This is a hidden gem. People who come to the festival often all eat here."

"Oh."

"It’s mainly a brunch place. Their omelets are famous."

The restaurant Director Yoo Geon had introduced was tucked away in a corner.

With a view of the ski slopes, it was packed with Americans eating.

"Oh?"

"Hey, that person."

"Look over there. Don’t turn your head so obviously, idiot."

A few people raised their eyebrows or glanced my way.

I smiled and said "Hi" to those whose eyes met mine, then approached a woman sitting at the farthest table.

"Hmm?"

She noticed us and smiled brightly.

A Korean American woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a coat and a beanie.

Beautiful enough that people passing by might double-take.

If asked to guess her profession in a blind test, one might say actress or model rather than director.

"Hello. I’m Deborah Kim. You can just use my Korean name, Kim Bora."

Her precise Korean pronunciation made Seokhwan hyung blink in surprise.

We had heard she was born in Atlanta, but her Korean felt completely natural.

"It’s a pleasure. I’m Yoon Seokhwan."

"Nice to meet you, Director. I’m Sun Wooju."

As we shook hands, she squealed.

"I’m a huge fan."

"Oh. Really?"

"I’m not quite Souffle, more like a fake Souffle. Is that right? Gun-i said that’s what you call it."

"Yes, that’s right."

It felt unexpectedly pleasant.

I had prepared to speak English, but Korean came out instead.

After Director Yoo Geon and Kim Bora hugged, we ordered brunch and chatted lightly.

"...Yesterday, we binge-watched your films with the members."

"Binge-watched? Like when you drive a car?"

"I mean watching from the beginning."

"Ah."

Though her tone and pronunciation felt very 2010s Korean, she was unfamiliar with some newer slang.

She laughed.

"Still, my Korean is good, right?"

"Yes. It’s really good."

"My father always told me that if I wanted to survive in this country, I had to remember my roots. That they would be the driving force that protects me no matter what winds blow."

"That’s a wonderful thing to say."

Director Yoo Geon laughed beside her.

"She made it hard for me. I came to America trying to practice English, and she kept coming up to me insisting we speak Korean."

"That’s true. Eighty percent of my current Korean is thanks to Gun-i."

I asked,

"So you both studied at the same film school?"

"Yes."

"She went to the same university as me. University of Southern California."

According to Jiho, it was one of the most prestigious schools in the film industry.

The same school that produced legends in Hollywood, including Robert McGinnis, whom World Art Studio had mentioned before.

As we cut into the omelets, Seokhwan hyung asked,

"You know what kind of meeting this is, right?"

"Yes."

Kim Bora scrunched her shoulders as if the thought alone was intimidating.

"I heard it’s about Seon Myungju’s biopic."

"That’s correct, but you don’t need to think too deeply about it. There’s no need to feel pressured."

I added,

"Nothing has been decided yet."

"Oh? That’s a relief. Then I can speak freely?"

"Yes."

Seokhwan hyung and I hadn’t come with a fixed plan either.

—What if we just produce it ourselves?

There had been talk of producing it through our in-house company, Studio Lemon...

But nothing was concrete yet.

"We’ve been thinking about it a lot. The scale is... the scale."

"Right. It’s a project that would require at least tens of millions of dollars."

I nodded at Kim Bora, who gave a straightforward estimate.

Tens of millions of dollars.

If done properly, it would cost at least forty billion won.

Raising the capital wasn’t impossible... but it wasn’t a project you could casually say, "Let’s try it."

"For now, we’re planning for our production company to take the lead."

Seokhwan hyung said,

"It’s hard to accept the conditions Hollywood is proposing. We think it’s better if we lead it."

"I see."

"Of course, nothing is finalized."

We smiled and continued talking.

After that, the conversation moved to the film industry and how things were operating.

Then—

"You place the music yourself, Director?"

"Yes. If I hadn’t gone into film, I probably would have pursued music. Also, I don’t have the budget to hire a separate music director."

"You placed it incredibly well. I was really impressed."

"Thank you."

The more I observed her talent and passion, the more I felt she was the right person.

If drama was a writer’s domain, film was a director’s domain.

I didn’t know how things would unfold, but I increasingly wanted her to direct.

‘She seems good, right?’

‘She’s good.’

I exchanged a glance with Seokhwan hyung.

At first, we had considered approaching things step by step.

But when Kim Bora mentioned she had multiple project offers and would be making decisions soon, we decided to change strategy.

We would claim her early.

"If you’re open to it... we’d like to formally propose you for the director position."

She looked flustered.

"Me?"

"Yes."

"I’ve never made a commercial film. If you look at my filmography, it’s just three indie films."

"But those three were outstanding."

Even after I explained what had impressed me about her films, she remained hesitant.

"If it were another commercial film, I might consider it. But this... This isn’t a film someone like me can make."

"Why not?"

"It’s Seon Myungju’s film."

She spoke seriously.

"For every Korean American living in the United States, Seon Myungju is an icon. I’m not sure I have the capacity to handle a film about someone like that. The pressure would be immense."

I liked that cautious sincerity far more than the casual tone of some Hollywood figures who had approached it lightly.

She narrowed her eyes.

"Honestly, I don’t even know how to capture his charm. Not to mention a song like Question that was recently released. And even older tracks like Sunset—how do you recreate that atmosphere?"

"Are you very familiar with my father’s work?"

"Of course. I’m a jazz fan. And he has so many masterpieces. How do you choose within a limited runtime..."

She was clearly trying to refuse, but to me it sounded sweet.

It felt as if she were dancing a courtship dance with her whole body, saying, Take me as your director.

A talent for weaving music into film.

A Korean American who understood the Hollywood system.

A jazz enthusiast who knew Seon Myungju’s entire discography.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

She waved her hands.

"Entrusting a tens-of-millions-of-dollars project to an unknown director like me is not a good decision."

"If you came to this meeting, didn’t you at least consider it?"

"Yes. I’m tempted. But the more I think about it, the more it feels like it’s not my place."

She said she felt too much pressure and lacked the ability.

While Seokhwan hyung was considering how to persuade her, I signaled to him.

‘Should we tell her?’

‘It might work.’

With my manager’s approval, I played my trump card.

"There’s actually a reason we’re proposing this to you."

"What is it?"

"We recently had a meeting with World Art Studio. And what they suggested was..."

I leaned in and whispered.

"They said they would cast a Black or Chinese actor as my father."

“...Sibal.”

"Sorry?"

It happened instantly.

Until now, she had been smiling politely while declining.

Now her expression hardened.

"What did they say...?"

Seokhwan hyung and I suppressed small laughs at the sight of the American director whose ancestral blood seemed to awaken.

Director Deborah Kim: secured.

"Please say that again. What exactly did they say?"

Ah.

Very clearly.

Secured.