The next morning, the sun had barely risen over the French Riviera when Jihoon found himself once again standing before the majestic Grand Theatre Lumiere.
The beating heart of the Cannes Film Festival.
This building wasn't just another cinema; it was the sacred stage of world cinema, where legends were born and dreams were either realized or quietly buried under the red carpet.
By festival regulations, the Lumiere Theater was reserved exclusively for the official screenings of films in the main competition.
In French, they called it la crème de la crème — the best of the best.
It was more than a matter of prestige; it was a tradition rooted deeply in the festival's history.
Every year, the world's finest directors who was competing for the coveted Palme d'Or presented their masterpieces here.
Only filmmakers of significant influence or outstanding achievement were granted the privilege to premiere their films in this theater during the festival season.
In contrast, other theaters within the Palais des Festivals had their own hierarchy and purposes.
The Salle Debussy Theater, for example, was typically used for films screened under Un Certain Regard, a category just below the main competition.
It focused on unique visions and innovative storytelling, often by emerging directors or unconventional auteurs.
And further down the ladder was the Salle du 60eme, where films in the Special Screenings and Cannes Classics sections were shown—titles like Jiangwen's 'Devils on the Doorstep' or restored archival gems from decades past.
It was an unspoken rule: the bigger the theater, the higher the honor.
And that's why Jihoon was here again today.
For the next ten days, his film 'Buried' would be screened at the Lumiere Theater as part of the main competition lineup.
These ten days weren't just about red carpets and flashing cameras.
They were about survival.
During this period, the entire ecosystem of Cannes—the filmmakers, critics, distributors, and brokers—would revolve around the Lumiere like planets around a star.
For film brokers, these ten days were the most crucial of the year.
They weren't here for selfies or after-parties; they were here for business—watching, analyzing, and calculating.
To them, the Cannes screenings were a real-time market research experiment.
They studied audience reactions, ticket demand, critics' reviews, and the word-of-mouth momentum each film generated.
Every applause, every standing ovation, and every awkward silence became data points.
While financial analysts back at corporate offices drew graphs and projections, these brokers relied on human instinct—the kind that could only be sharpened by years of watching audiences breathe, laugh, or cry inside dark theaters.
By the time the closing ceremony arrived, they would already know which films were safe bets, which were hidden gems, and which were destined to flop.
This year, however, two titles had become the talk of Cannes before the festival even began.
The first was 'Indiana Jones' a blockbuster helmed by none other than Steven Spielberg.
The name alone guaranteed box-office gold; Spielberg was, after all, Spielberg.
No one doubted the film's profitability or craftsmanship.
The second was Jihoon's 'Buried.'
Unlike Spielberg, Jihoon didn't have decades of Hollywood clout behind him.
What he had instead was a perfect record—a flawless streak of success since his debut.
Every project he touched, whether as a director, producer, or screenwriter, had achieved remarkable results both critically and commercially.
To the brokers, that made him even more interesting.
No one could quite explain how someone so young had managed to maintain such consistency in an industry as unpredictable as film.
Even Spielberg, Cameron, and Nolan—titans of the field—had endured box-office disappointments.
But Jihoon? He'd never failed.
His debut film, 'Secret', had become an unexpected hit among Asian audiences, celebrated for its delicate portrayal of youth, loss, and nostalgia.
Later, 'Your Name' turned into a cultural phenomenon, uniting audiences across Japan, Korea, and beyond.
Then came his HCU series—a collection of psychological thrillers and science fiction epics that gripped Western audiences with their inventive concepts and emotional depth.
Soon, professors and critics began to study him.
Academic journals dissected his scripts, searching for patterns behind his success.
What they discovered was fascinating: Jihoon's strategy wasn't luck—it was precision.
He had effectively divided his creative empire into two distinct paths:
JH Korea, which catered to the emotional and introspective tastes of Eastern audiences.
JH Los Angeles, which targeted the Western market with its appetite for spectacle, innovation, and thrill.
Through careful observation, they realized that Jihoon's film are very subjective and it's cultural preference played a bigger role in box-office performance than most filmmakers dared to admit.
In the East, his audiences gravitated toward films that evoked introspection—stories about memories, relationships, and the passage of time.
Emotional resonance mattered more than action.
Films like 'Secret' and 'Your Name' succeeded precisely because they reflected this sensibility.
The West, on the other hand, craved originality, energy, and thematic boldness.
Films that questioned reality or explored grand philosophical ideas—like those in the HCU series—thrived there.
It wasn't that these two cinematic languages couldn't coexist, but trying to merge them perfectly in one film was a delicate gamble.
When done carelessly, the result often felt "off"—too emotional for Western audiences, too detached for Eastern ones.
Take, for instance, many of China's big-budget productions.
Films like 'The Wandering Earth' were visually stunning and technically impressive, yet international audiences found them distant.
The cultural context was too dense, the values too specific.
Jihoon admired their ambition but also understood the underlying issue: universal storytelling requires universal emotions.
And so, he chose to keep his worlds separate.
JH Korea would handle the heartfelt film and romantic narratives or maybe some action film, while JH Los Angeles would produce the science fiction and thrillers that the Western market adored.
It wasn't about division—it was about precision.
Jihoon wasn't blind to the exceptions, of course.
Some films had managed to bridge the East-West divide seamlessly.
Just like James Cameron's 'Titanic' was one such masterpiece—a story of love and sacrifice that transcended language and culture.
Even in 2025, it remained among the top ten highest-grossing films of all time.
The secret? Love.
Whether it manifested as romance, friendship, or kinship, love was the universal language that every culture understood.
It was why films like Avengers: Endgame resonated globally—not just because of superheroes, but because of what lay underneath: loyalty, sacrifice, and the pain of loss.
The death of Iron Man, for instance, struck chords everywhere—not as an American tragedy, but as a human one.
But when films leaned too heavily into distinctly Western ideals like individualism or freedom, they risked alienating global audiences.
Jihoon had seen that firsthand with 'Captain America: Brave New World.'
Despite its solid craftsmanship, no one could deny that the film's core ideology simply failed to connect beyond its borders. The values embodied in the new Captain America just didn't align with the tastes or sensibilities of international viewers.
Take the final scene, for instance. Where Captain America stood before a crowd, delivering a passionate speech about his political beliefs.
What was meant to be inspiring for American audiences came across as somewhat tone-deaf to others, leaving many around the world feeling disconnected.
As Jihoon often said, every country and region carries its own unique cultural identity, and expecting people from one culture to fully embrace another's values is never easy.
That was precisely why he had always avoided political themes in his films.
For Jihoon, the most important thing was understanding his audience — knowing what they wanted to see, feel, and experience — not trying to educate them with ideals that might not resonate.
After all, films, especially commercial ones, aren't meant to serve as classrooms. People buy tickets to be entertained, not lectured. That's the job of documentaries, not blockbusters.
And that, Jihoon believed, was the downfall of 'Captain America: Brave New World.'
The movie felt more like a political campaign than an adventure. Instead of focusing on universal emotions or engaging storytelling, it leaned too heavily on promoting American values.
It wasn't that the film was bad — its production and direction were solid — but the message it carried simply didn't resonate with audiences unfamiliar with the cultural core of America.
Now back at the premiere.
As the clock struck six, the red carpet outside the Lumiere began to glow under the golden hour light.
Jihoon adjusted his suit jacket and took a deep breath.
Today's premiere was not just another screening—it was the world debut of 'Buried', the newest entry in his HCU universe.
And tonight, the theater would be filled with some of the most influential figures in world cinema.
Unlike most premieres, where actors and celebrities dominated the guest list, Jihoon's invitations had gone out primarily to directors—those who truly understood the craft.
Among his guests were Quentin Tarantino, Hong Sangsoo, Kim Jeewoon, Lee Changdong, Jeon Doyeon, Jiangwen, Sean Penn, Natalie Portman, and Steven Soderbergh.
Even two of this year's Cannes jurors had quietly accepted his invitation, sparking whispers among attendees about how rare such a gathering was.
And also today's unexpected guest.