Today inside this room, the hum of whispered predictions had died down as Elodie and Sean
They are this evening's presenters — stood center stage, smiling under the spotlight.
The envelopes in their hands seemed to carry the weight of the entire film world.
"Alright, ladies and gentlemen," Sean said, his voice echoing softly through the hall. "We're here to announce the winner for the 61st Cannes Film Festival Best Actor Award."
The crowd leaned forward instinctively, more than hundreds of eyes, dozens of cameras, and countless dreams focused on the stage.
Jihoon could hear the faint rustle of dresses, the quick breaths, the quiet tension of expectation.
Elodie smiled knowingly, teasing the room with her pause. "And the award goes to…"
A heartbeat. Then another.
"Che's Benicio del Toro!"
The room erupted in applause.
Cameras flashed, and the screen behind them lit up with Benicio's familiar face — calm, confident, seasoned.
He smiled and nodded humbly, mouthing a soft "thank you."
Jihoon joined in the applause, clapping politely.
Beside him, Ryan Reynolds exhaled with a mix of disappointment and acceptance crossing his face.
He leaned back, trying to smile through it, but Jihoon could see the flicker of defeat in his eyes.
For a moment, it felt like that was it — game over.
But Elodie hadn't finished.
She waited for the applause to settle, holding up her other hand dramatically. "And…" she paused again, drawing out the suspense like a seasoned performer, "…Buried's Ryan Reynolds!"
The hall froze.
Then — boom. Gasps, then applause — louder, wilder, confused but thrilled.
The camera feed split into two: on one side, Benicio's composed expression, and on the other, Ryan's face frozen in shock, his mouth half open as if his brain hadn't processed the words yet.
The audience burst into laughter at the sight.
The camera zoomed in, capturing Ryan's dumbfounded reaction, his eyes darting between the stage and Jihoon beside him, who was now grinning.
It was a 'Tie'.
In Cannes, a 'Tie' is an occurrence was known as Ex-aequo — a Latin term meaning 'equal merit.'
It was rare, yes, but not unheard of.
Since the festival's inception in 1939, there had been around thirty such ties across categories — each time a symbolic moment, celebrating two equally powerful performances that defined a cinematic year.
For the Best Actor category, there had been a handful of Tie— twelve in total, to be exact — but two had become legendary.
The first, in 1946, was dubbed "The Historic First Tie," marking Cannes' return after World War II and setting the tone for decades of artistry to come.
The second, in 1991, had been one for the books: John Turturro and Samuel L. Jackson — two American icons with completely different energies but equally magnetic performances.
Jackson's trademark swagger, that rough, no-nonsense charisma he carried through every role — from Pulp Fiction to Coach Carter — had become part of his acting DNA.
Even when he played a mentor, the thug-like grit never left his tone or body language.
That was his brand — raw, authentic, unforgettable.
Now, history was repeating itself — another iconic pairing: Benicio del Toro, the veteran; Ryan Reynolds, the newcomer.
One a seasoned craftsman of emotion, the other a daring experiment by a young Korean director who bet everything on him.
Jihoon could already imagine tomorrow's headlines:
[The Young and the Old: Cannes Crowns Two Generations.]
[From Comedy guy to Buried Alive — Ryan Reynolds' Rise to Cannes Glory.]
[The Predecessor and the Heir.]
Ryan, still frozen in disbelief, blinked rapidly.
His expression — a mix of shock and childlike confusion — was plastered on the big screen, making the audience burst into laughter again.
Jihoon nudged him with his elbow. "Ryan," he whispered, half chuckling, "come on, man, it's not the time to play dumb. People are waiting for you!"
Ryan turned to him, eyes wide, whispering shakily, "Lee… I'm trembling, man."
Then he stood up abruptly and pulled Jihoon into a tight hug. "Thank you, Lee! You have no idea how much this means to me!"
Jihoon patted his back, half laughing, half emotional. "Calm down, man. Don't go crying on camera. Posture, posture! Go on, it's your moment."
Ryan nodded, sniffling, his eyes watery but shining. "I'll never forget this, I swear. You helped me more than anyone ever did. I owe you big time!"
"Haha, alright, I'll remember you said that. Now go — your spotlight's waiting."
Ryan grinned, adjusted his suit nervously, and made his way toward the stage. The crowd's applause followed him like a wave.
His steps were steady, but the camera caught the faint tremor in his hands — excitement he couldn't hide.
Benicio was already waiting, ever the gentleman.
Despite his famously stern look, his smile was genuine as he extended a hand to Ryan.
The two men shook hands, and for a moment, it was as if time slowed — old and new, master and student, standing shoulder to shoulder under Cannes' golden lights.
Benicio, the veteran, insisted Ryan go first, but Ryan politely declined, gesturing for the senior actor to take the mic.
It was respect — not hierarchy, but courtesy.
Like the Korean custom Jihoon grew up with, where juniors let seniors lead out of grace, not fear.
Benicio's speech was composed, graceful, even predictable.
Years of standing on stages like this had made him fluent in gratitude. He thanked the jury, his director, and his co-stars — nothing that would shake the media or make headlines.
But his sincerity still resonated.
Then it was Ryan's turn.
He stepped up to the microphone, his breath unsteady.
For a moment, he simply looked out at the crowd — at the ocean of faces, the flashlights, the cameras, the surreal weight of standing at Cannes as Best Actor.
"Honestly," he began, his voice shaky but honest, "as a newbie to this stage… I don't think anyone can really understand how I feel right now."
He lifted his hand, which trembled visibly under the lights. "Look — it's been shaking since Elodie said my name and still is."
The audience laughed softly, charmed by his boyish sincerity.
Even Jihoon found himself grinning.
After the laughter subsided, Ryan continued, voice steadier now. "Let's be real — I wouldn't be here without Lee."
He pointed to Jihoon in the audience, the camera instantly cutting to him.
Jihoon chuckled, giving him a thumbs-up while clapping.
Ryan smirked. "Without this guy, I wouldn't even have been buried alive — literally. He personally picked me for this project, trained me, pushed me… and mentally tortured me."
He paused dramatically before adding, "So yeah, he's technically a psycho."
The hall exploded in laughter.
The audience remembered the pre-premiere interviews — stories of Jihoon's relentless direction on set, his perfectionism, and his obsession with realism.
It had become an inside joke among festival-goers.
Ryan waited for the laughter to die down, then grew more serious. "But in all honesty, Lee — thank you. You saw something in me I didn't even see in myself. You didn't just direct me, you challenged me. You made me better."
He turned back to the audience, smiling. "I also want to thank Jim, our producer, everyone from JH, and the team at Fox. You guys are the reason Buried exists — and why I'm standing here tonight. Thank you for believing in me."
And, because he couldn't help himself, Ryan added with a grin, "And my room is open for you guys tonight!"
He gave a quick slap on his own backside and made a dramatic hissing sound into the microphone.
The entire hall erupted in laughter and applause.
His closing line wasn't what Cannes audiences were used to—it was more like something straight out of the Oscars, full of cheeky humor and spontaneous charm.
But that was just soon to be Wade Wilson— Ryan Reynolds never afraid to break the tension with a joke, even on the most prestigious stage in world cinema.
The hall shook with energy — joy, humor, celebration.
Cannes hadn't seen such a lively acceptance speech in years.
When Ryan finally returned to his seat, he was still buzzing with adrenaline.
He hugged Jihoon again, whispering, "My offer still stands. My door's open for you tonight, Lee!"
He winked, flashing that signature mischievous smile.
Jihoon rolled his eyes and lightly punched his chest. "Stop it, you idiot."
Ryan chuckled. "Oh? Is that how you like it? Rough, huh? Don't worry, I can handle rough positions too."
The people sitting nearby overheard and burst out laughing. Jihoon covered his face, half-embarrassed, half-amused.
"Get the fuck off my face man!" Jihoon barked back, shaking his head.
But inside, he was proud — not just of Ryan, but of what they had achieved together.
Buried wasn't just a film anymore.
It was proof — that passion, sincerity, and raw storytelling could still triumph in a world dominated by spectacle.