February 24, 2008 — 9:30 am, Korea Standard Time.
Back in South Korea, it was a historic morning.
For the first time ever, the Korean Broadcasting System (KBS)—the country's national public broadcaster—was airing the 80th Academy Awards live.
Not in delayed highlights.
Not in edited clips the next day.
But a real-time broadcast, beamed straight into Korean homes as it happened.
For many moviegoers and Jihoon's growing fanbase, this was a groundbreaking moment.
Korea had never had such a presence at the Oscars before—this wasn't just a proud moment for Jihoon, it was a proud moment for the entire nation.
Yes, some networks had shown snippets of the Oscars in previous years.
Usually just a few segments—"Best Picture," "Best Dressed," maybe a montage of emotional speeches—but never an official, simultaneous broadcast.
This time was different.
This time, Korea had someone of their own in the room.
Even Jihoon, seated inside the grand Dolby Theatre in Los Angeles, could feel the weight of the moment. Just before the show began, his phone buzzed with a message from his manager, Jaehyun.
"Good luck today. Everyone back home is watching you. KBS is broadcasting the whole thing live!"
Jihoon stared at the message for a moment, then let out a short laugh.
"Wouldn't it be awkward if I don't win anything?" he joked to himself.
But deep down, he knew—it didn't matter. The entire country was watching. There was no turning back now.
What made it even more surprising was the cost. Live broadcasting an international event like the Oscars was expensive. Most Korean networks avoided it for a reason.
Recorded versions were cheaper and safer. You could edit out slow segments, add subtitles, trim the fat.
But KBS went ahead with it anyway.
What made it all the more puzzling was the timing.
To be exact tomorrow, February 25, 2008, President Roh Moo-hyun, widely regarded as a national hero, would officially step down from office.
So why would KBS, a government-owned broadcaster, suddenly push forward with such a decision now?
It just didn't add up with Jihoon's mind.
You see, as the nation most state-run media outlets, KBS rarely acts without a larger agenda.
And with President Roh leaving office, he was bound to face a flood of allegations—most likely from political opponents and powerful figures whose interests had been threatened by his reformist policies.
It was almost guaranteed that the moment he stepped away from the protection of the presidential seat, the backlash would begin.
So, to Jihoon, it didn't seem like a coincidence.
The sudden broadcasting decision, a day before the president's departure, felt more like a strategic move to divert national attention.
After all, the Oscars were coming up, and what better way to distract the public than with the glitz and glamour of an international spectacle?
Maybe it was an attempt to ensure that the transition of power happened quietly, without resistance or too much public scrutiny.
Or maybe... there was something else at play, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Jihoon quickly pushed the thought aside. This wasn't something he could get involved in, nor did he want to.
He knew that back home in Korea, a storm was quietly brewing.
He couldn't stop it—even if he wanted to.
The weight of expectation sat heavily on his shoulders.
His Oscar nomination had captured the nation's attention, and if he won, it would be a proud moment not just for him, but for the entire country.
The public would love him even more.
But it was a double-edged sword.
If he didn't win… if his name wasn't called tonight… the same public that had lifted him up could just as easily tear him down.
He could already imagine the headlines: "Failed to Bring Home the Oscar" or "Just Another Overhyped Director".
People could be cruel when national pride was on the line.
And now that KBS—the national broadcaster—had decided to air the Oscars live for the first time in Korean history, he wasn't just Jihoon the filmmaker anymore.
He was Jihoon, the face of South Korea on the world stage.
He wasn't naive.
He understood how things worked behind the scenes.
In politics, in media—everything had a price, and everything had a purpose.
To some people watching from the shadows, a moment like this wasn't just about cinema or national pride.
It was an opportunity.
If Jihoon won, those aligned with the current administration could spin the victory as a success tied to their cultural policies.
But if he lost?
That loss could become someone's ammunition.
A reason to push out the current CEO of KBS and replace the position with someone from their own circle. It was a chess game.
And Jihoon, whether he liked it or not, had become a piece on the board.
To people with power, even small events could become battlegrounds—so long as there was something to gain.
And just like it at the Oscars, there was always something to gain.
While glamorous and prestigious on the surface, the Academy Awards weren't always seen—at least not by insiders—as a true celebration of filmmaking.
Not in the purest sense.
Yes, the Oscars commanded global respect. But behind the red carpet and golden statues was a world driven by commercial value and Hollywood's far-reaching influence.
Some directors felt the Oscars had lost their artistic soul, arguing they had become more about popularity and marketing than true cinematic excellence. In their view, it was less about honoring art and more about boosting box office numbers.
But Jihoon wasn't interested in that debate.
To him, the Oscars—and all film festivals, really—were just really a tool. A strategic platforms.
They were shortcuts to visibility, to connections, and most importantly, to sales.
He had learned from his previous life and also in this life when he sold the distribution rights to his film SECRET at Cannes.
He understood the truth many young directors would later realize: film festivals weren't just about celebrating art—they were about getting your film into the right hands.
Unless your film was lucky enough to be selected by one of the Big Five—Cannes, Venice, Berlin, Toronto (TIFF), or Sundance—you'd likely end up traveling to smaller festivals across the world, hoping to meet international buyers and secure deals.
Making a film, Jihoon often said, was like baking a cake.
Your talent was the recipe, but no matter how well you baked it, the buyer might or might not like the taste.
A film festival? That was the shop window where you displayed your creation.
It was a way to market a film without spending millions on advertising.
And if your film won something? Even better. Awards brought attention. Attention brought viewers. And more viewers meant more revenue.
Back in 2008, that kind of exposure was everything. The world still leaned heavily on traditional media.
Trailers weren't going viral on YouTube yet.
Social media didn't dominate public attention.
Streaming services weren't the giant industry movers they would later become.
Film promotion was still old-school—press tours, posters, premieres, word-of-mouth.
Which meant: if you wanted the world to notice your film, you had to take it on the road.
For example, just like back in the '90s, a film like Titanic had swept the Oscars and the box office.
It won Best Picture and Best Director, and to the public, that was all the validation it needed.
But if you stripped away its epic scale and emotional pull, would it have met the standards of those who viewed cinema as pure art?
Maybe not. Maybe critics would argue.
But that didn't matter. The promotional power of the Oscars back then was real.
Jihoon knew that power was changing.
In the near future, the internet would disrupt everything.
Film festivals would become less relevant to the general public and more of a niche stage for directors focused on artistic acclaim.
Big-budget movies would find better promotion through online platforms than award ceremonies.
Festivals would start to feel slow, out of touch—even boring to some.
But in 2008? An Oscar still meant something. It still moved the needle.
And that's what Jihoon was after.
His mind buzzed with thoughts—calculated, focused, forward-thinking.
"Sir, it's your turn," a polite voice broke into his thoughts. A staff member gestured toward the carpet, waiting.
Jihoon smiled, adjusting his perfectly tailored suit with a light nod. "Thank you."
And then, without hesitation, he stepped forward onto the red carpet—alone, but not unnoticed.
The cameras flashed like strobe lights all around him, capturing each step as he moved forward, not just as a filmmaker, but as a symbol.