Ji-eun's "lol" echoed in Do-yeong's mind, not as a sound of lighthearted amusement, but as a dissonant chord in his personal soundtrack. He imagined a rapid montage of scoffing faces, a quick succession of mocking close-ups, all culminating in Mr. Kim's dismissive gesture. They thought he was being punished, sidelined, left to flounder in the shallow end of the filmmaking pool. But Do-yeong saw it differently. This wasn't a punishment; it was an anointing. A clear path had opened, free of compromise, free of the inevitable compromises that diluted genuine artistic vision.
"Solo mission," Do-yeong whispered to himself, the words tasting like a declaration of war. He pushed himself off the bed, the springs groaning in protest like an old dolly track. "Kubrick," he announced to the empty room, gesturing emphatically with an imaginary clapperboard, "Kubrick would've killed me if I let others dilute my vision. Imagine 2001 directed by a committee. Or A Clockwork Orange with a 'group consensus' ending. An atrocity! A visual crime!"
He paced his room, his internal monologue firing on all cylinders. Every great film, he believed, was the singular extension of one mind, one unyielding will. Directors were not delegates; they were dictators. Auteur theory wasn't just a concept; it was a sacred covenant. To involve others in the genesis of his first masterpiece, even a 3-minute school project, would be like allowing a focus group to rewrite the ending of Citizen Kane. Unthinkable. Unforgivable.
He envisioned the other groups, already forming like clumsy, amateur ensembles. The rom-com crew, probably giggling over cheesy dialogue. The slapstick team, planning uninspired pratfalls. He saw their inevitable compromises, their watered-down ideas, their frantic attempts to please everyone. Their films would be committee-made, generic, forgettable. His, however, would be pure, distilled Do-yeong. A singular vision, untainted by the bland tastes of the masses.
"They'll want bright lighting, easy jokes, a clear resolution," he mused, looking out his window at the encroaching twilight, which he now framed as a deep, moody chiaroscuro. "They'll think in terms of popularity. I'll think in terms of truth, of impact, of the raw, uncomfortable beauty of cinema." He pictured a slow zoom into his determined face, the kind that signals a character's unwavering resolve.
He walked over to his Notebook, flipping it open to a fresh page. The title "Solo Mission" he'd scrawled earlier now seemed like a prophecy fulfilled. He didn't need actors. He would be his own actor. He didn't need a crew. He would be his own cinematographer, his own editor, his own sound designer. He had his uncle's old Handycam, a relic of a bygone era, but in Do-yeong's mind, it was his Excalibur, a weapon forged for a singular artistic quest.
"The teacher's 'mockery'?" Do-yeong scoffed, a genuine, mirthless laugh escaping him. "That wasn't mockery. That was a challenge. And the first rule of directing? Never back down from a challenge. Especially when the fate of your artistic integrity hangs in the balance."
He gripped his pen. The school project, designed to be a collaborative effort, had become his first true test of auteurship. He would do it alone. Not because he had to, but because he must. Because the vision in his head, the film that pulsed beneath his skin, was too precious, too singular, to be shared. The camera was waiting. The canvas was blank. And the director, finally, was ready to begin.