As they strolled side by side, Jihoon turned toward them with curiosity.
"Tarantino, are you here as a nominee?" he asked.
Jihoon's question wasn't casual small talk.
Because of his busy schedule, he hadn't had the chance to study this year's Cannes lineup in detail.
Normally, a filmmaker in his position would make it a point to understand the competition.
After all, Cannes worked very differently compared to the Academy Awards.
At the Oscars, the structure was crystal clear: nominees were explicitly announced in categories—Best Actor, Best Director, Best Picture, and so on.
But Cannes had its own system, one far less straightforward.
Films weren't submitted into neatly labeled categories.
Instead, the festival's artistic director and selection committee extended invitations to works they deemed worthy.
Those chosen were placed into sections, with the most prestigious being In Competition.
Only about twenty films were selected each year for this section, and they didn't just compete in isolated categories—they all vied for the festival's top prize, the Palme d'Or, along with other jury awards decided across the board.
Meanwhile, the rest of the invited films fell into other categories like Out of Competition, Un Certain Regard, or special screenings.
But regardless of placement, every film was screened in the grand Theatre Lumiere, giving them the platform to shine before the world.
What made Cannes particularly nerve-wracking was the uncertainty.
Unlike the Oscars, where nominees knew exactly which category they were in, Cannes kept everything shrouded in secrecy.
The jury deliberated behind closed doors, and only at the closing ceremony were the winners—and the specific awards—revealed.
Until that moment, no one truly knew where they stood.
That was why Jihoon asked. For him, the question wasn't casual—it was tactical. In Cannes, information was a weapon.
Knowing whether Tarantino was competing or merely screening could shift the way he assessed the playing field.
By right, any director or production house with a film in competition would normally do their homework—studying which entries posed the biggest threat in the same category.
Jihoon was no exception.
This year, he was aiming for Best Actor.
And thanks to the memories of his previous life, he already knew who his most dangerous rival would be: Benicio del Toro, for his role in 'Che'.
Jihoon remembered that performance vividly.
If Leonardo DiCaprio had been the wide-eyed romantic dreamer in Titanic, then del Toro was the hardened revolutionary in 'Che'.
His portrayal wasn't just acting—it was transformation.
Jihoon knew the jury would recognize that.
The film itself was a beast of its own.
'Che' was no light entertainment; it was an epic biographical film about the Argentine Marxist revolutionary Ernesto Che Guevara.
The weight of politics hung over every frame.
In an era where American cinema had painted communism as the great villain, the very idea of a film glorifying a communist leader being nominated—let alone winning—was staggering.
It wasn't just art; it was politics played out on the international stage.
And that was the unspoken truth Jihoon understood: festivals like Cannes or the Oscars weren't detached from the world—they were deeply intertwined with it.
Every award sent a message.
And if 'Che' walked away with a prize which it probably would, it could be read as a signal, maybe even a softening of the age-old hostility between Western "freedom" and communist ideology.
But that wasn't Jihoon's problem to solve.
For him, the only question that mattered was this: could he outshine del Toro?
If he was honest with himself, Jihoon wasn't confident at all.
Ryan Reynolds's performance in 'Buried'—a one-man show that lived and died entirely on the strength of its lead—was a serious contender too.
But when it came down to sheer political weight, if the jury wanted to make a statement, then 'Che' would dominate.
In that scenario, neither he nor Ryan would stand a chance.
As these thoughts swirled in his head, Tarantino, walking casually beside him, broke the silence with a grin.
"Yeah," he said, answering Jihoon's earlier question, "I'm actually here for two different reasons. One, my film Death Proof. And the other, for my little cameo role in Hell Ride."
Jihoon nodded, processing the answer.
According to his memory of this timeline, he was fairly certain Tarantino's 'Death Proof' hadn't won any award at the 2008 Cannes Film Festival.
Of course, he couldn't exactly say that outright, so he simply kept polite, choosing instead to frame it in the spirit of competition.
"Seems like we'll be fighting against each other this year, huh?" Jihoon said lightly, as if they were rivals destined to clash on the festival stage.
In truth, Jihoon knew Tarantino wasn't really a threat in this particular edition of Cannes, but the words came out like a friendly jab.
Tarantino burst out laughing, his voice booming down the Croisette. "Hah! Well, I can still throw a few good punches at this age. Let's see who gets the belt this year, Lee."
It was clear he wasn't offended by Jihoon's remark—far from it.
He seemed pleased, almost entertained, that Jihoon had placed him as a rival.
Whether the rivalry was real or not didn't matter; in Cannes, a little banter, a little play of egos, was part of the show.
Jihoon then turned his gaze toward Jiangwen, ready to ask him the same question.
But before Jihoon could even open his mouth, Jiangwen, sensing the thought already, answered first.
"I'm here because the festival wants to celebrate my film Devils on the Doorstep." His tone carried a mixture of pride and bemusement.
"It won the Grand Jury Prize back in 2000, but this year they want to screen it again during the festival."
Jihoon blinked, giving him a puzzled look. "Oh… do you know why?"
Even as he asked, his mind was already racing.
Something about this year's festival felt strange—too deliberate. From 'Che' competing for grand prizes to Jiangwen's 'Devils on the Doorstep' being brought back into the spotlight, the entire lineup carried an air of calculated moves, as if unseen hands were arranging the stage for something more than just cinema.
Jiangwen rubbed his chin, thoughtful for a moment before shrugging. "To be honest, I'm not sure either."
"But judging by Cannes' history, it's not unusual."
"They sometimes like to rescreen past winners years later, maybe to commemorate the festival's legacy or remind audiences of landmark films. Who knows…"
He gave a small shrug, as if to say it wasn't worth overthinking, though Jihoon couldn't shake the suspicion that there was more at play behind the curtain.
Jihoon turned his gaze toward Tarantino, waiting to see if the American director shared his unease.
Tarantino caught the look and smirked faintly, before speaking up.
"Hm… maybe there is more to it," Tarantino said, his tone casual but laced with a hint of caution.
"Jiang, you should ask around—find out why they brought you here. Don't get yourself tangled in something that doesn't concern you."
It sounded like friendly advice, but there was weight behind the words.
Tarantino wasn't speaking only as a peer but as someone who had seen how quickly the world of cinema could turn political.
He knew the risks better than most—especially for a filmmaker like Jiangwen.
Because the truth was, 'Devils on the Doorstep' wasn't just any film.
It was a deeply controversial work.
Back at Jiangwen home in China, it had already landed Jiangwen in hot water; the film had been banned upon completion.
Not because it lacked artistic merit—it had, after all, won Cannes' Grand Jury Prize in 2000—but because Jiangwen had made it without official approval from China's film bureau.
Worse, instead of submitting it through the state's channels, he had bypassed the system entirely and sent it straight to an international festival.
That move had been seen as a direct challenge to authority.
The punishment was swift and severe: the film was banned, its distribution strangled, and Jiangwen's career had suffered greatly in the years that followed.
So now, to have the same film resurrected on an international platform like Cannes… Tarantino was right to be wary.
If the wrong people interpreted it the wrong way, Jiangwen could find himself back in the crosshairs all over again.
The weight of his words settled over the group like a dark cloud.
All three of them frowned, even Jiangwen himself, who until now had brushed off Jihoon's suspicion.
He wasn't a man easily rattled, but even he could sense something unusual in the air this year.
Jihoon, however, wasn't nearly as lost in the fog. His memories from a life already lived gave him an edge.
While the sequence of events didn't line up perfectly with what he remembered, the fragments he carried were enough to sketch the outline of the larger picture.
And what he saw sent a chill crawling down his spine.
Che.
Devils on the Doorstep.
And not forgetting his film Buried, which carries the same essence.
Communist leaders, democratic ideals, revolution, oppression.
None of this was coincidence.
These weren't just films—they were statements.
And Cannes wasn't merely a stage for cinema this year.
It was a battlefield, with reels of film serving as weapons, and directors unknowingly pulled into the crossfire.
Jihoon exhaled slowly, the realization settling heavily in his chest. This wasn't just about movies anymore.
It was bigger—something closer to a media war, one that stretched beyond the festival and into the tug-of-war between nations.
And while he wasn't sure where it would lead, one thing was certain: he was standing in the middle of it, whether he liked it or not.