In the Cannes's Jury Room
The morning sun had barely broken through the coastal haze of Cannes when the nine jurors filed into the Grand Theatre Lumiere's most exclusive chamber.
A secluded, heavy-doored room where decisions that shaped film history were made.
This was no ordinary meeting.
Once a year, this room became the beating heart of the Cannes Film Festival.
Where art, ego, politics, and money collided in equal measure.
Every year, nine individuals of acclaimed directors, actors, critics, and visionaries took their seats around the mahogany table.
And their mission was to decide which film deserved the highest honor: La Palme d'Or.
They called it a "jury deliberation."
In truth, it was a battlefield.
The air inside was thick — a blend of stale espresso, cigarettes, and tension.
Files of the nominated films lay scattered on the table, pages marked with red ink, comments scribbled hastily in the margins.
Sean Penn, the jury president of this year, was already halfway through a cigarette, his boot resting on the edge of his chair as he leaned forward.
His jaw tightened with each word as he glared across the table.
"I can't believe you call yourself a renowned director!!" he snapped, voice echoing off the walls.
"Buried should deserves the Palme d'Or! What do you people even know about cinema? About real filmmaking? This bribery act—this political nonsense—doesn't deserve a seat at this table!"
The room fell silent for a beat.
Then came the rebuttal.
"Sean, you're going too far," a French juror Marina Hands shot back, slamming her palm against the table.
"Cannes cannot let one film sweep everything! That Lee already won the Palme d'Or in 2006! You want him to win again? Two times in three years? People will think Cannes has lost its dignity — that we've turned into a marketplace!"
Sean's eyes narrowed. "Who said a film can't win multiple awards? Haven't you seen In the Mood for Love? That film bagged three prizes in 2000! Or The Piano in '93 — same thing!"
"That's different!" she argued. "Those awards went to different people! And that year's Technology Prize wasn't even official!"
Sean sneered. "Yeah, yeah. Maybe next time we should create a dozen 'temporary awards' so everyone gets something to brag about — and we can officially ruin Cannes!"
The table erupted in overlapping voices — shouts, protests, and sharp laughter filling the small room.
Papers fluttered, chairs scraped.
The French delegation gestured wildly while the Americans leaned back, smirking, as if amused by the chaos.
Somewhere in the corner, Natalie Portman sat quietly, her pen tapping nervously against her notebook.
It was her first time as a Cannes juror, and she had imagined this process to be elegant, sophisticated — a meeting of great minds debating art.
Instead, it felt like watching a bar fight in slow motion.
Every year, the "closed-door" meeting of the Cannes jury was infamous for its intensity.
What the world saw on stage — the glitz, the applause, the golden trophies — was the polished surface of something far messier.
Behind those sealed doors, the true festival unfolded — one filled with persuasion, secret promises, and personal favors.
Some jurors argued from conviction; others argued for envelopes filled with promises written on green Benjamin Franklin paper.
The truth was ugly but simple: art alone rarely won.
Sometimes, influence did. Sometimes, politics.
And this year, the clash between those forces was stronger than ever.
"Sean, you're being idealistic," said Marina Hands, her tone sharp.
"It's easy for you to talk about artistic purity — you're American! But I'm French. This festival belongs to France. We have duties, politics, reputation. You think I can just throw that away because you like a film?"
Sean threw up his hands. "Duties? This is about cinema, not diplomacy!"
Another juror — an Italian director Sergio Castellitto— interjected wearily, "He's right about one thing, Marina."
"From a purely artistic standpoint, Buried is brilliant."
"But we're not naive. Outside these walls, there's a tug-of-war between the East and the West. The world is watching which side Cannes leans toward. We can't afford to stand on the wrong end of that."
"So we abandon fairness?" Sean barked. "We bend to politics now?"
"It's not about politics," another replied. "It's about survival."
The tension was palpable. Even Natalie felt it now — the invisible gravity of decisions made in this room.
It wasn't just about choosing the best film anymore.
It was about which country Cannes would favor.
Would the golden palm go to the West again — to keep Hollywood's affection and investment?
Or would Cannes dare to extend it toward the East — to China, Korea, or the rising Asian auteurs who were challenging Western dominance?
The choice would echo far beyond cinema.
After nearly an hour of arguing, they reached a deadlock.
Sean leaned back, clearly frustrated. "Fine. You all want to play politics? Let's at least agree on one thing. Buried deserves something. Best Actor, at the very least."
Natalie nodded quietly beside him. "I second Sean's proposal.. Ryan Reynolds' performance was extraordinary. He carried the entire film inside a coffin — that alone deserves recognition."
Steven Soderbergh, another American juror, crossed his arms. "I agree with Sean. It's not just performance — the screenplay's airtight. The tension, the confinement, the minimalism. It's cinema stripped bare."
But the remaining six jurors stayed unconvinced.
"It deserves awards," said the Sergio Castellitto slowly, "but we can't give it three. There are only eight awards total this year. You're asking for nearly half."
Sean exhaled, exasperated. "I'm not asking for half — I'm asking for fairness!"
"Fairness doesn't mean domination," another juror murmured.
The room descended into uneasy silence.
Sean rubbed his temples, muttering under his breath. He knew when a fight couldn't be won — not yet, at least.
"Alright," he said finally, voice tight but controlled. "Forget Buried for now. Let's talk Best Actress. We'll revisit this tomorrow."
Everyone nodded in relief.
But Natalie could sense it — this wasn't over.
Sean wasn't the kind to back down.
He was only regrouping, waiting for the right moment to strike again.
Just then — Bang!
The heavy wooden door burst open.
All nine jurors froze mid-discussion as a young staff member stumbled in, panting.
His badge swung wildly around his neck, sweat beading on his forehead.
Sean's voice was sharp, cold. "We're in a closed-door session of the 61st Cannes Jury. Who authorized you to interrupt?!!!"
The staffer swallowed hard. "M–Mr. Penn, my apologies. There's… there's been an incident."
The jurors exchanged uneasy looks.
"Speak," Sean ordered.
The young man took a breath, voice trembling. "We've received multiple calls from the media. They're saying that one of the main competition nominees is planning to withdraw from the festival. We haven't confirmed it yet, but rumors are spreading fast. The press is demanding an official statement."
"What?" Marina frowned. "Withdraw? Which nominee?"
The staffer hesitated. "We don't have confirmation, but… early reports say it's might be Director Lee Jihoon Buried.."
The room went dead silent.
Even Sean's cigarette froze midair.