The audience couldn't shake off their emotions for a long time.
Even after the screen faded to black, the weight of 'Buried' lingered in the air like an echo no one could silence.
The film wasn't conventionally scary—there were no monsters, no jump scares, no ghosts lurking in the shadows.
The horror came from something far more human: a man's helplessness in the face of indifference.
Ryan Reynolds had stripped himself bare, not physically but emotionally, delivering a performance that was both physically demanding and soul-wrenchingly honest.
Every flicker of panic, every desperate gasp, every ounce of fading hope—it all unfolded in real time.
Through his raw, naked emotions, he became the vessel for every fear humanity hides under layers of comfort and noise.
The story itself was simple, almost mundane—a man trapped in a coffin, fighting to survive.
But beneath that simplicity, Jihoon had woven something profound. It wasn't just about survival; it was about the slow suffocation of human decency.
About how bureaucracy can kill a man faster than a lack of oxygen.
About how the cold, scripted voices of call centers and the rigid walls of government policies could drown out a human's cry for help.
'Buried' was labeled a thriller, but the real terror didn't come from what the audience saw—it came from what they felt.
The dread of being unseen.
The despair of shouting into a void that never answers.
And just when that tiny thread of hope seemed enough to pull Paul out of the darkness—it snapped.
So… was Paul really dead?
If anyone asked Jihoon, he would only smile and say, "just wait and see."
Because those who had followed Jihoon's work knew one thing: Buried wasn't just a standalone story—it was part of the larger HCU universe.
And those who understand this concept they would noticed something is missing.
No post-credit scene.
No Easter egg.
No hint of what was to come.
But that wasn't an accident.
Jihoon had deliberately removed the hidden clip from the festival version.
This was Cannes, not a commercial release.
He didn't want a single spoiler leaking online before the film's global release.
Not when the secrets of the SCP archives—and the classified file on Paul Conroy—had yet to be unlocked.
The theater remained still, the audience lost in thought, until the soft rhythm of the ending credits faded.
Then came the sound—"Pah… pah… pah…"
Applause.
Slow at first, hesitant, as if people were unsure whether to break the silence. But then it grew—stronger, louder, wave after wave of emotion bursting forth as the lights came on.
Everyone was on their feet.
The applause echoed through the Grand Theatre Lumiere, rolling like thunder.
At first, many of the audience members had only bought tickets because of the name attached—directed by an Oscar-winning screenwriter and Cannes Palme d'Or laureate.
But what they saw tonight was more than prestige. It was proof that cinema could still surprise them.
A film shot entirely with one actor, in one location, with no cuts—yet gripping from the first second to the last breath. It was claustrophobic, heartbreaking, and genius all at once.
The critics and filmmakers in the crowd saw it differently. They weren't clapping just for the story.
They were clapping for the craft—the precision, the courage, the audacity of a young director who dared to do what others only theorized about.
Hong Sangsoo, sitting quietly in his seat, looked pale but thoughtful.
Sean Penn was still clapping, a faint smile on his face, the kind only a fellow artist gives when he recognizes greatness.
And the applause continued.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Three full minutes.
Three minutes of uninterrupted applause—a standing ovation that felt like eternity.
For Jihoon, it wasn't about fame or validation.
Those three minutes weren't just a celebration of his success; they were the heartbeat of the story he had told.
Three minutes where everyone in the room—actors, critics, dreamers, strangers—shared the same pulse, the same breath, the same truth.
Those three minutes of fame weren't his alone.
They belonged to the film.
To Paul.
To the silence, the darkness, and the desperate gasp of a man who just wanted to live.
For ninety minutes, the film features only one man and a coffin.
The claustrophobic space, the dimly lit setting, the solitary actor...
Amidst this incredibly monotonous setting, Jihoon perfectly captures the emotional journey of a desperate man, leading the audience through countless emotional ups and downs...
Of course, Ryan Reynolds also deserves considerable credit, his acting is truly superb.
From the initial hesitation to the final despair, it's absolutely flawless!
Beyond its technical brilliance, 'Buried' spoke of something larger.
Through Paul's suffocating ordeal, Jihoon gave the world a small, intimate window into the cruelty of war and the apathy of bureaucracy.
It wasn't just about one man trapped underground—it was about millions trapped in systems that didn't care whether they lived or died.
War leaves wounds that never heal.
Sometimes those wounds aren't physical, but moral—etched into humanity itself.
And in that moment, amid the thunderous applause, Sean Penn couldn't hold back anymore.
He turned to Jim and exclaimed over the roaring claps, "This film is for Palme d'Or!"
Jim immediately grabbed his arm, his expression darkening. "Sean! You can eat whatever you want, but you can't say whatever you want," he hissed, pulling him slightly to the side.
Sean blinked, startled. "What? I'm just saying—"
"Exactly," Jim cut in. "You're a jury member this year, remember? If anyone hears you shouting that, tomorrow's headline will be 'Cannes Jury Leaked Winner' or worse—'Jury Bribed by Lee Jihoon.'"
"You want that kind of mess ?"
Sean paused, realizing the weight of his mistake.
Around them, the audience was still clapping; thankfully, his voice had been swallowed by the thunderous ovation.
Jim exhaled and continued, keeping his tone low. "Look, I admit it—Lee's Buried is brilliant. Ryan Reynolds could easily walk away with Best Actor."
"But let's not tempt fate, alright?"
"This year's Cannes is already politically charged. There's tension between the juries, sponsors, and even a few countries trying to use art as leverage. The last thing Jihoon needs is unwanted controversy."
Sean sighed, a sheepish grin forming on his face. "Fair enough. Guess I got carried away."
Jim smirked, loosening his grip. "Happens to the best of us."
Sean steadied himself, slightly embarrassed but grateful.
He nodded in silent thanks.
He knew Jim wasn't trying to silence him—he was protecting him, and more importantly, protecting Jihoon's hard-earned moment.
Still, the excitement in Sean's chest wouldn't fade.
He kept clapping, louder this time, as though his hands were translating everything he wanted to say aloud.
Because what Jihoon had done was extraordinary.
To make a ninety-minute film with only one actor, one set, and still hold the audience hostage in emotion—that wasn't luck.
That was vision.
As a director himself, Sean knew how impossible that task was.
Every shot, every breath, every shadow in that coffin had to be meticulously planned, imagined long before the camera ever rolled.
And somehow, Jihoon had done it all with the precision of a painter and the soul of a poet.
Sean couldn't help but admire that. In Jihoon, he saw something rare—someone who could turn limitation into liberation.
So he kept clapping.
Three minutes had already passed, but it didn't matter.
To Sean, to Jim, to everyone in that hall—those three minutes weren't enough.
Because in those three minutes of fame, Jihoon had done what every filmmaker dreams of doing—
He made the world forget it was watching a movie.
And that, Sean thought, smiling to himself, was true cinema.