Jiangwen wasn't here alone—he was accompanied by his close friend Quentin Tarantino.
The two shared a similar philosophy, which is a relentless passion for artistic film creation.
What made their bond even more fascinating was that both were not only directors but also actors, carrying a dual perspective that enriched their storytelling.
Tarantino's work spoke for itself—Kill Bill, Inglourious Basterds, and Django Unchained had cemented his place as one of the boldest voices in cinema.
Yet what intrigued Jihoon most was how Kill Bill revealed Tarantino's quiet admiration for Chinese culture.
The film carried themes, styles, and visual motifs deeply rooted in Chinese aesthetics.
For a Western director to portray those elements on screen while still preserving their cultural intensity was no small feat.
This was not something easily can be replicated.
Many Western filmmakers attempted to weave Chinese or broader Eastern cultural elements into their films, but sadly only a handful succeeded.
One of the most notable examples was Kung Fu Panda.
Despite being an American animation, the film has successfully captured the Daoist philosophy with a remarkable accuracy.
From the yin-yang balance to martial arts movements inspired by animals.
All showed respect, research, and genuine understanding to the unexplored cultural, proving that authenticity can shine through even in a Hollywood blockbuster.
But on the other hand, failures were far more common.
Films like Jackie Chan's 'The Forbidden Kingdom' and Disney's live-action Mulan (2020) fell flat, leaving audiences with a sense of cultural fragmentation.
Because the forcing of blend on Eastern traditions and Western filmmaking styles felt misplaced, as if two worlds were forced together without harmony.
In 'The Forbidden Kingdom', the problem was glaring.
Because the film followed the conventional Hollywood underdog script, where a nobody rises, gains power, and wins both victory and love.
That formula might satisfy Western audiences raised on Peter Parker or Clark Kent, but it clashes with Eastern storytelling traditions, which value nuance, tragedy, or philosophical depth over a neat, triumphant ending.
If a filmmaker truly hopes to tap into the Chinese box office, this matters.
China isn't just another market—it's the gatekeeper of the East.
By 2025, it would already stand among the top two global film markets in both audience size and theater screens.
To win over Chinese audiences, a director cannot treat culture as a mere costume.
It requires respect, patience, and the humility to learn—like a western chef preparing traditional Indian cuisine.
Fusion may impress outsiders, but to serve the dish to those who grew up with it, you must first honor the ingredients, traditions, and meaning behind every flavor.
Cinema is no different.
Yet here lies the problem: Hollywood, as the birthplace of commercial cinema, often carried an arrogance born of legacy.
It wasn't pure ego—it was the posture of veterans looking down at newcomers.
After all, Hollywood had cultivated this industry before most of the world even knew what cinema was.
From production techniques to cinematography, it had set the global standards for decades.
And its success was undeniable.
Hollywood wasn't just a name; it had become a symbol, almost a myth.
Many older generations around the world once mistook the word "Hollywood" for a city itself, confusing it with Los Angeles.
That in itself revealed how deeply the brand had embedded itself in the global imagination.
Say the word "Hollywood," and instantly people thought of celebrities, stardom, and the magic of filmmaking.
That is how powerful its influence was—it became not just a place, but the heartbeat of cinema itself.
And Tarantino was shaped by that very environment.
He was talented, yes, but also down-to-earth in a way that set him apart from the stereotypical Hollywood director, who often carried themselves with an air of pride.
Tarantino had no such arrogance.
Instead, he was the kind that willing to learn, to dig deep into the history, culture, and themes behind his films before ever putting pen to paper.
That humility—paired with his obsessive passion for cinema—was what made him successful.
But is that same system that nurtured his talent also confined him.
Like many career-changers, Tarantino faced the harsh realities of an industry that didn't forgive newcomers easily.
He was an actor turned director, and in Hollywood, that meant he had to fight against bias and discrimination from seasoned professionals.
Opportunities were not handed out freely—especially not the chance to direct, produce, and write one's own screenplay.
For someone like him, fresh in the industry, the barriers were steep.
His first major test came with 'Reservoir Dogs' in 1992.
Produced on a modest budget of $3 million, the film earned only $2.9 million at the box office.
For any director, that was considered a failure, a big one and also a bad start that could have ended his career before it even began.
And it was at this low point moment of his time Harvey Weinstein appeared in his life, starting a long and endless struggle for him.
By now, everyone knows what kind of man Harvey was: despicable, manipulative, willing to do anything to achieve results.
Yet it's impossible to deny his achievements in shaping careers.
With his money, influence, and vast distribution network, Weinstein took Tarantino under his wing.
Under that kind of partnership, Tarantino have created some of cinema's most iconic works.
'Pulp Fiction' 1994, produced on a budget of $8.9 million, went on to gross $213 million worldwide.
Follow by 'The Kill Bill' series, backed by $30 million, earned $153.3 million at the global box office.
Slowly but surely, the industry took notice of Tarantino—not as a quirky newcomer, but as a director of real talent and value.
Of course, Weinstein was never going to let him go easily. Once Harvey recognized Tarantino's worth, he kept him close, controlling him and tying his career to The Weinstein Company.
It wasn't until October 2017, when Weinstein faced multiple lawsuits and his empire crumbled, that Tarantino was finally free.
But by then, Tarantino was already fifty-four year old. And if you translate it in Hollywood terms, he was past his prime.
The film industry is brutal in that way.
All directors tend to peak between the ages of forty and fifty, when they have both the creative energy and the industry experience to secure big projects.
Not everyone had the luxury Jihoon enjoyed—financing and producing his own films, bypassing the system entirely.
Most directors had to claw their way up: starting as production assistants, working as script supervisors, climbing through producer roles, and slowly earning the chance to sit in the director's chair.
In filmmaking, experience is everything. Investors treat movies much like financial products.
Before putting money into a project, they look at the broker's track record—the achievements, the past performances, the credibility. In the case of a director, that means box office numbers and awards.
These are the currencies that convince investors to risk millions on a film.
But Jihoon never had to play by those rules.
Armed with both talent and financial backing, he bypassed the ladder entirely.
For him, the industry's gatekeeping mechanisms—the years of climbing, the endless waiting for approval—simply didn't apply.
He was free to create on his own terms, unshackled by the usual barriers.
And so here he was, walking side by side with Jiangwen and Quentin Tarantino, two men who had carved their way through those barriers the hard way.
"Lee," Tarantino began casually, his voice carrying that blend of curiosity and admiration he was known for, "I've got to say—your concept for a cinematic universe is really intriguing."
"I read that article where you said people had been embedding the idea for decades but never really capitalized on it. So I went back and did some digging."
"Turns out, you're right. The Dracula and Frankenstein films were already laying the groundwork. But they never expanded it the way you've envisioned. You're a real genius, man."
Jiangwen nodded in agreement. "Yeah… even back in China, I came across that article. I must admit, you've opened a different chapter in filmmaking. You've created a whole new possibility for how stories can be told on screen."
Jihoon laughed, waving his hand as if to brush off the compliments. "Hah! Well, it was just a sudden flash of an idea."
"Not like you two—you're the real veterans of the industry. I've still got a lot more to learn from you guys."
His words sounded modest, but his grin and the slight swagger in his step betrayed just a hint of pride.
"Hey! Don't start bragging, man!" Jiangwen suddenly barked, smacking Jihoon playfully on the shoulder. "We're just having a discussion, not giving you free passes to brag, you little punk!"
The outburst made all three of them laugh. At first, Jiangwen had regarded Jihoon as just another ambitious newcomer—talented, yes, but distant.
Yet the longer they talked, the more he realized Jihoon wasn't just clever; he was fun, sharp-tongued, and unafraid to match his energy.
To Jiangwen, whose reputation on set was that of a hot-tempered dictator, this kind of easy chemistry was rare.
Jihoon, of course, knew all about that side of him from his previous life. But here, in this new one, it was their first meeting.
And he didn't mind one bit starting over—because in Jiangwen, he recognized a kindred spirit.