Glory Film Company

Episode 16: Gathering Dragon Balls (1)

The summer night was short, but it was enough to make history.
“Please, have a seat here.”
“We ordered some tteokbokki.”
“And also some golbaengi noodles. Do you like them? You don’t seem to eat much. Have some food while we talk.”

As Youngkwang and Ha Pilsung entered the pub in a lively atmosphere, the staff and actors gradually relaxed and began approaching Youngkwang one by one. They even offered him food.

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you! I heard you were coming, but I just wrapped up coordinating the next filming location rental. Sorry for the delay, really.”

Park Kyungsoo, the production manager who arrived late, was moved to tears as if it were his own achievement when he heard that Ha Pilsung had decided to sign a director contract instead of selling the rights to his previous work.

“It’s a bit old-school, though…”

Youngkwang unfolded a pub napkin and scribbled a short contract on it before handing it to Director Ha.

“You’ve really learned how to get things done. Haha.”

Director Ha burst into hearty laughter as he boldly stamped his seal on it. After Youngkwang transferred a modest but meaningful 1 million won as a signing bonus, they sealed the deal with a firm handshake.

It was an old-fashioned method reminiscent of the 1980s.
While a proper contract would naturally be drafted later, what mattered now was instilling confidence that the deal was finalized. This, too, had its charm and sense of romance.

“Wow, our director is finally making it big! Is this your entry into the major leagues?”
“Exactly, it’d be a waste for talent like his to stay unnoticed. My Way really knows how to spot potential!”
“Absolutely! PD Choi, you’ve got a sharp eye. You’re securing a great talent and project for a bargain price!”
“Hey, how would you even know if it’s a bargain or not?”
“Come on, who’s signing Director Ha for top dollar? Let’s be honest here.”
“Right. Even the director himself always said, ‘We’re about value for money! Use me cheaply, be amazed by the quality, and that’s how we survive!’ Isn’t that what you always said?”
“Ugh, look at these kids running their mouths without a shred of shame. Just you wait. If I become a star director, I’m casting every single one of you out of spite.”
“What? Are you really aiming to become a star director?”
“Wow! Will it happen before you hit 60?”
“You little punks!”

Laughter erupted around the table, spilling over with ease. Even Youngkwang chuckled faintly.

In the film industry, camaraderie often comes to mind first. But on some sets, there’s friction, and sometimes directors are ostracized—whether because they’re difficult to work with, lack responsibility, or for no apparent reason at all. The reasons vary.

But Ha Pilsung was a beloved director, genuinely supported and cheered on by the staff and actors alike. It said a lot about how he made films and the relationships he built with people in the industry.

“We’ll draft the formal contract back at the office and send it to you within a week. Oh, and we should meet once more before that.”
“Yes, we should.”
“For now, focus on what’s most important to you—this production. Once filming wraps, give me a call.”
“Let’s do that.”

When Youngkwang wrapped things up cleanly, Ha Pilsung gave him a grateful look.
A long-dreamed-of opportunity had arrived suddenly, catching him off guard. While everyone celebrated for him as if it were their own achievement, this pub was still an extension of the erotic film set. If the lines between roles blurred too much, it could unintentionally hurt the people who mattered most.

“Even a small film is still a film, after all…”

Ha Pilsung felt warmth spreading through his chest, touched by Youngkwang’s thoughtfulness and respect in maintaining the right atmosphere on set.

Quietly stepping aside, Youngkwang observed the staff while nibbling on the food served. None of the actors particularly stood out, but Park Kyungsoo, the production manager who was a close friend of Director Ha, seemed quite competent.

If production kicked off in earnest, they’d likely need a line producer. Park Kyungsoo’s long-standing collaboration with Ha Pilsung was a definite plus, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to bring him into My Way Pictures.

That was as far as his evaluation went. At an appropriate moment, Youngkwang promised another meeting and took his leave.

*****

The next afternoon at the My Way Pictures office:
“So, it’s good, huh? You’re saying the director wrote this on his own?”

Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon, who had initially been flustered by Youngkwang’s unexpected report of sealing a project planning contract, softened their expressions as they flipped through Ha Pilsung’s script.

“It’s ambitious enough to make sense, but still, signing on the spot was a bit hasty.”

Since the contract was signed within the budget autonomy they’d agreed upon, they couldn’t exactly criticize him outright.

Signing a Director for Just 1 Million Won
The terms hastily jotted down on a napkin were simple yet cleanly written, ensuring that even if the deal fell through at this point, My Way Pictures wouldn’t incur any losses. It was such a practical move that the team’s commentary was limited to discussing feasibility and potential risks.

“Black comedy is a really tough genre. Comedy itself is hard, but black comedy?”
“Exactly. Isn’t he choosing an unnecessarily difficult path when there are easier ones available?”
“But books with mainstream appeal and hints of being a big hit tend to face fierce competition.”

This was essentially an admission of My Way Pictures’ current limitations. Youngkwang smiled at this brutally honest observation.

“As you can see, the project’s potential to be shot on a low budget is a significant advantage.”
“Fine, let’s assume that’s the case,” Lee Deokjae said with a sigh.

“This will be your first project as a producer, Youngkwang. The outcome of this will determine your next step. So, are you sure you won’t regret spending the golden opportunity of using the 100 million won project budget this way? Are you certain enough to go all in on this? Confident, huh?”

Youngkwang almost burst out laughing at Lee Deokjae’s serious expression.

“Director, who puts all their eggs in one basket?”
“…What?”

Both Lee Deokjae and the others present, Choi Suhyeon and Jang Hyunmin, tilted their heads in confusion.

“I plan to prepare three projects within the 100 million won I can manage. This is just one of them.”
“…Three projects?”
“What else are you planning to do?”

It dawned on him that he hadn’t shared his budget strategy with them.
Recalling the oversight, Youngkwang took the opportunity to kindly explain his future plans.

“I’m targeting two other projects with completely different tones, themes, and genres to set them apart. Even if you’re confident in this industry, unexpected variables always pop up. You have to cast multiple lines.”

“…Two more projects? Do you already have an outline for them too?”

This time, Choi Suhyeon raised an eyebrow, intrigued. The plan sounded reasonable upon reflection, but given that Youngkwang was a green newcomer, they needed to verify whether he had a concrete plan or was just bluffing.

Of course, Youngkwang had a plan. Admittedly, it was somewhat impulsive.

“I do.”
“What kind of projects?”
“Actually, I need your help with something first.”

Smiling confidently, Youngkwang made his request.
“Could you arrange a meeting with Director Kwak Junghoon for me?”

“With Director Kwak? Why?”
“I was hoping to meet him at the last screening event, but he didn’t show up.”

A few weeks ago, at the screening event for That Night, Director Kwak Junghoon, who was expected to attend, didn’t make an appearance—not even during the afterparty that ran until dawn.

“Oh, yeah, I heard something came up. But why do you want to meet him?”
“Why else? To recruit him, of course.”
“Recruit?”
“Yes, I want to propose a contract for his next project.”
“…What? Director Kwak with us?”
“Isn’t that obvious?”

“Pfft!”
“Haha!”

The trio burst out laughing at Youngkwang’s audacity.

“This is killing me, seriously.”
“First you bring in an erotic film director, and now you’re going after a ten-million-ticket director?”
“Exactly. This is the MZ generation for you—bold and unyielding. Bring it on, world.”

With an almost pitying look, Choi Suhyeon spoke.
“We’re somewhat friendly with Director Kwak. Back when I worked as a producer, we even worked on a project together.”

This was well-known information. In fact, Director Kwak was arguably the film industry figure closest to Youngkwang in the past—a star director who had achieved two films with ten million admissions.

However, Director Kwak had broken his contract with Youngkwang in the past and moved to Stay Film under CEO Gu. Despite this, they had maintained a positive relationship over the years.

At first, it could be excused as Kwak Junghoon falling for Gu Bonjik’s schemes, but the fact that their symbiotic relationship continued to this day was enough to leave Youngkwang feeling betrayed.

There might have been extenuating circumstances, just like when Lee Deokjae had his script stolen.
“Whatever the reason, I need to restore things to their original state. And now seems like the perfect time to do it.”

Youngkwang’s expression hardened.

“Producer Lee, a director with ten-million-ticket films carries a different weight. No matter how close you are personally, business is a separate matter.”

“He’s a director whose name is known even outside the industry. Do you really think he’d move so easily? He’s probably already committed to his next project.”

Their skepticism was evident: Why would a ten-million-ticket director come to My Way Pictures? However, that was for Director Kwak Junghoon to answer—not for anyone else to decide.

“Oh, so you don’t have a way to contact him…”

Youngkwang’s subtle taunt brought a reaction.

“What are you talking about? We don’t see each other as often as before, but we still meet occasionally,” Jang Hyunmin replied with a faint smile. His amused expression betrayed his curiosity about where this bold move would lead.

“Where do you meet?”

“There’s a whiskey bar near Hapjeong Station.”
“Whiskey?”
“It’s a hot spot. Kind of an unofficial hangout for film industry folks. You know Director Bae Youngho? He opened the place after retiring. The atmosphere is fantastic.”

Could I actually end up meeting Director Bae too?

Bae Youngho had been in charge of the set where Youngkwang had lost his life in the fire. After the tragedy, Bae’s career—and his life as a director—had spiraled downward. He had spent years drowning in alcohol, only to find surprising success in the whiskey business.

“Shall we set up a meeting, then?”

When Jang Hyunmin suggested it, Choi Suhyeon shrugged.

“Well, I don’t know. If we could secure a ten-million-ticket director and his film, it would definitely make passing the investment committee much easier.”

“Why not take a shot? Besides, I’ve heard Director Kwak has been feeling frustrated lately… I wouldn’t be surprised if our rookie here managed to hit another home run,” Jang Hyunmin added, giving Youngkwang another vote of confidence.

Lee Deokjae smirked bitterly.

“I don’t know. If he thinks it’s just a kid testing the waters, who knows what he’ll say.”

“Then why don’t you step in yourself, hyung? Anyway, since it’s come up, I’ll reach out. I contacted him for the last screening, too,” said Jang Hyunmin, tapping away on his phone as he spoke.

*****

Kwak Junghoon
A veteran director who had been part of Youngkwang’s team during the Chungmuro Renaissance of the early 2000s. The 2005 film 18 Degrees, which Kwak had worked on with Youngkwang, had skyrocketed him to fame as a star director by becoming a ten-million-ticket blockbuster.

Around the same time, two other directors also achieved ten-million-ticket hits, pushing Korean films to capture a staggering 60% of the domestic audience share.

The unprecedented boom in Korean cinema attracted speculators to the industry. Phrases like “If you shoot it, it’ll make money” and “Just make anything” became commonplace as blind investments poured in.

This focus on expanding the industry’s size rather than its quality led to a few years of prosperity. However, the hastily made films inevitably failed to meet expectations, leading to the market’s rapid decline as discerning audiences turned away.

It took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears for filmmakers and investors to rebuild the system and focus on qualitative growth, ultimately restoring Korean cinema’s reputation. During this recovery period, Kwak Junghoon proved himself again, releasing his second ten-million-ticket film in 2017.

To those who knew cinema, Kwak Junghoon was a legend.

However, Youngkwang saw things differently.
“His form has broken.”

It wasn’t that Kwak had lost his touch—something else was amiss.

Kwak’s latest ten-million-ticket film, Players, had a dissonant quality. Roughly a third of it was distinctly Kwak’s style, but the rest felt like someone else’s work, an entirely different texture.

“It feels like he just abandoned it. Even if he was relying on someone else because of fatigue, he should have harmonized it in the end. It’s like he just gave up.”

Was it Kwak’s choice, or was there another reason? That needed to be clarified.
If he was dissatisfied with his current situation and My Way Pictures could resolve that, it might just be possible to bring Kwak Junghoon on board.

Youngkwang understood the temperament of artists very well, including Kwak’s style and personality. For now, today’s goal was simply to meet him and establish a connection.

As the sun began to set, Youngkwang headed to Bae Youngho’s whiskey bar, Long Intervals, with Lee Deokjae, Choi Suhyeon, and Jang Hyunmin.

Unfortunately, Director Bae wasn’t there—he was known for showing up late to his bar—and Director Kwak, who had promised to meet them at 8 p.m., still hadn’t appeared by almost 10 p.m.