We might almost be entering the private screening room of some mogul in Bel Air. An Apple product manager takes his seat among the 20 plush red chairs, and a salesman for Google in London sits down beside him. An Iranian kidney specialist collects a box of popcorn from the cart in the corner, as does a retired lawyer from Miami, a hedge-fund manager from New York, and an American investment banker now in Hong Kong.

Then the lights go dim and suddenly the locally cherished North Korean movie O Youth! begins to unfold before the group of tourists in Pyongyang. It's an engaging and zany Jane Austen-style comedy, about a beleaguered father trying to marry off his nerdy historian son so his five perky daughters can go out and claim husbands. But unlike Persuasion or Emma, it features a blushing beauty crying, “Let's bring glory to the youth in the embrace of the General!” When the nerd takes the heroine on a roller-coaster ride, he abruptly breaks into a disquisition on the history of Korean boxing in the second century B.C. and then speaks of a “U.S. bloodsucker quaking with fear.” The April 25th Studio, in North Korea's capital, where we are seated, is named, let's not forget, after the date on which the Korean People's Army was founded. In its lavish but almost empty halls—there's not even running water or electricity in the restrooms—the main item on display is a huge mural at the entrance, depicting the country's “Eternal Leader,” Kim Il Sung, and his son, Kim Jong Il, flanked by soldiers.

So, yes, “Cholliwood,” as it's been dubbed (“Chollima” is the name of the flying horse you see everywhere in North Korea), is not quite Cinecittà. And no one has ever accused the country around it of sweetness and light. When North Korea apparently hacked into Sony's computer system last December—then issued threats that almost torpedoed the release of The Interview, Sony's movie about an American talk-show host, and his producer, who are enlisted by the C.I.A. to kill North Korean leader Kim Jong Un—the world was reminded of how seriously Pyongyang takes filmmaking. Yet to pay a visit to the North Korean capital today is also to be reminded of how, in its eccentric way, the planet's most hermetically sealed nation is still trying, through films and sports mostly, to make a favorable impression on the rest of us.

As I and 14 other foreigners take in the antic action in the opulent second-floor screening room, among the first outsiders permitted to watch films in a studio traditionally given over to military movies, local film excitement is about to climax at the 14th Pyongyang International Film Festival. Last September, the biennial event began and concluded with virtually Oscar-level ceremonies, and in between showcased features such as Good Fellows (well, the Iranian movie, not the Scorsese one) and Fast Girls (a British film about 400-meter runners).

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Now, as the final credits roll, a small, balding man, straight-backed in his thin shirt, arms held rigidly by his side, comes shyly out to entertain our questions: the seasoned director of the film, Jong Pal Jon. We ask him about how his film differed from the screenwriter's version. About how he hopes local comedies might improve in the future. About why, in North Korean movies, the theme music is written before the script.