On the other side of the theatre, Jihoon led his very small group of production team through the whirlwind of interviews that followed the premiere.
Reporters crowded in with flashing cameras and eager questions, while his crew tried to keep the flow organized.
Despite the chaos, Jihoon remained calm—his answers precise, his tone humble, his smile unwavering.
As the final round of interviews wrapped up, Jihoon thanked the hosts and took a small breath of relief. It was finally over.
Just as he was about to step aside, he noticed a familiar figure approaching through the crowd.
Sean Penn.
The legendary actor and director, known for his sharp eyes and even sharper opinions, walked toward him with that effortlessly confident stride.
When he reached Jihoon, he gave him a long, assessing look—from head to toe—before breaking into a warm, approving smile.
"It seems," Sean began, his voice calm but sincere, "the future of cinema will be left to you young people to make breakthroughs. The narrative and filming of Buried truly opened my eyes. It's rare to see something so bold yet so human."
Jihoon's lips curved into a modest smile. "Mr. Penn, you're too kind. You're one of the real creative pioneers. Your films—especially Into the Wild—have always been like a creative pool for me. Whenever I'm stuck, I go back and draw inspiration from them."
Sean raised an eyebrow, surprised. "You've seen my work?"
Jihoon chuckled softly. "Many times, actually. Your approach to realism… it's something I've always admired."
Sean nodded, his expression softening with a trace of nostalgia. "Well, those were the old days. Now it's your time, young man."
He paused, looking straight at Jihoon, his tone thoughtful. "Your Buried might just have a chance at this year's Palme d'Or. To be honest, among the other nominated films, I think only The Class (Entre les Murs) can really compete with you."
Jihoon blinked, taken aback. "Isn't there Gomorrah?" he asked, recalling the lineup of that year's festival.
Other than 'The Class', there is still 'Che', 'Three Monkeys' and 'Gomorrah'—the competition was fierce.
It wasn't like 2006, when he had practically swept the floor with 'Secret'.
This year, every film had weight, every director had an influence beyond him.
Sean gave a soft laugh. "Hey, I said might, not will."
"Besides, The Class is in a bit of a storm right now. Too many people arguing over whether it's politically biased. It'll come down to how the jury feels—whether they want to play it safe or reward innovation."
Jihoon tilted his head slightly, trying not to show his intrigue, but inside, his thoughts were racing.
Could it be possible? Could Buried really win the Palme d'Or again this year?
A small, involuntary hiss escaped his lips.
If that happened, it would be historic—not just for him, but for the kind of filmmaking he stood for.
But then, another thought crossed his mind—one that made him smirk.
If the film's getting this much buzz… maybe I can raise the distribution price.
After all, he remembered what had happened in his previous life: the 2008 Palme d'Or went to 'The Class', a semi-documentary about a Parisian middle school.
It was celebrated for its authenticity but also stirred massive controversy.
Some critics accused it of pushing a neo-conservative view—blaming immigrant children and their cultural differences for France's education problems rather than addressing deeper systemic issues.
It had been divisive, even scandalous.
Teachers' unions criticized it.
Schools banned it.
And many questioned whether the Cannes jury had only chosen it to honor a French film that year.
So maybe, Jihoon thought, this time history might take a different turn.
Still, uncertainty lingered.
He couldn't tell whether fate had truly shifted—or if Sean was simply being polite, offering the kind of encouraging words veterans gave to the rising generation.
Just then, Sean leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice with a friendly grin.
"Natalie, Alfonso, and Alexandra are old friends of mine," he said. "They're on the jury this year. As the jury president, I'll make sure they really look into your film. Works like this deserve to be recognized."
Jihoon blinked, caught off guard by the weight of that statement.
Before he could respond, Sean gave his shoulder a firm, reassuring pat—a gesture that carried both warmth and quiet authority.
It wasn't a promise, not exactly.
But for Jihoon, it was enough.
Enough to spark a faint, flickering sense of hope amid the exhaustion and noise.
For all the applause, the flashing lights, the endless interviews—none of it compared to this moment.
A brief, genuine exchange between two filmmakers who spoke the same unspoken language: the pursuit of truth through art.
Sean's parting words echoed in Jihoon's mind long after he disappeared into the crowd.
"Keep making films like that, kid. Cinema needs people like you."
Jihoon stood there, quietly absorbing it.
He hadn't expected Sean Penn to be so openly supportive.
The man was famously blunt, even combative at times, not someone who handed out compliments easily.
What surprised him most wasn't just Sean's words—but the names he'd mentioned.
Natalie. Alfonso. Alexandra.
Those weren't just casual acquaintances.
They were part of this year's Cannes main competition jury—an elite circle of nine international filmmakers, critics, and actors led by none other than Sean Penn himself as the jury president.
Cannes, unlike the Oscars, didn't rely on thousands of anonymous voters.
It was decided by this small, handpicked group, and their discussions could be intense, personal, and brutally honest.
This was no popularity contest; it was art meeting judgment in its purest, sometimes cruelest form.
Yet Jihoon knew well that even Cannes—despite its reputation for integrity—wasn't free from politics.
Favor, prestige, and "cultural diplomacy" often mingled quietly behind the curtains.
Deals were not made with cash, but with influence, promises, and favors owed.
The three jurors Sean had mentioned—Natalie, Alfonso, and Alexandra—were all world-renowned filmmakers, respected across continents.
Their support could mean the difference between recognition and obscurity.
Still, Jihoon wasn't naive.
He knew that "good films" weren't the only ones that won at Cannes. T
hey had to be the right kind of good—timely, daring, and sometimes politically convenient.
This year, however, the competition was particularly unusual.
Cannes 2008 leaned heavily toward competing for international influance.
Out of the twenty-two entries, only eight were French productions—far fewer than the five American films in contention.
And among those five, Buried—though directed by a Korean—was technically considered an American film, given its production backing.
That alone made things complicated.
Even with Sean's influence and three likely votes in his favor, Jihoon would still need at least two more from the remaining six jurors to secure the Palme d'Or.
It wasn't impossible—but it wasn't guaranteed either.
He could sense Sean understood that too.
Despite Jim's earlier warning to stay low and not stir controversy, Sean seemed unwilling to just stand by.
As a director himself, he knew what it meant to create something raw, intimate, and daring—and to see it risk being buried under politics.
Jim had told Jihoon not to push too far this year.
The political climate between nations was tense, and Cannes—always a mirror of the world's power dynamics—was no exception. Buried might easily become collateral damage in that tug-of-war.
But Sean Penn wasn't a man who played by safe rules.
Even after Jim's warning, he had made his stance clear—he wasn't going to let a remarkable film go unnoticed just because of political tension.
As Jihoon watched Sean disappear into the crowd, a strange mix of gratitude and pressure settled over him.
He hadn't asked for help, yet someone like Sean was willing to fight for his work.