Ch.200Breaking Up

Netflix short film <Cutting the Knot>.

Since it’s a film with a 15-minute limit including end credits.

I had to think of it as effectively 14 minutes and 30 seconds.

14 minutes and 30 seconds.

To create a perfect film within this timeframe.

‘And it’s Cannes, no less.’

Above all, it would need intensity.

And in a short romance film, intensity means…

‘Physical intimacy?’

When I checked the script, there wasn’t any intense physical contact.

Such things couldn’t exist at the tail end of a breakup anyway.

‘I never dreamed I’d be working with Chisako like this.’

Is this what they call fate?

There were many aspects that seemed miraculous.

‘How did Chisako end up auditioning for a short film directed by Lee Seongdeok?’

Even though the audition notice went out stating I would be the lead.

It was genuinely surprising that the notice reached Chisako.

‘When we talked last time, she definitely said she was working as a voice actress.’

How perfectly aligned the timing was.

<Cutting the Knot>

Unlike usual, there was no rating indicated this time.

Perhaps because it was a script processed for a film festival.

Or maybe because it would only be provided through OTT services without theatrical release.

I didn’t know the reason, but what was certain was that this work would be the key to reaching the world stage.

‘I wonder what kind of film it will be.’

With a strange sense of anticipation.

I prepared to immerse myself in the script after a long time.

A short romance.

What kind of world would it show?

‘Immersion.’

It’s time to immediately satisfy that curiosity.

+++++

A static world.

A moment of silence to increase initial concentration, as befits a short film.

How much time has passed?

Tap.

Breaking the silence.

As color and sound paint the world, the 14-minute and 30-second story begins.

“Where are we going today?”

The one responsible for that beginning wasn’t me but Chisako.

Due to romance mode, the female protagonist in the script had Chisako’s face.

“Won’t you tell me?”

A graceful voice.

The moment I heard that voice, I understood why Chisako was the female protagonist.

A voice that strongly pulls people in.

A charm that perfectly captures people’s eyes and ears from just one listen.

Only possible because she’s a voice actress.

Only possible because of her innate talent.

Moreover, there was that subtle charm of Japanese-accented Korean pronunciation that a Korean couldn’t possess.

A subtle difference only Koreans would notice.

Something foreigners wouldn’t clearly recognize but that subtly reveals itself.

That was precisely why Chisako became the female protagonist.

“….”

In the script, I got into the car without saying anything.

I used to open the door for her, but not anymore.

Expressing a cooled love only through gazes and gestures.

In less than 15 minutes.

Only fragmentary conversations and gestures reveal what their relationship was like.

Click.

The car engine starts.

“Won’t you tell me where we’re going until the end?”

“The place where we first met.”

“Ah, I see.”

The conversation ends completely there.

The car departs, and the perspective shows the car leaving from behind.

And at that moment, the screen darkens.

Time rewinds.

Back to when they loved each other.

Past the blazing middle period.

Showing the fresh beginning.

At the place where it all started, time returns to the present.

From the place where the knot was tied to the place where it’s now being cut.

Like cutting a lock at Namsan Tower.

“We’re breaking up today, aren’t we?”

The female protagonist, sensing this atmosphere, speaks calmly.

As if she already knew this would happen.

But perhaps too shocked, she no longer speaks Korean.

“If I’d known we’d break up like this, I should have taken a picture before getting in the car.”

“A picture?”

But what comes out of my mouth is Korean.

We’re each speaking our native languages, but due to our years together, there’s no communication difficulty.

No, perhaps this was even more comfortable.

This moment when we no longer accommodate each other.

When we each speak only our own language.

“Yes, a picture. In the end, what remains are pictures, and this is a memory too.”

“You don’t have to talk like that, there’s no need to be considerate anymore.”

“But we haven’t broken up yet.”

“….”

Yet.

Such a typical thing for you to say.

Something only you could say.

“So you should still remain as you are.”

Saying that, she naturally takes the cigarette from my lips.

“You didn’t smoke for three years, couldn’t you quit?”

“It’s not about quitting, it’s about restraining yourself.”

“Then restrain yourself a little longer, today’s the last day anyway.”

“….”

“I know you’ve been restraining yourself all this time. You never smoked in secret.”

I really like that kindness of yours.

“….”

With no particular response coming to mind, I just kept my mouth shut.

If she had said “I liked it,” I would have responded.

But her expression continuing in the present tense leaves me speechless.

“The road is boring, shall we listen to music?”

“We didn’t use to listen before.”

“Right, because you used to hum, but I don’t think you’ll do that today.”

Silent pressure.

It’s always like this.

Not saying things directly but beating around the bush.

They called it consideration or whatever, but it was really annoying.

Because I always had to think about your words multiple times.

So I reluctantly hummed.

Just quietly humming.

I’ve forgotten the title now, but.

My body remembered the melody, and it flowed naturally.

“Still so sweet.”

“You don’t need to force yourself like usual, there’s no need… you know.”

“Then I’ll be childish.”

“What?”

“I want to stop at a rest area and eat roasted potatoes and fish cake udon.”

“You said fish cake udon tastes much better in Japan, and you wouldn’t eat it here.”

Even while saying this, I never meet her gaze.

Just looking at the road, catching a glimpse of the faintly visible past.

“Yes, but I want to eat it with you one last time, and then really end it.”

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

“What?”

“Continuing to entangle things like this.”

“I just think this way you’ll remember me longer.”

I won’t if it bothers you, sorry.

Her following words make my tongue bitter.

I wasn’t asking for an apology.

This was really where we didn’t match.

“Do you forget after breaking up? What kind of talk is that?”

“Well, I don’t want to break up with you.”

“I’m not good at Japanese, speak Korean.”

“Only at times like this.”

The language keeps changing.

“When you gave me directions, you kindly explained in Japanese.”

“….”

“Ah, pretending not to hear again. I hate that about you.”

Without bothering to answer, I drive toward the rest area.

How tightly tied must this knot be that it’s so hard to untie?

Even forcibly cutting it isn’t easy.

But it must be done.

The moment I made that resolution.

Crash.

My immersion breaks, and the real world welcomes me back.

My impression immediately summarized itself and jumped out of my mouth.

“…This really requires incredible acting skills?”

The focus of a short film is crucial.

Generally, the Cannes Film Festival focuses on filming techniques or direction rather than story.

How many diverse attempts or intense impressions can be made in 15 minutes?

Direction-related elements are the most definitive means to express this.

‘But Director Lee Seongdeok decided to compete with acting.’

How much must he trust the actors?

Of course, there would be thorough directing.

Nevertheless, it remained an experimental attempt.

‘That means he selected Chisako considering all this.’

Does that mean Chisako is that good at acting?

I was curious.

The time to resolve that question came soon.

“Senior! I look forward to working with you today, ah… can I call you oppa now?”

The appearance of a bright bunny was a bonus.

+++++++

When Director Lee Seongdeok posted the audition notice for the female lead in <Cutting the Knot>.

He set three conditions:

Must be a newcomer.

Must be fluent in both Japanese and Korean.

Must be good at acting.

‘The first is objective, the second is subjective.’

But the acting theme was clear.

Accepting the breakup while.

Portraying a woman who doesn’t want to break up equals passing.

Despite the difficult and ambiguous requirements.

Many actresses gathered under the names of Lee Seongdeok and Kim Donghu.

And.

‘I never expected it would be a real Japanese person.’

The one who emerged victorious from the 173:1 competition ratio was Usami Chisako.

Honestly, I was surprised.

When she first entered the audition room, she was a girl with a bright smile.

But as soon as the audition started, she completely changed her expression and showed an unbelievable level of immersion.

“Senior, no oppa… no senior? It’s so hard to know what to call you.”

“Um… Chisako, you can call me whatever you’re comfortable with, I don’t mind.”

“Eh, then oppa? After all, I seem to be the only younger position in the harem.”

“Huh?”

“I think this would be advantageous! I’ll call you oppa.”

“…What are you talking about? Harem?”

“It’s still a secret! Hehe.”

Looking at her now, she just seems like a bright girl chattering beside Kim Donghu, but really.

You should never judge people by appearances alone.

Gulp.

Just before filming begins.

I’m unnecessarily nervous.

Cannes and a film.

An opportunity I never imagined suddenly appeared.

‘But that’s how life is, isn’t it?’

Director Lee Seongdeok slowly calmed his trembling legs.

Others praised him as the greatest commercial director of all time and such.

But he never became arrogant about it.

Because his role model was Kim Donghu.

‘Donghu still comes to the set early.’

Who am I to talk?

Muttering that.

“Then we’ll begin filming!”

He signaled just before the cue.

As actors and staff moved according to that signal.

“Ready, action!”

He called out the cue for the first scene.

And as if she had been waiting for this moment all along.

“Where are we going today?”

Chisako’s first line resonated.

And at that moment, as if a peony had bloomed.

Whoosh.

Chisako’s presence filled the entire set.