Chapter 99: The Arrival of the Monster

Director Bong Chan-ho’s movie [Snow Mountain Train] was a blockbuster film released after three years.

It was based on an American comic, set on a train that must keep running, constantly refueled, through a world frozen solid by abnormal temperatures.

As expected of an IMAX film, the dystopian setting, though you could tell it was CG, made you marvel, “Is that real?” The overwhelming scale was simply astonishing.

Not only that, but even the absurd premise of class divisions aboard a train was convincingly presented, with the characters, their relationships, and conflicts all making sense.

Of course, this must be due to the perfection of the script, but the director’s ability to bring it to life shone even brighter in this work.

After all, if a writer thinks, “Oh, in this setting, the characters should act this way,” and writes the script, most of the time the result turns out less than what they imagined.

That’s only natural.

How much of what’s in my imagination can actually be realized on screen?

Yet, Bong Chan-ho managed to pull off that difficult feat.

If I had written the script for [Snow Mountain Train], I doubt I could have imagined anything beyond what was realized here—everything was portrayed with such delicacy and perfection.

I suddenly recalled reading that Director Bong Chan-ho was also a talented artist.

His storyboarding skills were said to rival those of professional comic artists.

Maybe it was only possible because he could directly draw out what was in his mind? I found myself thinking that as I sat watching the movie, mouth agape.

“Snort!”

The audience member sitting to my right suddenly sniffed and woke up from sleep.

‘Sleeping through this…?’

I glanced at the male student, more amazed by him than by the movie unfolding before me.

He must have been embarrassed about dozing off, as he was now visibly struggling to keep himself awake.

What could have been so exhausting that he’d fall asleep during such a blockbuster hit?

And the sound was so booming my ears hurt.

In the final scene, when the train derails and the protagonist, barely surviving, rescues the child who had been living off the train’s parts and walks away, my heart swelled, and I couldn’t help but clap.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one. Even though it was a movie theater, everyone was united in spirit, and applause broke out here and there.

It was as if all the Korean moviegoers in this space simultaneously received a wordless inspiration: “Now Korean cinema isn’t lagging behind the global market—in fact, it can lead it.”

“Ugh, so noisy.”

The boy who’d been dozing next to me, apparently disturbed in his sleep, left before the credits had even finished rolling.

‘Yeah. That happens when you’re young.’

His hair was dyed almost blond, even lighter than yellow—he didn’t look like someone interested in studying at all.

Watching a nearly three-hour film with full concentration isn’t easy for kids these days. That’s true.

Suppressing the old-man grumbles rising in my throat, Ji-won and I finally left after watching through all the credits.

“Wow. Writer, that’s the best movie I’ve seen this year. The director’s going to sweep all the international awards, don’t you think?”
“Right? Honestly, I didn’t expect much, but it was incredible.”

I thought back to earlier, when I had considered watching a Godflix production instead of Bong Chan-ho’s [Snow Mountain Train].

Maybe it’s not fair to compare to Godflix, but it was such a great movie, I think it could hold its own.

I had no regrets about skipping Godflix to see this film.

“Do you think we’ll ever get to work with Director Bong Chan-ho someday?”
“Your debut film last year did pretty well at the box office. It’s not an impossible dream.”
“I’d better keep working on my English.”

“What about dinner?”
“Oh. I don’t have any plans.”
“Want to grab a bite together?”
“Really? I’d love that.”

“Anything you want to eat?”
“Hmm. After seeing all that snow, I feel like eating something hot.”
“How about mandu soup?”
“There’s a place in Yeouido that serves eobokjaengban with dumplings—it’s really good. A shot of soju with that, ahh.”
“You sure know your food, huh?”

As we rode in Ji-won’s manager’s car to Yeouido, we listed our favorite side dishes and chatted about which car we’d survive in and how, if we were on [Snow Mountain Train], telling all sorts of improbable stories to pass the time.

‘Doing this, it really feels like a date, doesn’t it?’

Sitting in a private room, sharing dumplings from the eobokjaengban, that thought suddenly crossed my mind.

Watching a favorite movie together, eating favorite foods, chatting about this and that—was there any difference from a date?

If there was any difference, it was that my heart wasn’t pounding or fluttering with excitement.

It just felt so comfortable and peaceful.

I was simply grateful to have met Ji-won, who smiled brightly across from me, draining her glass of soju.

“Shall we toast?”
“Yeah. Cheers.”

Even the hot broth from the eobokjaengban warming my insides was perfect.

---

A café in Samgakji.

Seok Jin-man, head of OneStarDragon, made his way into the café after braving the extreme traffic in the Samgakji area and parking his car.

Looking around, everyone seemed to be couples or groups of friends.

There were a few people working alone on laptops, but the person he was supposed to meet was nowhere to be seen.

‘Hmm. They said they’d arrived. Maybe they went to the restroom?’

In the end, Seok Jin-man called his appointment.

“Hello?”
“Yes, Writer. Are you here?”
“I’m here.”

At that moment, a man in his early twenties with blond hair raised his hand from inside the café.

For a split second, Seok Jin-man barely kept his face from showing his surprise.

In his mind, thoughts like “That young guy wrote that crazy script?” floated around.

“Hello, I’m Seok Jin-man, head of [OneStarDragon]. Usually, another staff member comes, but I wanted to meet you in person and introduce myself.”
“Yes. Hello.”

The other man accepted Seok Jin-man’s business card and, without even looking at it, stuffed it into his pants pocket.

Seok Jin-man was thrown off by this high-level MZ-energy, but relying on the survival instincts honed in the tough and grueling drama industry, he kept his composure and made small talk.

“Did you wait long? The traffic was heavy. Sorry about that.”
“I just came after watching a movie nearby.”
“Oh really? What movie?”
“Director Bong Chan-ho’s [Snow Mountain Train].”
“Ah. That’s out today, isn’t it? I heard good things about the premiere. How was it?”
“Meh. Not bad. A bit boring, though.”
“?”

Seok Jin-man finally gave up keeping his face in check.

To call a movie by Korea’s top director, Bong Chan-ho, “boring”—what nerve.

“Let’s talk about the movie later. So, did I get selected?”

Writer Park Ra-el, who wrote [Mugunghwa Has Bloomed].

With an expression that said this was the only thing in the world he cared about, he asked his question.

Momentarily stunned by the audacious young writer, Seok Jin-man composed himself and answered calmly.

“I can’t give you a definite answer yet. You’re a strong candidate, but the review process is still ongoing.”
“Then why did you want to meet?”

“Because the script is good. I don’t know how others will see it, but I thought it was really great. Even if you’re not selected, I’d personally like to work with you.”
“I want to win, though. I want to get the grand prize.”

“Ah, that would be great, but selection isn’t up to just me.”

“How long will I have to wait?”
“If things go quickly, you’ll hear from us within three weeks.”
“Understood.”

Park Ra-el leaned back as if all his questions had been answered.

Seok Jin-man began to doubt whether this young, no, not just young, but positively boyish blond had really written that script.

Maybe it was the bluntness, but from any angle, it didn’t seem like a script that could come from someone so young.

“What made you start writing [Mugunghwa Has Bloomed]? Were you influenced by Japanese death games?”
“No. Japanese death games are boring. Childish.”

“So you added backstory to the protagonist to improve on that?”
“A protagonist without backstory isn’t fit for drama. Without narrative, how can you tell a story?”

“Could you elaborate a bit more?”

Seok Jin-man asked again, genuinely curious.

Park Ra-el, leaning back with his arms folded and even crossing his legs, began to expound on his writing philosophy.

A man in his fifties listening to a young blond man in his early twenties deliver a long speech—it was quite an odd sight.

Most men in their fifties would have clicked their tongues at the youth’s arrogance and dismissed him.

But Seok Jin-man recognized the genius underlying Park Ra-el’s words.

‘This guy is the real deal!’

He wasn’t just trashing other works or inflating his own with empty bravado.

The books and quotes Park Ra-el cited precisely backed up his points.

“The genre of risking human life for games didn’t start with Japanese death games, but with the Colosseum. Humans have long enjoyed watching gladiators stake their lives in deadly games.”

Seok Jin-man, having pored over the script dozens of times, already knew the staff who’d said, “Isn’t this just a dopamine-chasing, nonsensical script?” were dead wrong.

‘This is meticulously calculated!’

The brilliant ideas, the scenes of people dying, the varied reactions of the characters—all cleverly probed human psychology and were thoroughly calculated.

At first glance, it seemed obvious that in life-or-death situations people would kill or be killed, but to write a script that makes you take that as a given is extraordinary.

Most people have never seen someone die, let alone killed anyone themselves, so the script had to make it believable even to those with no such experience.

And this kid had managed to pull that off.

“I think writers shouldn’t just study other things, but study psychology. How can you write about people if you don’t understand people?”

“Director Bong Chan-ho’s new film was also excellent in that respect. What disappointed me was that it didn’t differ much from the original. People unfamiliar with the original probably enjoyed it, but if you’re going to do a remake, it needs something new.”

“And a writer who enjoys that kind of thing? That’s pathetic. Watching without even checking the original or thinking about it.”

Park Ra-el went on and on, sounding like an industry veteran in his seventies.

Rather than finding him arrogant, Seok Jin-man found himself increasingly curious about Park Ra-el’s writing process, his life, how he’d come to these realizations.

“When did you start writing?”
“If you can call it writing, this is my first time.”

Park Ra-el said that [Mugunghwa Has Bloomed] was the first time he’d synthesized everything he’d seen, heard, written, and read up to now.

Before that, he’d constantly written little pieces, but they were nothing more than practice.

That’s why Park Ra-el was confident.

This script was flawless, no matter what.

After winning a prize at his first elementary school writing contest, he decided to become a writer.

He convinced his parents to let him start homeschooling in middle school, and from then on devoured all kinds of stories—movies, poetry, novels, dramas.

His father, who had directed a few short films, though not famous, was his only friend and colleague.

“I’m sure that if [Mugunghwa Has Bloomed] is made into a drama, it’ll be a hit.”

From anyone else, that would have sounded like nothing more than youthful arrogance.

‘If I hadn’t read the script, that is.’