Because of the exclusivity clause with the Cannes Film Festival, Jihoon's film Buried could only premiere there — no press screenings, no online previews, no leaks.
The festival demanded absolute secrecy.
It was a sacred rule meant to preserve fairness and prestige, but ironically, that very rule made the film vulnerable to manipulation.
When Harvey filed his report to U.S. authorities claiming Buried contained "anti-American propaganda," no one on the bureaucratic ladder actually saw the film in full length.
The officials he bribed didn't bother to verify his claims; they merely passed the report upward, rubber-stamping it as if it were fact.
They used the language of protocol — "potential misrepresentation," "possible discreditation of the U.S. Army," "national image concern" — words that looked official but for sure enough to cause panic, even if they meant nothing.
The message soon reached the Cannes Organizing Committee: Cross-check this issue immediately.
The U.S. government has raised concerns.
And with that, the rumor spread like wildfire — that Jihoon's Buried had been banned, withdrawn under American pressure.
To the press, it was juicy gossip. To Jihoon, it was deja vu.
But fortunately for him, on his side stood the Swiss Army knife of Hollywood — Jim Gianopulos.
A man who had navigated the trenches of studio politics and government red tape long before Jihoon ever wrote his first script.
When the first wave of rumors hit the industry grapevine, Jim was already moving quietly behind the scenes.
He called in favors, pulled strings, and used his connections in both Washington and the film guilds.
He reached out to key government contacts and urged them to verify before they act — an elegant way of saying don't embarrass yourself by falling for a conman's bribe.
Jim knew how fragile reputations were, especially in events like Cannes.
A single controversy could stain decades of prestige. If the festival were accused of screening a "propaganda film," it wouldn't just hurt Jihoon — it could taint the festival's credibility, even spark diplomatic tension.
And Jim wasn't about to let that happen.
In a crisis like this, time was everything.
Within twenty-four hours, he arranged for both the U.S. Embassy in Paris and the festival committee to receive verified transcripts and a summary from trusted reviewers who had privately seen the film.
They confirmed what Jihoon always knew — Buried wasn't political.
It was a psychological thriller.
The only "agenda" it carried was the human instinct for survival.
Once that confirmation came in, the storm began to die.
That was why Jim held Jihoon's appearance back until the last possible moment.
He didn't want Jihoon to walk into a hall where the crowd was still whispering about rumors.
He wanted the air to be clean, the tension settled, and the truth confirmed.
Only then, when every doubt had been buried — pun intended — did Jim give Jihoon the nod to enter the Grand Theatre Lumiere.
Two days earlier, Harvey had gone all in.
In a desperate attempt to sabotage Buried, he filed an official complaint to the U.S. government, claiming that the film "misrepresented American soldiers" and violated "international media ethics."
He even requested that the authorities withdraw the film "on behalf of Jihoon," insisting that the filmmaker himself had agreed to it — a blatant lie.
He spent two hundred thousand dollars in bribes to make the complaint look legitimate.
Now that money was gone.
When Quentin explained what had happened on-site, Jihoon could only laugh in disbelief.
In his previous life, Buried had been restricted in distribution — never outright banned.
For years, he'd wondered why.
Now he knew the truth. The old man, Harvey, had been behind it all along.
The pieces finally fit.
As Jihoon walked down the aisle toward his seat, he allowed himself a small, knowing smile.
He could feel the tension fade away, the way a magician smiles after revealing the secret behind a trick everyone had believed.
At the other side of the hall, Harvey sat stiffly in the guest section reserved for Death Proof's crew.
The film hadn't been shortlisted for any awards, just as in Jihoon's past memory.
He and Quentin were here only as guests, not nominees — and that fact alone seemed to eat away at Harvey's pride.
Watching Jihoon walk past and take a seat in the competition row — where only the contenders sat — was more than he could bear.
His face twisted slightly, red creeping up his neck.
But no one cared about Harvey's mood anymore.
The lights dimmed. The hall fell into a reverent hush.
The 61st Cannes Film Festival Closing Ceremony had begun.
Under the glittering chandeliers, the golden hall shone like a cathedral for cinema.
A thousand guests filled the seats — directors, producers, critics, actors, and the world's most influential storytellers gathered under one roof.
Laurent Cantet, Matteo Garrone, Nuri Bilge Ceylan, Lee Changdong, Paolo Sorrentino — all of them were present, seated according to their nominations. The competition row shimmered with tension and pride.
Jihoon glanced toward the stage as the host stepped up, voice calm yet brimming with excitement.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "welcome to the closing ceremony of the sixty-first Cannes Film Festival."
Beside him stood the jury president, the ever-intense Sean Penn, and the official presenter for the evening — French actress Élodie Bouchez, elegant and poised, her smile radiant beneath the spotlight.
Elodie was a Cannes favorite.
She'd once won Best Actress here for The Apartment in 1997, and even an Emmy for her work in Alias.
Tonight, she brought the same grace to her role as host, effortlessly guiding the ceremony with Sean.
"The winner of this year's Vulcan Award for the Technical Artist," Sean announced, "is Il Divo's Luca Bigazzi and Angelo Raguseo! Congratulations to our winners!"
The hall erupted into applause.
The Vulcan Award wasn't one of the main nine jury prizes, but it carried deep respect among professionals.
It was chosen not by critics, but by peers — cinematographers, lighting designers, and editors.
A recognition of mastery in craft, the kind that made filmmakers nod with admiration.
As applause faded, the ceremony flowed on.
Category by category, the tension rose.
The technical awards gave way to the main competition.
And soon, the moment Jihoon had been waiting for arrived — Best Actor.
Ryan Reynolds sat beside him, trying to hide his nerves.
His palms were slick with sweat; Jihoon noticed him wipe them on his tuxedo pants more than once.
Ryan was the vanguard of Buried.
Without his performance, there would be no nomination, no festival run, no acclaim.
Jihoon knew that — and so did Jim.
The screenplay, though powerful, was a one-man show.
Every emotion, every flicker of fear or desperation, depended on Ryan alone.
His face was the stage, his voice the script.
It was artistry through isolation.
But the competition was fierce.
Among the nominees stood Benicio del Toro for Che — a towering performance that Jihoon remembered well from his past life.
Benicio had won Best Actor that year, and deservingly so.
His portrayal of Guevara was haunting, raw, unforgettable.
Comparing Ryan's performance to Benicio's was like comparing jazz to opera — both magnificent, but born from different souls.
Jihoon knew the odds weren't in their favor.
Still, he couldn't help but hope.