Chapter 446: This Kind of "Art" Is a Bit Hard on the Audience |
Inside the main screening hall of the Busan Film Center.
Pink, blue, and yellow fan light boards flickered in the dimness, dizzying to the eyes. They bore slogans written in Korean, phrases like "Gege Tae-hyun" and "Asia's Light."
Jiang Wen stood at the edge of the aisle, staring at the chaotic scene. Veins bulged at his temples, throbbing with fury.
"Is this a film festival? It looks like the opening day of a goddamn market!"
He ground his teeth and growled, "If this were my turf, I'd have the security guards sweep these little brats out with a giant broom!"
"Are they here to watch a movie or go to a concert?"
He had always valued film more than his own life, and nothing pissed him off more than this kind of toxic atmosphere.
Jiang Ci reached out and pressed down on Jiang Wen's shoulder—the one itching to pull out some kind of weapon.
"Director Jiang, calm down."
"Isn't this fine? Only after seeing the tackiest can you understand what real class is."
Right in the center of the first row, Park Tae-hyun sat cross-legged, chatting and laughing softly with his assistant. Even though the indoor lighting was dim, he still wore sunglasses to look cool, desperate to make sure everyone knew he was a big shot.
Sensing movement behind him, Park Tae-hyun turned around. His sunglasses slid down slightly, revealing eyes lined with delicate eyeliner. He looked past the crowd and flashed Jiang Ci a polished, professional smile—one he had practiced tens of thousands of times.
Then he turned back, muttering lightly in Korean to his assistant:
"Go tell security to make sure no one's snoring disturbs the viewing experience."
"As for this preachy film, just sitting here is already us giving them face."
"I bet my fans won't even last five minutes before falling asleep."
The assistant covered her mouth and chuckled, her face mirroring his arrogance.
Jiang Wen didn't understand Korean, but he could clearly see the contempt dripping from every gesture.
"What the hell is that punk babbling about now?" he asked, his face dark.
Jiang Ci leaned back into his seat, found a comfortable position, and unbuttoned the top button of his collar.
"He says he's worried the plot might be too intense and his fans' hearts can't handle it."
Jiang Ci spouted nonsense casually, but a chill flickered in his eyes.
Just then, the entire venue's lights went out in an instant.
The massive screen suddenly lit up.
In the darkness, the fans' clamor hadn't stopped yet.
"What's this? Isn't this supposed to be our gege Tae-hyun's movie?"
"A Chinese film? So boring. I want to scroll through my phone."
Murmurs of impatience rose and fell.
This was the ten-minute "pure version" that Jiang Wen had specifically edited for this screening—or rather, the "public execution version."
The image cut straight in, no buildup whatsoever.
A face filled the entire massive screen.
It wasn't a face that belonged to a "celebrity." The skin was sallow and rough, with pores still embedded with grime that couldn't be washed away.
It was Jiang He, played by Jiang Ci.
He was trembling.
At first, only his eyelids quivered. Then the corners of his mouth twitched. Finally, every muscle in his face began spasming uncontrollably.
Through the speakers came the raspy, phlegmy breathing of a broken bellows.
He was holding back. His eyes were bloodshot from extreme restraint, with veins like spiderwebs crawling across the whites.
Suddenly, a dull "thud" echoed!
The Jiang He on screen slammed his head into the ground.
His forehead was swollen and red, yet he felt no pain, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
Drool slid down from the corner of his mouth.
His gaze was vacant, greedy, filled with a primal wildness.
This wasn't acting.
This was tearing a person's soul apart, raw, and showing it to you.
"Ah!" A girl in the front row holding a "Tae-hyun Is the Most Beautiful" light board let out a short, sharp scream, startled by the close-up that seemed to leap off the screen. Her light board clattered to the ground.
But this was only the beginning.
The scene shifted, and the pressure intensified.
On a greasy wooden table sat a cheap cream cake, beside it a pool of un-dried blood.
Jiang He sat at the table, facing Lei Zhong, the drug lord with a compassionate face.
"Eat. It's sweet." Lei Zhong's voice was as gentle as an elder's.
Jiang He stared at the cake. He knew it was mixed with the blood of his comrades-in-arms. He also knew that if he didn't eat, the next person to die would be himself.
He picked up the fork.
In the screening room, every whisper vanished in an instant.
All that remained was the sound of chewing, amplified to the extreme through the speakers.
Sickly sweet. Nauseating.
Jiang He was laughing, laughing as he chewed.
That smile was uglier than crying, his features twisted.
"Mmm... it's... good..."
He spoke in a muffled voice, his Adam's apple bobbing violently as he forced down the physiological urge to vomit.
That sound, transmitted through top-tier audio equipment, burrowed into everyone's ears, crawled along their eardrums into their brains, and sent a shiver crawling over their scalps.
Park Tae-hyun took off his sunglasses.
His smile vanished. His throat tightened. He couldn't breathe.
That suffocating feeling didn't come from the plot—it came from a fear deep in his soul.
As an actor, he knew all too well what this kind of performance meant.
No technique. All instinct.
This wasn't acting. This was a fucking spiritual nuclear bomb!
The man on the screen had truly torn apart his own soul, mashed it up, and then, dripping with blood, offered it to the audience.
In comparison, those "perfect crying scenes" he had practiced countless times in front of the mirror were nothing more than kindergarten-level play-acting.
Park Tae-hyun instinctively touched his neck. A thin layer of cold sweat had already broken out there.
Ten minutes—for the five hundred people in the room, it felt agonizingly long.
The final shot froze on Jiang He's pitch-black-and-white eyes, staring coldly at this flashy world.
The screen went black.
It was over.
The fans sat frozen in their seats, their support sticks already hanging limp.
They were completely stunned, their worldview hit by an unprecedented shock.
The girl who had said she wanted to play on her phone was now gripping her friend's hand tightly, her lips trembling.
Silence lasted a full minute.
"Clap." A single, crisp applause came from the corner.
It was Hollywood's top producer, David Smith.
He stood up, his expression serious, his eyes burning with fervor.
"Clap! Clap! Clap!"
Then came a thunderous ovation.
A wild enthusiasm that could only be released by clapping until the palms stung red.
Many of the local Korean reporters clapped while gasping for air.
They looked at the figure in the back row, and their gaze had completely changed.
It wasn't the look for a celebrity. It was the look for a monster.
Jiang Ci stood up, his expression calm, as if the madman on the screen had nothing to do with him.
He slowly buttoned his collar, straightened his clothes, and reverted to that cool, aloof, and reserved look.
"Let's go, Director Jiang." He patted Jiang Wen, who was still in a daze. "The air in here isn't great. Let's step outside for some fresh air."
Jiang Wen snapped out of it, glanced at the entire audience standing and applauding, and his grin stretched from ear to ear. "Goddamn, that feels good!"
The two of them walked along the aisle toward the exit.
As they passed the first row, Park Tae-hyun was still frozen in his seat, his face deathly pale. Even his thick foundation couldn't hide the ashen gray beneath.
That set of "idol filters" he had welded onto himself since his trainee days was shattered into pieces by these ten minutes of raw truth.
Jiang Ci stopped. He didn't look at him, only turned slightly.
His long fingers tapped twice gently on the back of Park Tae-hyun's expensive silver suit chair.
The gesture wasn't heavy, almost soothing in its intent.
But to Park Tae-hyun's eyes, it sent a chill down his spine!
He looked up in terror.
Jiang Ci's gaze dropped, looking down at him from above.
His eyes were indifferent.
He withdrew his hand without a word and walked straight out of the screening room.
Leaving Park Tae-hyun alone, amid the deafening applause,
sitting on pins and needles, cold sweat soaking through his back.
His dao heart was completely shattered.