As for Korean cinema, if anyone were to comment honestly on its position in the global market, the truth would be rather uncomfortable.
Because its prospects in the international media landscape remain poor.
Despite the country's cinematic achievements and its growing presence on the world stage, the hard numbers tell a more sobering story.
To understand why, one only needs to look at the performance of Korea's films across three tiers of production — low, mid, and high-budget projects.
Each of these categories, though represented by outstanding titles, reveals the same pattern: strong domestic success, modest international reach, and ultimately, limited global impact.
Starting with the low-budget category, the most distinctive representative is the 2016 hit 'Train toBusan'. With a production budget of only 8.5 million dollars, the film managed to achieve a staggering global box office of 93.9 million.
Financially, that's a remarkable 11-fold return on investment, almost hitting the hollywood standard in the world of cinema.
The film became an international sleeper hit, revitalizing the zombie genre and proving that Korean filmmakers could achieve global success with originality and emotional depth. Its practical effects, tight pacing, and heartfelt storytelling gave audiences a blockbuster experience at a fraction of the cost.
Yet, despite its tremendous impact and cult following, 'Train to Busan' barely made a dent in the grand scheme of global box office history.
Out of more than 3,000 films listed in worldwide box office charts, it ranked far below the heavyweights of Hollywood. It was a global success story, yes — but not one that redefined Korea's position in international cinema.
Moving on to the mid-budget range, the best example is 2019's 'Parasite', a film that changed the way the world looked at Korean storytelling.
With a production budget of 11.4 million dollars, it achieved what no other Korean film had before — not just commercial success but universal critical acclaim.
'Parasite' won the Palme d'Or at Cannes and swept the Oscars, including Best Picture — an achievement that made history.
Its total box office of 258.8 million dollars represented a return on investment of 22.7 times, making it the most profitable mid-budget film Korea had ever produced.
And yet, even with that global triumph, its ranking in all-time worldwide box office still sat around number 1,250.
In other words, even Korea's most celebrated masterpiece was still a small ripple in the ocean of international film revenue.
Finally, in the high-budget category, the film that stands out most is 2014's 'The Admiral: Roaring Currents'.
With a production cost of 18 million dollars, it grossed 138.6 million worldwide, giving it a return on investment of roughly 7.7 times.
It remains Korea's highest-grossing domestic film, a patriotic epic that resonated deeply with Korean audiences.
But the numbers reveal an uncomfortable truth — almost all of its revenue came from the domestic market. Outside Korea, its impact was minimal. On the global stage, it ranked somewhere around number 2,400 in box office history — far below what a film of its scale might suggest.
Looking across these three categories — low, mid, and high-budget films — one clear conclusion emerges.
Even the best of Korea's cinematic achievements struggle to break through internationally. The style, themes, and cultural context that make Korean films unique are also what limit their reach beyond Asia.
They resonate deeply with audiences who understand the nuances of Korean society, but for those outside that sphere, much of the emotional or cultural subtext is lost.
Simply put, Korean cinema fits well on the Asian platter — but beyond it, the flavor becomes unfamiliar.
To be fair, the structure and themes of many Korean films borrow heavily from Hollywood.
The underdog triumphing over adversity, the struggle between good and evil, the romantic arc that ends with redemption.
All these tropes are familiar. But unlike Hollywood, which builds universal appeal through simplicity and spectacle, Korean or let's just say Asian storytelling often leans into cultural specificity — societal hierarchy, filial duty, suppressed emotion, and moral ambiguity.
This cultural richness is both its strength and its weakness.
Korean cinema carries too much of its native flavor.
For audiences unfamiliar with the country's social structure, its humor, or its emotional codes, the stories can feel distant, even strange.
The recurring tropes — memory loss, tragic fates, car accidents leading to love, and the inevitable "bitter beginning, sweet ending" pattern — once felt refreshing.
But over time, the formula began to tire.
The emotional melodrama that once captivated Asian viewers now risks feeling repetitive to international audiences accustomed to faster, edgier narratives.
That's why, during his interview with MBC, Jihoon chose to voice his concerns about the direction of Korean cinema on the international stage.
It wasn't exactly out of selfless goodwill, Jihoon wasn't trying to play the saint here — but rather a calculated move.
He wanted to ensure that the Asian film market remained stable and strong while he was away working in Hollywood this year.
Jihoon knew one thing for certain: once the interview aired, it would stir up ambition — and greed — among the industry vultures back home. And that was precisely what he needed to happen.
Sitting across from the journalist Kimbum in a sunlit hotel lobby, he leaned back in his chair and began explaining, with the calm confidence of someone who had studied the industry from both an artistic and financial perspective.
"The truth is," Jihoon said, pausing as the cameras adjusted their focus on him, "Korean cinema doesn't yet have what it takes to compete globally. Not because of a lack of talent — we have plenty — but because of the cultural and market mismatch."
He smiled faintly before continuing, his tone now more reflective.
"Actually, the future of Korean cinema isn't in the West."
"As a film industry deeply rooted in Asian culture, its true growth should come from the soil it was born in — not from the shadow of a foreign tree.
Kimbum's pen froze mid-scribble. He looked up, slightly startled. The poetic phrasing hung in the air for a moment before he laughed softly.
"Hahaha! Jihoon-ssi, you really are an artist. Your quotes are always worth a headline."
Jihoon chuckled. "I mean it," he said, leaning forward. "Our films carry a cultural preference that's hard to export. If we're honest with ourselves, our true audience lies right here in Asia."
He took a sip of water before continuing, his voice steady but passionate. "Has you actually studied the potential of the Asian box office?"
Kimbum shook his head.
"Because if you had, you'd see the numbers tell a fascinating story."
"According to data my team gathered, in the year 2000, the global motion picture market share looked like this — North America held 45%, Europe, the Middle East, and Africa combined made up 33%, Latin America just 3%, and the Asia-Pacific region stood at 19%."
He paused to let the numbers sink in before continuing.
"Now, fast forward seven years to 2007."
"North America dropped to 39%, Europe and its neighboring regions fell to 32%, Latin America grew slightly to 5%, but Asia-Pacific — we jumped to 24%."
"Just by looking at that, you can see the trend, right?" Jihoon asked, watching Kimbum jot the figures down eagerly.
"So what does this tell us?" Jihoon continued.
"It tells us that as Asian filmmakers, our best opportunity lies within our own borders."
"Why chase the Western market when we have fertile ground right here?"
"Just seven years, our Asia-Pacific region increased its share by five percent."
"You may think that's sound small, but when you consider the global population in 2007 — around 6.67 billion — that five percent represents over 330 million potential new audiences."
"And that's a market worth use to cultivate."
He leaned back, letting the logic of his words do the work.
"Wouldn't it make more sense to build our foundation here?"
"Among people who understand our culture, our humor, our emotions — instead of spending millions trying to appeal to audiences who might never truly connect with our stories?"
"The jokes that make us laugh in Seoul or Hongkong," Jihoon added with a faint grin, "might completely miss the mark in Los Angeles."
"You need to know that Hollywood's culture has been exported for more than decades; it's already part of the global consciousness."
"But for us? We need to invest time to make people understand who we are first. Until then, it's wiser to grow where we're understood — right here in Asia."
When Jihoon finished, the room fell silent.
Kimbum, who had been scribbling nonstop, finally put down his pen and looked thoughtful.
Jihoon took a sip from his glass of water, letting his throat recover from the long explanation.
For a few moments, all that could be heard was the faint hum of the hotel's air conditioning.
Then, suddenly, a sound broke through the quiet.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
At first, it was just one or two people — journalists who had been listening from nearby tables.
But within seconds, the applause grew louder, echoing across the marble lobby.
Camera flashes began to spark like fireflies.
The gathered media personnel who was busy typing for today Cannes headline, were intrigued by Jihoon's fresh, data-driven perspective, which is why they surrounded him eagerly just as his interview reach the climax.
It wasn't just what he said — it was how he said it.
His explanation cut through the haze of vague optimism that often clouded discussions about Korean cinema.
The numbers were simple, the reasoning direct, and the vision clear.
To the reporters, it felt as if Jihoon had just unveiled a new roadmap for the Korean film industry — one that was grounded not in ambition, but in strategy.
"Ck! Ck! Ck!" The sound of camera shutters intensified, capturing the moment.
Jihoon's perspective, framed with poetry but reinforced by logic, resonated deeply.
For those who lived and breathed media, his words were more than opinion — they were revelation.
He wasn't dismissing globalization; he was redefining it.
His analysis bridged art and economics, passion and precision.
And in that moment, everyone in the room knew they were witnessing a voice that mattered — someone not only talented in filmmaking but also capable of leading a new conversation about the direction of Asian cinema.
And perhaps, just perhaps, that would serve the answer of why the west when there's east..