Glory Film Company

Episode 15: Start

“Kibeom! Could you grab the books from the trunk of my car?” Ha Pilsung shouted at the assistant director before downing half of the newly delivered 500cc draft beer in one go.

“People say even porcupines think their own kids are cute, and monks can’t shave their own heads… It’s really hard to be objective about yourself, isn’t it?”

“Well, that’s true.”

“Still, I thought that script was good. I had big dreams, imagining it could really take off. I could picture it being shown in 200, 300 theaters nationwide,” Ha said, his normally casual demeanor hinting at the occasional spark of earnestness.

His confidence in the script that Youngkwang was about to review was enough to spark high expectations.

“But I wasn’t being objective. When I pitched it to investors, they just yawned. Some didn’t even bother to listen. Urp… burp.”

The beer seemed to bring out both Ha’s words and his belches. He continued pouring out his bottled-up frustrations.

“You know how it is—investors look at the director’s name value and filmography. Maybe I was being greedy, aiming for something out of my reach. Commercial films are big ventures. They must’ve thought I was too inexperienced to handle one.”

Ha’s verbose admission of failure felt unnecessary—it suggested he hadn’t fully come to terms with it.

Youngkwang thought back on Ha Pilsung’s filmography. Over ten films produced, but all were low-budget, 90-minute erotic films with budgets under 200 million won.

No investor would’ve felt comfortable trusting him with a commercial film worth billions. And if Ha had pitched his script to people in the erotic film industry, it was unlikely they’d show any interest in a black comedy. Unless someone with a sharp eye had noticed Ha’s talent on set, as Youngkwang had today, he’d have had no chance.

“Well, I don’t have big ambitions. As long as I can keep working steadily and put food on the table, I’m grateful. At least there’s consistent demand here. Look at how much commercial film directors suffered during COVID.”

Ha let out a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Director! The books!”

At that moment, the assistant director returned, arms full of books. A stale, moldy smell wafted up, cutting through the scent of fried chicken—it was clear the books had been neglected in the car trunk for quite some time.

“Let’s see… not this one, not this… ah, here it is.”

Ha handed a faded script to Youngkwang.

“Let me take a look.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, if that’s okay.”

“Well, I’ll go mingle with the staff then. Please, help yourself to some food and drinks. Everyone here is great.”

Ha, with a hearty laugh, excused himself and joined a table where staff and actors were chatting.

Youngkwang placed the script on the now quiet table.

“Dangerous Affairs,” huh? Is that supposed to be a double entendre?

As he turned the cover page, an engaging opening scene of a chase unfolded.

“Hmm. A pursuit involving people tied to the incident. They hook the audience’s curiosity, then rewind time to slowly unravel the story… It’s a classic trope, but it offers a reassuring familiarity.”

Nodding in approval, Youngkwang flipped through a few more pages.

Thirty minutes later:

“Ha… Shit. This is insane.”

With a deep sigh, Youngkwang wiped away tears from laughing too hard, struggling to suppress his rising grin.

“It’s better than I expected. Witty and polished.”

If Lee Deokjae’s strength lay in crafting unique worlds that allowed viewers to explore his imagination, Ha Pilsung was a master technician who wielded clichés with mastery, orchestrating a nonstop rollercoaster of emotions and catharsis.

“He has a deep understanding of plot, psychology, and instinct. It’s as if he instinctively knows what entertains and what stirs emotions. And he does it effortlessly.”

If just the script was this funny, how incredible would it be on screen? With proper actors delivering the lines and a decent budget behind the production…

Youngkwang began calculating in his head.

By 2022 standards, the operational costs for the pre-production phase of a commercial film typically hovered around 100 million won per film. The 300 million won My Way Pictures had received as compensation could fund the development of three planned projects under Stay Film and Gray Film.

But My Way Pictures intended to stretch that money to develop at least five projects, maximizing value for every won spent.

Especially, Youngkwang planned to develop about three films within the 100 million won budget he could secure. That would mean roughly 30 million won per project. While this amount might not appeal to established directors accustomed to the commercial film system, for Ha Pilsung, who had been producing 90-minute films with budgets of just 20 million won, 30 million for planning and development was enough to do almost anything.

Youngkwang nodded slightly as he observed Ha Pilsung narrowing differences of opinion with the actors over the script’s dialogue. Then, he spoke up.

“Director.”

“…Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but I think I’ll have to cancel the rights purchase.”

It was a firm declaration of a decision he had already made in his heart.

“What?”

“I thought I could just use the framework, but that was a hasty judgment.”

“Ah…”

A faint trace of disappointment flickered in Ha Pilsung’s eyes.

Wait, could this cause some misunderstanding? Realizing the potential for confusion, Youngkwang quickly clarified without pausing for breath.

“Not the rights—let’s make a deal for this book instead.”

Youngkwang lifted Ha Pilsung’s script, a faint smile on his face.

“Huh?”

A bewildered expression crossed Ha Pilsung’s face, as if asking what on earth he meant.

“As you said, it’s fun. It’s captivating. Depending on how much investment we can draw in, I think it could become a properly refined piece. My Way Pictures is interested in this work.”

It was a confident declaration, a solid proposal. Surely, such an offer would stir some emotion in Ha Pilsung. Feeling satisfied with himself, Youngkwang smiled proudly.

“Thank you for saying so, but…”

But Ha Pilsung sighed deeply, his face darkening, and gestured toward Youngkwang.

“Let’s step outside for a cigarette.”

Sssst…
The sound of the lighter flaring up accompanied the silence outside. Ha Pilsung took a short drag on his cigarette and exhaled before speaking.

“You said you’re a producer, right?”

“Yes? Yes.”

“How many years have you been at this?”

“Uh, does that really matter?”

Without meaning to, Youngkwang’s response came out defensively. Ha Pilsung gave him a bittersweet look in response.

“I’m not asking about your age. I’m wondering if you’re in a position to take responsibility for the promises you’ve made.”

Ah, so that’s what this was about.

Now that Youngkwang thought about it, Ha Pilsung’s eyes held the wounded look of a scarred beast. Had others before him made similar offers, stirred up his hopes, only to leave him deeply disappointed?

“At My Way Pictures, age or years of experience don’t matter,” Youngkwang said, meeting Ha Pilsung’s gaze directly. “What matters is talent. And we back that talent fully. So yes, you can trust that I have the authority to decide on development projects like this one.”

Ha Pilsung’s brow furrowed slightly.

He seemed intent on concealing his true feelings, but Youngkwang could see it clearly. There was a burning desire—an honest, powerful yearning to expand his world and showcase his work to a wider audience. It was evident in the script, as much as it was in his expression.

“Talent, huh?” Ha Pilsung murmured, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Then convince me. What about this failed script makes you want to make a deal? Prove it to me.”

Was this lingering pain from past disappointments? He had eagerly written the script, declared it fun himself, but now he wanted to be convinced of its merits?

Youngkwang couldn’t help but feel puzzled. Why make him account for wounds inflicted by others? Still, he decided to handle Ha Pilsung with a bit of tact.

“As I mentioned earlier, I initially thought a high-concept romantic comedy would suit it well. But after reading it, I realized incorporating black comedy elements would make it far more compelling.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The subtlety is masterful.”

“…What?”

“There’s no waste in the scenes or the exchanges of dialogue. Everything is concise, sharp, and hits the humor points exactly. The rhythm is impeccable. And the build-up…”

“The build-up?”

“Scenes you skim through in the beginning turn out to hold critical keys later on,” Youngkwang remarked.

“Did you catch that right away?” Ha Pilsung’s lips curved slightly upward.

“People who struggle with comprehension might miss it, but I’m a producer,” Youngkwang replied succinctly before returning to the main point. “This is something I consistently noticed in your previous works—you have a clear strength. There’s no waste in your films.”

“…!”

“You write and direct as if you already have a finished film fully realized in your mind, don’t you?”

“Well… that’s true, but…”

“And your calculations are remarkably accurate.”

Ha Pilsung was an undiscovered gem. He had operated in such a niche corner of the industry that creating connections must have been nearly impossible. Even the rare opportunities that came his way were likely dismissed due to preconceived notions.

“That’s what initially drew me to you. Movies are about money, after all. The challenge is making great films with minimal cost. And I felt that sensibility in your films. After seeing the site today, my instincts were confirmed.”

“Well, we’re always racing against time. The production budgets are terrible.”

“Of course, I took that into account. To be honest, I was curious whether you were a director whose limit was 20-million-won films or if you could handle bigger projects. That’s part of why I came to the set today.”

Ha Pilsung burst into laughter at Youngkwang’s forthrightness. “Haha! So today wasn’t just about the rights contract—you came to evaluate me, huh?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“So, you think I could make my commercial film debut with that script?”

His expression still lacked full trust. Even though he’d been told age didn’t matter, it was hard for Ha Pilsung to believe a youthful-looking producer in his twenties, who seemed untouched by hardship, could be the lifeline to realize his long-held aspirations. That belief would only come gradually as things progressed.

“I intend to support your script with a development budget of 30 million won, including your own fee. Depending on how you use it, it could cover four months or stretch to a year. And if things go well, we might secure additional funding. But for now, I can guarantee 30 million.”

“Ha.”

The specific amount left Ha Pilsung’s mouth agape, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Thirty million? For development?”

“Though I don’t think it’ll take a year. If we’re quick, two or three months should be enough,” Youngkwang said, sidestepping the question and trimming down the timeline. Ha Pilsung blinked his wide eyes and nodded enthusiastically.

“I’ve cranked out scripts in three days before. Two or three months would be overkill. Once the direction is clear, it’ll come together fast.”

“Some scripts may have been like that,” Youngkwang said with a faint smile. “But the script you handed me earlier didn’t feel that way.”

“…What?”

“Was that really a first draft?”

“What do you mean…?”

“Even acknowledging your style, talent, and strengths, it didn’t feel like a first draft to me.”

“…”

“It seemed like a script you’ve been revisiting and refining while waiting for the right moment.”

No matter how brilliant someone’s instincts, producing a perfect story in one go is nearly impossible. The script Youngkwang had read was flawless in structure, pacing, and dialogue. Every scene and line was tightly interwoven, organic, and cohesive.

There was no way a single attempt had produced that. Calling it a first draft likely came from a defensive instinct—to keep things casual and not appear overly desperate or attached.

“Wow, this is really something,” Ha Pilsung said, half the smile that had been on his face fading. “How are you this sharp? Are you saying you picked up on all that just from skimming through the script earlier at the pub? You caught all the intentional direction, setups, and character arcs in one go?”

His expression, initially incredulous, turned serious.

For the first time, the real face of Ha Pilsung—the director who had endured endless compromises to survive in a harsh industry—was revealed.