Once the technical preview and distribution screening came to an end, Taeha finally began his full-scale promotional activities.
To be honest, he had hesitated at first.
The movie had already generated overwhelming buzz, to the point where additional promotion almost felt unnecessary. From the very beginning of production, it had drawn immense attention.
After all, Taeha was no ordinary celebrity. Having won a Primetime Emmy as both an actor and writer, his reputation extended far beyond Korea. He was one of the hottest figures in the entertainment industry, not just in the Republic of Korea but internationally.
And then there was Director Joo Chan-seong.
A filmmaker who had won the Jury Prize twice and Best Director once at the Cannes Film Festival, Joo Chan-seong was regarded as one of the world’s greatest auteurs and a symbol of Korean cinema itself.
With these two joining forces, it would have been stranger for people not to have high expectations.
The international media had covered the collaboration extensively, and with the unexpected exposé incident adding fuel to the fire, the movie’s popularity only grew further.
Then came the successful press and audience screenings.
At that point, promotion almost felt meaningless.
Yet despite all of that, Taeha still chose to continue with promotional activities.
The reason was simple.
When I started planning the promotions, the screening results hadn’t even come out yet.
That was simply how Taeha worked.
He never promoted a project halfway. If anything, he tended to overdo it.
Still, compared to the past, he no longer intended to throw himself into promotions as if his life depended on it. So this time, he adjusted his schedule more moderately.
After careful consideration, Taeha selected only the programs that had proven most effective for publicity in the past.
His original plan was straightforward.
Appear on the major programs first. If the reactions to the press and audience screenings turned out poorly, he would add more schedules afterward.
But as things stood now, there was no reason to do any of that.
I really didn’t expect the screenings to turn out this well.
Even now, it still felt surreal.
Joo Chan-seong appeared equally satisfied with the outcome.
Letting out a relieved sigh, he said,
“It’s unfortunate that only Mr. Taeha handled most of the promotional activities, but I’m truly relieved.”
Though he said that, the truth was that Joo Chan-seong had put in his own effort as well.
A man famous for rarely appearing on television had even gone on variety shows for the movie’s sake.
When Taeha brought that up, Joo Chan-seong awkwardly scratched his cheek.
“To be honest,” he admitted with a faint smile, “I got a little greedy too. Among all the movies I’ve directed, this is probably the most mainstream one.”
And he wasn’t wrong.
Despite his immense prestige, Joo Chan-seong had never directed a film that crossed ten million viewers or earned over a billion dollars worldwide.
That didn’t mean he only made obscure art films that lost money. His movies consistently turned a profit.
However, they had always remained within a certain range.
He was world-famous, had an incredibly loyal fanbase, and was respected as a master filmmaker—but clear blockbuster success had always eluded him.
Of course, Joo Chan-seong wasn’t indifferent to box office performance.
In fact, he had once genuinely hoped to achieve ten million viewers.
He had simply failed.
And because of that, there remained a lingering sense of regret.
Taeha, however, felt differently.
Even after the excellent screening results, he still kept his expectations low.
Joo Chan-seong’s films have always been like this.
The reviews are good, but that doesn’t necessarily mean people flock to theaters.
Naturally, he kept those thoughts to himself.
Still, Taeha had to admit something.
Among all of Joo Chan-seong’s works, this film truly was the most commercially approachable.
Even so, in Taeha’s eyes, it still leaned more toward artistry than mass appeal.
Because of that, he only hoped for one thing.
I just want the results to be good enough to feel satisfied.
After all, it’s my first movie screenplay… and I got to work with a master like Joo Chan-seong.
That alone already felt meaningful.
But then—
One week before release, the advance reservation numbers came out.
And they were beyond anyone’s expectations.
Reservation Rate: 56%
Advance Tickets Sold: 384,000
The numbers surpassed even Taeha’s previous film—the first and only movie in his career to reach ten million viewers.
***
Even during the production presentation held before reservations officially opened, many people had remained skeptical.
Still, something about the atmosphere had felt unusual.
More reporters than expected showed up, camera flashes exploded endlessly, and questions poured in one after another.
Yet no one imagined that momentum would carry into ticket sales.
Fifty-six percent?
Taeha stared blankly at the figures.
It was a number he had never imagined.
Even blockbuster films focused entirely on entertainment often struggled to achieve such reservation rates.
At this pace, surpassing three million viewers in the first week no longer seemed impossible.
After all, advance ticket sales had already exceeded those of his previous ten-million-viewer film.
Standing beside him while waiting for the stage greeting event, Joo Chan-seong muttered in disbelief,
“…At this rate, we’ll recover our investment within a week, won’t we?”
He had a point.
The movie wasn’t particularly expensive to make.
While actor guarantees had driven up costs, expensive CGI had barely been used.
As a result, the break-even point stood at only around 3.2 million viewers.
And with advance reservations already looking like this…
Crossing that threshold in a single week suddenly didn’t sound unrealistic.
But Taeha only smiled faintly.
“Is breaking even even the issue anymore?” he said. “At this rate… ten million viewers doesn’t seem impossible.”
“Ten million…”
Joo Chan-seong repeated the number blankly, as though it didn’t feel real.
Honestly, Taeha felt the same way.
Even he couldn’t fully believe what was happening.
Until yesterday, he had been convinced the film wouldn’t appeal to the mainstream audience.
Even now, part of him still thought the same.
The movie was undeniably artistic.
Then how did the reservations become this insane?
Could this just be first-day hype?
As if reading his thoughts, Joo Chan-seong cautiously asked,
“This momentum… it won’t disappear after opening day, right?”
That possibility definitely existed.
After hesitating for a moment, Taeha simply smiled.
“Maybe,” he said honestly. “But either way, the results are already good. Shouldn’t we focus on thanking the audience instead?”
At this point, there wasn’t much left they could do.
The movie had already been released.
All they could do now was continue stage greetings, express gratitude, and hope positive word-of-mouth spread.
Joo Chan-seong blinked before chuckling softly.
“You’re right, Mr. Taeha. I’ve directed films for so long, yet I’m getting carried away over numbers like this. It’s probably because I’ve never experienced anything like it before.”
Taeha laughed.
“I was thinking the same thing, Director.”
He glanced at the time.
“Anyway, shall we head out?”
“Yes,” Joo Chan-seong replied. “Let’s go.”
Together with Ahn Hye-seul and Ji Jun-seo, they headed toward the theater for the stage greetings.