Chapter 167: The Coexistence of Opposites

A small café in Sinchon.

Inside, a man sat across from his friend, lazily stirring the ice in his drink with an irritated expression.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I’m still thinking about it.”

His friend blinked in disbelief.

“Why? Hoyun, don’t you love Director Joo Chan-sung’s movies?”

“I do,” the man replied immediately.

His name was Jung Hoyun.

A self-proclaimed cinephile, he never hesitated to call himself a movie enthusiast.

And among countless filmmakers, there was one person he admired more than anyone else—

Joo Chan-sung.

“I’ve watched the Revenge Trilogy dozens of times,” Hoyun said, leaning back in his chair. “Even now, I still rewatch it occasionally.”

That was precisely why everyone around him assumed he would be ecstatic about the release of [Movie Title].

But strangely enough—

He wasn’t.

In fact, Jung Hoyun was deeply dissatisfied.

Of course, he hadn’t always felt this way.

When he first heard that Joo Chan-sung was preparing a new film, excitement had overwhelmed him.

A new movie? Seriously?

Back then, he had been so excited he could barely sleep.

That anticipation remained when the title was revealed.

It remained even after hearing that Kang Tae-ha would participate as both writer and actor.

But shortly before the film’s release—

Everything changed.

Joo Chan-sung had made a rare television appearance and casually mentioned something that shattered Hoyun’s expectations.

He had called the movie—

“The most mainstream work of my career.”

Mainstream?

What kind of joke is that?

That single sentence ruined everything.

The reason Jung Hoyun admired Joo Chan-sung so much was simple.

His artistry.

Extreme emotions hidden beneath restrained expression.

Dark humor woven together with irony.

An almost suffocating atmosphere paired with expressionistic cinematography that divided audiences into extremes—either love or hate.

And Jung Hoyun?

He belonged to the former.

No—

He worshipped it.

It wouldn’t even be an exaggeration to say he watched Joo Chan-sung’s films because of that style.

Through those movies, Hoyun had realized something about himself:

His tastes leaned heavily toward artistry.

It was because of Joo Chan-sung that he began seeking out independent films and artistic cinema in the first place.

To him, Joo Chan-sung wasn’t just a director.

He was artistry itself.

And now—

That same man was chasing mainstream success?

To Jung Hoyun, it felt like betrayal.

Grinding his teeth, he muttered bitterly,

“After all this time supporting his artistic vision… now he goes and makes a movie with someone like Kang Tae-ha.”

His friend frowned.

“What’s wrong with Kang Tae-ha?”

“He’s literally the best writer and actor in Korea right now.”

Hoyun scoffed.

“He’s just some guy who writes dramas and acts in them.”

Like many self-proclaimed cinephiles, Jung Hoyun had never hidden his disdain for dramas.

To him, dramas were shallow.

Works that pursued popularity without artistry.

Mass appeal without depth.

And because of that mindset, Hoyun had unconsciously decided that this entire situation was Kang Tae-ha’s fault.

That Kang Tae-ha had somehow dragged Joo Chan-sung away from true cinema.

Of course, objectively speaking—

It made no sense.

No one could force a world-renowned auteur like Joo Chan-sung into making a film he didn’t want to create.

But if Hoyun didn’t blame Kang Tae-ha—

Then he would have to admit something much harder.

That Joo Chan-sung himself had changed.

And he wasn’t ready to accept that.

Across from him, his friend sighed.

“Come on. Even if Joo Chan-sung is amazing, putting Kang Tae-ha down like that feels unfair.”

“What?”

“I mean, he won five Primetime Emmy Awards,” his friend said. “That’s basically the Academy Awards of television.”

Hoyun clicked his tongue immediately.

“So what?”

“The Academy Awards aren’t even one of the top three film festivals.”

He let out a dry laugh.

“And ‘the Academy Awards of broadcasting’? Please.”

“Whoa, relax,” his friend said, raising both hands. “I’m just saying he’s globally recognized.”

“That’s exactly my point—”

“No,” his friend interrupted calmly.

“The important thing is this.”

“If Joo Chan-sung—someone consistently recognized at Cannes—chose Kang Tae-ha himself…”

He paused.

“Doesn’t that say enough?”

Hoyun froze.

Because he couldn’t deny it.

Kang Tae-ha was internationally recognized.

And Joo Chan-sung had chosen him personally.

Sensing an opening, his friend pressed further.

“Besides, the movie already passed one million viewers in three days.”

“You really think that’s only because it’s ‘mainstream’?”

He leaned forward.

“Could a film with a concept like that attract this kind of reaction just by being commercial?”

Hoyun stayed silent.

The numbers were absurd.

380,000 viewers on opening day.

400,000 on the second.

And by the third day—

One million viewers.

It was the perfect trajectory toward ten million.

And strangely enough—

People weren’t praising the film for being simple.

They were praising its artistry.

Reviews described it as both entertaining and artistically brilliant.

A rare balance.

Word-of-mouth spread rapidly.

More audiences flooded theaters.

Hoyun knew all of this.

He had seen the reviews.

But still—

He refused to accept it.

“Artistry and mainstream appeal can’t coexist,” he said firmly.

“If they look like they coexist, then it’s just an illusion meant to fool audiences.”

That had always been his belief.

If true coexistence were possible—

Then masterpieces like the Revenge Trilogy wouldn’t have divided audiences so heavily.

The conversation quickly hit a dead end.

His friend finally sighed in defeat.

“Forget it.”

“What’s the point of arguing?”

“Neither of us has even watched it.”

“Let’s talk afterward.”

Hoyun crossed his arms stubbornly.

“I told you. I’m still deciding whether to watch it.”

His friend stared at him in disbelief.

“You’re criticizing a movie you haven’t even seen?”

“For someone who calls himself a cinephile…”

“That’s honestly embarrassing.”

Hoyun flinched.

Because deep down—

He knew his friend was right.

He himself often told people:

Watch the movie first. Then criticize it.

After a brief silence, Hoyun awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Then…”

He hesitated.

“Want to watch it together?”

“With me?”

“Yeah. Why? Don’t want to?”

“It’s not that…”

His friend glanced at the time and suddenly stood up.

“I already promised to watch it with my almost-boyfriend.”

“…What?”

“Oh crap—I’m gonna be late.”

His friend hurriedly grabbed his things.

“I’ll head out first! See you later!”

And just like that—

He disappeared.

Leaving Jung Hoyun alone in the café.

Hoyun stared blankly at his untouched drink before muttering under his breath—

“Damn it.”

“I’m not watching.”

Or so he said.