The script for his legend, however, wouldn't be penned in a stifling classroom, enduring the poorly-paced monologue of Mr. Lee. No, true cinematic enlightenment required a more immersive experience. The next morning, as the faint, pre-dawn light struggled through his window, Do-yeong made a director's executive decision. Cut to: Do-yeong, framed in a tight close-up, a mischievous glint in his eye. This was not truancy; this was essential research and development, a deep dive into the archives of genius. He sent a quick text to his parents – a masterclass in minimalist misdirection: "Feeling a bit… off. Will study at home." A vague, yet effective piece of dialogue.
He meticulously arranged his schedule for the day, a mental shot list of his chosen masters. First up, a deep dive into Wong Kar-wai. The vibrant, melancholic hues of In the Mood for Love washed over his screen, the slow-motion gazes, the yearning glances, the subtle shifts in focus. "Wong Kar-wai," he narrated to the empty room, his voice hushed with reverence, "he captures unspoken emotion like no one else. It's not about what they say, but what they don't. The lingering shot, the pop of color, the way time feels both fluid and impossibly still. It's all about the mood, the texture. If I could just direct a scene with that kind of aching beauty…" He imagined a soundtrack of bittersweet cello, perfectly accompanying the on-screen longing.
Next, a sharp cut to the stark, unforgiving realism of Park Chan-wook's Oldboy. The brutal, elegant choreography of the hallway fight scene, the psychological torment, the unsettling precision of its narrative twists. "Park Chan-wook," Do-yeong whispered, leaning forward, "he understands the impact of a scene. Every punch, every revelation, hits like a carefully placed drumbeat. It's not just violence; it's a terrifying, beautiful dance. The way he frames desperation, the way he builds dread… it's a masterclass in emotional manipulation. And I mean that in the best possible cinematic sense." He could practically feel the rhythmic thud of a heartbeat, building in intensity, a personal percussive score.
The day progressed like a meticulously edited montage. He moved from the philosophical grandeur of Tarkovsky, pondering the weight of memory and the passage of time, to the controlled chaos of Fincher, dissecting every frame of Zodiac for its unsettling atmospheric tension. He made notes, pausing films to sketch angles, dissecting dialogue, trying to reverse-engineer the magic. This wasn't passive viewing; this was an active apprenticeship, a personal film school, where he was both the eager student and the demanding head of the department.
As the sun began to dip, casting long, orange shadows across his room—a natural golden hour that even a master cinematographer would approve of—Do-yeong felt a profound sense of satisfaction. His mind was buzzing, alight with new ideas, fresh perspectives, a deeper understanding of the craft. He was ready. Ready to transcend the classroom's mundane reality, ready to impose his vision.
Cut to: Do-yeong's phone, vibrating on his desk.
The screen lit up with a text from Ji-eun.
Ji-eun: "Hey, you missed a pretty big announcement today. Mr. Kim said we have to make a 3-minute short film. Due in 3 weeks. You'd love it lol."
Do-yeong stared at the message. A 3-minute short film. A school project. The very thing he'd been planning, dreaming of, preparing for, in his own mind, for months. The irony hit him like a sudden, unexpected jump scare. He had been so immersed in the grand narratives of cinematic legends, so convinced he was training for a war that only existed in his head, that he'd completely missed the official call to arms.
His lips slowly curled into a grin. Finally. The world was catching up to his vision. The stage was set.