At the InterContinental Carlton in Cannes, Jihoon's hotel room overlooked the glittering Croisette.
The Carlton, with its iconic domes and Belle Epoque facade, wasn't just another luxury hotel—it was a living emblem of old-world glamour, instantly recognizable as the crown jewel of the Riviera.
During the festival season, it became one of the most coveted addresses in all of Cannes.
In fact, there were only five hotels officially partnered with the festival, forming an exclusive circuit of accommodations reserved for industry elites.
Alongside the Carlton stood the famed Hotel Martinez, Hotel Barriere Le Majestic Cannes, Palais Stephanie—later renamed the Grand Hyatt Cannes in 2013—and the Hotel Barriere Le Gray d'Albion.
Together, these hotels represented a world of carefully maintained hierarchy, unspoken rules, and long-standing relationships between filmmakers, studios, and festival organizers.
During the Cannes Festival, it wasn't as simple as booking a room.
Because at that point of time where you stayed said as much about your status as the films you brought.
A nominee's hotel was determined not only by personal wealth, but also by the influence of their distributor, the reach of their network, and the weight of their reputation.
The hierarchy was very clear to the business insider.
Just like Hotel Martinez was the bustling hub of Hollywood royalty.
Past guests included Leonardo DiCaprio, Brad Pitt, and Marion Cotillard.
The hotel's private beach club, Zplage, was more than a sun-soaked escape; it was a stage for power lunches, press calls, and after-parties.
Staying there meant you were part of the global spotlight.
Whereas the InterContinental Carlton Cannes, where Jihoon now found himself, was even more exclusive.
The Carlton usually housed jury presidents, legendary auteurs, and true global icons.
Jane Campion, Cate Blanchett, Pedro Almodóvar—these were the kinds of names associated with its guest list.
The Carlton Bar, glittering beneath chandeliers, doubled as an international trading floor for cinema: directors, producers, and distributors whispering deals over champagne flutes.
Hotel Barriere Le Majestic Cannes sat directly beside the Palais des Festivals, the heart of the festival itself.
Compact yet lavish, it catered to Hollywood's established names, European aristocrats, and top business magnates.
Major studios often block-booked entire floors to house both stars and executives.
Within its walls, deals were signed, projects financed, and reputations secured.
Palais Stéphanie offered a modern and spacious alternative.
Positioned directly on the Croisette, it was the choice of major studios looking for a luxurious yet slightly more relaxed setting.
The Hyatt became a hotspot for high-profile parties, offering guests a taste of Cannes' grandeur without the suffocating hierarchy of the Carlton or Martinez.
Hotel Barriere Le Gray d'Albion, set just one block behind the Croisette, provided something rarer: discretion.
Its guests were normally are producers, veteran directors, and stars who preferred quiet luxury to spectacle.
It was the kind of place for people who wanted to enjoy Cannes without becoming part of its circus.
Each hotel had its purpose, each slotting neatly into Cannes' rigid, if unofficial, social order.
The truth was unavoidable—modern society thrived on hierarchy, no matter how much it pretended otherwise. Even airlines had first class and economy.
So festivals like Cannes had the Carlton and the Gray d'Albion.
Even here, amid the glamour of cinema, everyone was categorized: A-listers at the top, rising names somewhere in the middle, and hopeful nobodies struggling at the bottom.
By rights, Jihoon wasn't supposed to be at the Carlton.
His resume was impressive—two international awards, strong box office numbers—but his age betrayed him.
He was still too young, too fresh, to be given the kind of treatment usually reserved for titans of the industry.
On paper, he belonged to the "second tier," a promising but not-yet-proven filmmaker.
But Jihoon wasn't here on paper. He was here because of Jim Gianopulos.
Jim's presence changed everything.
As one of the most powerful producers in Hollywood, Jim carried decades of influence, a career that had reshaped the film industry itself.
Where Jim went, doors opened.
Where Jim stayed, Jihoon stayed too.
In Cannes' world of hierarchy and exclusivity, Jihoon's own achievements weren't enough to earn him a suite at the Carlton.
But walking beside Jim, he could enjoy the same treatment as an industry heavyweight.
And that was how Jihoon, a young director still carving his place in the world, found himself living—if only for a few days—inside the palace of legends.
Back in the hotel room, Jihoon sat across from Jim.
He had parted ways with Tarantino and Jiangwen after their coffee earlier.
Their separation wasn't just a matter of schedule—it reflected the differences in their circumstances.
Unlike Jihoon, who had Jim Gianopulos at his side—a producer with international clout—his two friends weren't afforded the same privileges.
Tarantino, for instance, was already a star director in Hollywood, but his producer Harvey Weinstein, for all his notoriety, had little respect on the international stage.
In Hollywood, Harvey's ruthless tactics and manipulative power plays had made him feared. But Cannes wasn't Hollywood.
On the global platform of film festivals, Harvey was just another name—tolerated, but not revered.
Here, his influence carried no weight, and if he ever dared to pull his usual tricks in France, there was a good chance the milieu—the French term for the underworld syndicate—would quickly remind him that not every stage belonged to him.
Jiangwen's case was different, and in Jihoon's eyes, far sadder.
By all rights, Jiangwen should have been given the same treatment as Jihoon.
He was a respected filmmaker with a strong voice.
Yet the label imposed on him by China's film bureau—a ban that effectively grounded his career—meant he was being treated like a child punished by strict parents.
Whether fair or not, Jihoon held back from passing judgment.
But what struck him deeply was Jiangwen's dignity in the face of it all.
Many others, had they been in Jiangwen's shoes, might have lashed out, cried injustice, or even abandoned their craft.
But Jiangwen bore it quietly, like a man who understood the larger weight of responsibility.
Jihoon respected that.
He saw in him a filmmaker with a moral compass firmly in place, someone who didn't flinch from consequence even when it cost him dearly.
The controversy around 'Devils on the Doorstep' was proof of how deeply films could cut into national wounds.
For the Chinese, the memory of the Japanese occupation during World War 2 remained raw, unhealed, and deeply painful.
Generation after generation had grown up with stories of brutality, starvation, and humiliation.
These scars weren't just historical footnotes; they were national wounds still carried in collective memory.
To some critic and politician, Jiangwen's film seemed to dismiss or soften the atrocities inflicted upon them.
Whether that interpretation was truly fair or simply a political overreach was not for Jiangwen to decide.
It was, in essence, like asking a people to view history from the perspective of their oppressor. And history rarely forgives such attempts at reframing.
The comparison came to Jihoon's mind almost naturally: the Israeli–Palestinian conflict.
What if, one day, a Palestinian director released a film that openly defended the actions of the Israeli army during its invasion of Palestinian lands?
Could anyone doubt the firestorm that would follow?
The uproar would be immediate, visceral, and unrelenting.
To the people who had lived through the suffering, it would feel like a betrayal, as if their voices and sacrifices had been brushed aside for the sake of "artistic perspective."
When framed in this way, the severity of Jiangwen's punishment by the Chinese film bureau became easier to understand.
It wasn't just censorship; it was the state's way of guarding national memory, ensuring that trauma wasn't distorted into sympathy for the aggressor.
Even in present day, countless of videos circulated online showing Israeli soldiers beating Palestinians, destroying property, or using armored vehicles ramming it against the Palestinians civilian cars.
Such images and videos sparked debates across the world: were these acts morally defensible?
Or were they simply the inevitable consequence of an imbalance of power, where compassion once extended had long since curdled into oppression?
The parallels weighed heavily on everyone mind.
They highlighted a truth that no one could ignore: films are never just entertainment.
They carry power—the power to educate, to provoke, to heal, or to wound.
Sometimes, a film became a lesson.
Other times, a provocation.
And in the wrong context, it could even become a weapon.
In the hands of directors with strong moral compasses, cinema could shape the thinking of entire generations.
But Jiangwen's film—powerful as it was—had collided with a raw, untouchable nerve.
Its artistry couldn't protect it from politics.
Its timing and interpretation made it volatile, and in a world where memory and identity were so fiercely guarded, volatility was as dangerous as betrayal.
Jihoon gently set a cup of coffee in front of Jim before sitting back with his own.
"Is there any news regarding this year's Cannes?" he asked, his tone careful.
Jim took a slow sip, his expression unreadable. When he finally answered, his voice was low and deliberate.
"Lee… it's more complicated than we think."