Jihoon's message that day was clear, simple, yet deeply strategic: Korean cinema shouldn't treat Hollywood as its grand finale.
The industry's true growth, he believed, would come from the East — from the Asian region that shared its roots, its heart, and its audience's cultural sensibility.
For years, Korean filmmakers had looked westward, chasing the glimmer of Oscars and red carpets.
To Jihoon, however, that was a short-sighted dream. He beleive if a tree grows in Asian soil than its fruit will taste best to those who grew up beneath its shade.
That belief wasn't born out of sentiment but from research, one that is cold, hard numbers, gathered by Jihoon's team and analyzed with precision.
Every figure he mentioned in interviews had a source.
Every projection had been tested and rechecked.
He wasn't just speaking as a film maker; he was speaking as a strategist who had lived through an entire lifetime of the global film market.
Someone who already knew how the tides would shift in the years to come.
From his perspective — shaped by both experience and foresight — Jihoon knew something that very few people in 2008 could imagine: the Asia-Pacific region was destined to become the world's largest box office market.
Because by the year of 2015, that prediction would come true, and by 2018, Asia would command nearly 40% of the global box office revenue, surpassing North America for the first time in history.
But for now, in 2008, Hollywood still reigned supreme.
That's why Jihoon needed to be careful.
The film industry, after all, wasn't just about art — it was business, power, and influence intertwined.
He wasn't giving interviews just for publicity.
His real motive was subtler: to guide the industry toward Asia's growth before he left for Hollywood later that year.
He knew the kind of greed that lingered in the Korean entertainment circle — the vultures who would pounce the moment an opportunity appeared.
And so, his words were crafted carefully, disguised as cultural commentary, yet heavy with economic insight.
If his statements reached the right people — producers, investors, policymakers — they would start focusing on the Asian market.
They'd build new theaters, expand production budgets, strengthen local distribution, and nurture homegrown talents.
By the time Jihoon returned to Korea, the groundwork for his vision would already be laid out.
In simple terms, Jihoon was planting seeds.
Hollywood had long treated Asia as its golden field — a land to harvest profits from every blockbuster.
For more than a decades, 20% to 35% of global box office revenue came from Asian audiences.
That money flowed westward, financing yet another wave of superhero movies and sequels.
But as Asian economies grew, so did their appetite for local entertainment.
Countries like Korea, Japan, Thailand, and especially China were rising fast — and where there's population, there's potential audience.
Jihoon understood this dynamic perfectly.
The 1980s and 1990s had been Hollywood's golden age, but no empire lasts forever.
Just like a bull market that eventually hits its ceiling, Hollywood's dominance would face its own version of a recession — not financial, but cultural.
The world was ready for something new.
So why should they keep chasing the West, when the East is where our stories truly belong?
That wasn't arrogance; it was insight. Jihoon didn't see Asia as a secondary market but as the next center of gravity in global entertainment.
The Western system had already matured, leaving little room for innovation, while Asia was still growing, hungry for stories that resonated with its own culture and identity.
In his mind, cultivating Asia was like farming fertile soil.
Hollywood had been harvesting it for decades; now, it was time for the locals to reclaim the land.
Jihoon wasn't just thinking as a filmmaker — he was thinking as an architect of a future industry.
If they nurture this region properly, then one day, Asia's 40% share of the global box office will be enough to sustain both asian growth and storytelling.
But numbers alone wouldn't guarantee success.
Quality mattered.
To keep audiences loyal, both Korean and Asian filmmakers needed to deliver stories that matched — or surpassed — Hollywood's craftsmanship.
Jihoon knew that once the market matured, competition would become fierce.
If local films didn't meet international standards, the entire market could collapse back into Hollywood's hands.
It was a delicate balance: grow fast, but don't compromise quality.
The interview continued with Jihoon calmly elaborating on his points, his tone a blend of passion and precision.
Kimbum, the young journalist sitting opposite him, could barely keep up.
His pen scratched furiously against the notebook as he jotted down numbers, quotes, and phrases that sounded like gold for tomorrow's headlines.
Jihoon's speech flowed naturally, a mixture of reason and vision.
He spoke about strategy, data, and philosophy, switching between humor and gravity with ease. It wasn't the usual dry interview — it was more like a masterclass.
When Jihoon finally paused to take a sip of water, Kimbum's notebook was already filled.
"I don't think I talked that much," Jihoon said with a half-smile. "How come you've already filled two pages?"
Kimbum chuckled shyly, tapping his pen against the paper. "There are some of my own thoughts in here too, Jihoon-ssi. You just made me think a lot."
"Mind if I take a look?" Jihoon asked, reaching out his hand.
"Of course!" Kimbum said eagerly, passing the notebook over.
Jihoon skimmed the notes — and his faint smile froze.
The first line nearly made him choke on his water.
[During the interview, Director Lee described Hollywood as nothing more than a pile of rubbish that would collapse at the slightest touch. He predicted that Hollywood's six major studios are doomed because the Asian box office will soon dominate the global scene.]
Jihoon blinked. What?
The next paragraph didn't help.
[He also suggested that Asian directors should prioritize more on the eastern market so to guard it from Hollywood's invasion…]
Jihoon rubbed his temples. That didn't even make sense — he had said the opposite.
And it went on:
[Director Lee also criticized Korean directors for disrespecting their audiences, which is why we cannot resist Hollywood films. Altough he didnt comment on this issues but his own movie Buried was shot in less than twenty days — a testament to his efficiency and genius, unlike directors such as Hong Sangsoo who still struggle to enter Cannes main competition…]
At this point, Jihoon's jaw tightened.
By the time he reached the last line, he was staring blankly at the paper.
[From this interview, I can sense that Director Lee Jihoon will soon move his film business back to Asia to reclaim the market from Hollywood domination.]
He closed the notebook, silently handed it back, and looked at Kimbum with the calm, deadly expression of someone seconds away from losing his patience.
His brow twitched. A small vein pulsed on his temple — like one of those exaggerated expressions from an anime.
He took a deep breath and asked slowly, "You're from MBC News Channel, right? Or… Dispatch?"
Kimbum froze, his smile stiffening into an awkward grimace. "MBC, of course," he said quickly, then hesitated. "Well, I do sometimes… read Dispatch articles for reference."
Jihoon exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead.
It wasn't that he disrespected journalists — far from it.
He appreciated good reporting.
But what Kimbum had written wasn't journalism; it was tabloid poetry mixed with conspiracy theory.
The only accurate thing in the entire notebook was the final observation about Asia's growing box office potential.
Everything else sounded like it came straight out of a gossip column.