In Korea, there's a term that almost every filmmaker, actor, and producer in the entertainment industry dreams of being associated with their name with — the "Triple Crown."
It represents the highest honor achievable within the nation's showbiz ecosystem.
Winning it isn't about a single film or one great performance — it's about sweeping through the three biggest award ceremonies in the Korean entertainment world, each representing a different side of the industry's recognition and prestige.
The first and most esteemed of these is the Baeksang Arts Awards, often regarded as Korea's equivalent of the Golden Globes.
It's the most comprehensive and inclusive ceremony, celebrating achievements across both film and television, and even occasionally theater.
The Baeksang focuses on artistry, storytelling, and the creative essence of performance — the balance between critical acclaim and mass resonance.
Following that is the Blue Dragon Film Awards, which sits on the other end of the spectrum.
While it's often promoted as a celebration of cinematic excellence, it leans heavily toward popularity and box-office performance.
In simpler terms, it's Korea's "People's Choice Awards."
The films and actors that dominate headlines, rack up millions of ticket sales, and capture the nation's collective attention often walk away as winners.
It's an award for those who conquer hearts and wallets alike.
Finally, there's the Grand Bell Awards (Daejong Film Awards) — the oldest and most traditional of the three. Established in 1962, it's sometimes called "the Korean Oscars."
The Grand Bell is all about legacy, history, and the grandeur of cinema itself.
Winning a Grand Bell is like being anointed by the elders of the industry, a symbolic moment that cements one's name in Korean film history.
Now, to win all three in a single year — to hold the Baeksang, the Blue Dragon, and the Grand Bell trophies in your hands for the same film — is akin to a basketball player achieving a "three-peat" like Michael Jordan did with the Chicago Bulls.
It's rare, it's dazzling, and it defines a career.
Within the industry, this accomplishment is known simply as "The Triple Crown."
It signifies mastery across both artistic and commercial landscapes — the holy trinity of recognition: critical, popular, and institutional.
To put it in global cinematic terms, this Korean "Triple Crown" is comparable to achieving the European Grand Slam — winning the Palme d'Or at Cannes, the Golden Lion at Venice, and the Golden Bear at Berlin.
Yet, the comparison is not entirely fair.
The European Grand Slam represents international recognition, judged by world-class juries under the global spotlight.
Korea's Triple Crown, by contrast, is an internal playground, governed by local politics, influence, and reputation within the industry.
In Europe, only a handful of filmmakers have ever achieved the Grand Slam since the festivals' founding.
Its rarity makes it legendary — a pilgrimage that only the bravest and most talented directors dare attempt.
In fact, since the begining of 21st century, only one man has ever done it: Mike Leigh, the acclaimed British director known for his emotionally raw, socially conscious storytelling.
His journey spanned decades — beginning in the early 1990s and culminating in 2016.
His triumph was not merely artistic; it was historic, an achievement that some critics called "the impossible feat of modern cinema."
Meanwhile, in Korea, the Triple Crown has lost much of its sacredness.
It's been cheapened by politics, favoritism, and influence.
The awards are no longer just about merit — they're about alliances and submission.
Who backs you, who funds your film, who you owe favors to — all of these unspoken dynamics dictate outcomes far more than the quality of one's work.
The Blue Dragon, once envisioned as a platform for popular recognition, has become the most easily manipulated.
Behind the curtains, production companies lobby aggressively, sponsors pour money into nominees' campaigns, and PR agencies orchestrate narratives to sway public opinion.
As Jihoon once described it, "It's like watching a magician pulling coins out of thin air — everyone knows it's fake, but they still clap."
Jihoon knew this truth all too well. He had been a victim of this system since 2006.
His debut film, 'Secret', wasn't just a success — it was historic.
It became the first Korean film ever to win at Cannes, a monumental achievement that should have catapulted him into the pantheon of Korea's most celebrated directors.
But instead of recognition, he faced silence.
That same year, at the Grand Bell Awards — where many expected him to sweep — he wasn't even nominated for Best Director or Best Film.
The absurdity was laughable.
A Korean filmmaker winning on the international stage — outshining European and American counterparts — yet being ignored in his homeland.
It was as if the Korean film industry had collectively decided to pretend he didn't exist.
The truth was simpler, and darker.
Jihoon wasn't "one of them."
He didn't bow, he didn't flatter, and he refused to play the politics of submission that dominated the Korean hierarchy.
In a country where connections mattered more than creativity, Jihoon's independence made him a threat.
Fortunately for them it was 2006 and at that point of time the dawn of the internet age, but not yet its explosion.
Social media hadn't become the watchdog of injustice it is today.
The news of his film's clash on the triple triumph barely reached the public.
Korean media, tightly controlled by conglomerates and studio interests, simply didn't report it.
The story died in silence, buried under a thousand headlines of idol scandals and celebrity weddings.
From that moment, Jihoon made a silent vow: he would never submit his films to those award committees again.
It wasn't out of arrogance — it was survival.
Submitting his work meant kneeling before those who once dismissed him. It meant acknowledging their authority over his art.
And to Jihoon, no trophy, no matter how glittering, was worth that humiliation.
Sometimes, he wondered if Korea had truly entered the modern age or if it was still haunted by the spirit of Joseon's feudal past.
Everywhere he looked, he saw the same invisible chains — hierarchy, obedience, and the fear of stepping out of line.
Talent mattered, but only if you bowed to the right master.
The entire system was a performance of respect rather than a pursuit of progress.
So, when Kim Jeewon and Hong Sangsoo offered to help "lobby" for him to win the Triple Crown, Jihoon could only respond with a wry smile.
Their offer wasn't malicious — just naive. Not sure whether they understand that in Korea, lobbying meant submitting.
And Jihoon had long decided he would rather walk his own path — even if it was a lonely one.
After parting ways with the two directors, Jihoon returned to the Grand Theatre Lumiere with Jim, his producer.
Their assigned seats were close to Steven Spielberg, likely a courtesy granted due to Jim's reputation in Hollywood.
It was one of those small privileges that came with having a powerful ally — something Jihoon had learned to appreciate quietly.
The lights dimmed. The curtains rose. The world premiere of 'Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull' began.
The familiar rhythm of John Williams' score filled the hall, and for a brief moment, Jihoon felt like a kid again.
Harrison Ford, now older but still radiating that rugged charisma, slipped back into the role of the legendary archaeologist with ease.
The film opened strong — action-packed, nostalgic, entertaining.
But as it went on, Jihoon's enthusiasm began to wane.
Something felt off.
The story that once revolved around ancient relics and mythical treasures had now veered into the realm of science fiction.
Aliens. UFOs. Interdimensional beings.
The transition felt unnatural, like a classic painting defaced with neon spray paint.
Indiana Jones had always been about faith, history, and adventure — a bridge between myth and man.
Now it was just another CGI-driven blockbuster, where explosions replaced mystery.
To Jihoon's critical eye, the film was a commercial success but a creative failure.
He respected Spielberg immensely — who didn't?
The man was a living legend, the very definition of a cinematic pioneer.
But even the greatest artists sometimes bowed to the demands of the market.
If Jihoon were to be the one who directed it, he would have stripped away the alien subplot and leaned deeper into the religious mysticism that defined the earlier films.
Still, from a financial standpoint, Jihoon knew the movie was a gold mine.
With a production budget of $185 million and a global box office exceeding $790 million, it earned over four times its cost — not even counting the mountain of merchandise, collectibles, and tie-in promotions.
The real profits, Jihoon knew, didn't come from ticket sales but from the merchandising machine — the action figures, T-shirts, and limited-edition memorabilia churned out by factories in China for less than a dollar apiece.
Hollywood, was less an art form and more a financial ecosystem.
A hit director was like a stock tip — a promise of returns. Which is why even the elites from Wall Street had begun pouring money into film production. In future cinema had become a commodity and gonna be traded like gold.
Just as Jihoon was sinking into thought, he felt it — that odd, uncomfortable sensation of someone staring at him.
It wasn't casual glancing; it was the kind of stare that prickled the back of your neck, the kind that like a cobra eyeing on its prey.
Curious by the sensation, Jihoon slowly turned his head.
Behind him sat Quentin Tarantino, grinning like a mischievous schoolboy caught in the act.
Jihoon nearly laughed. Tarantino's sharp, wolfish smile was hard to mistake — playful, almost disarming.
But that uncomfortable glancing wasn't from him. It came from the person next to him, someone whose gaze was far less friendly — a man whose presence exuded arrogance and discomfort all at once.
Jihoon's eyes locked onto him, and a wave of recognition hit.
It's was the fat bastard Harvey Weinstein.