Glory Film Company

Episode 20: The Perfect Packaging

“Terms?”

“We’re here to convey Director Kwak Junghoon’s interest, but we’re not mere errand boys. We didn’t come just because we were told to. My Way Pictures has been preparing diligently to bring you on board. We should’ve started with that.”

At Youngkwang’s confident words, Lee Deokjae, Jang Hyunmin, and Joo Kanghyuk all turned to him with expressions that said, What are you talking about now? It was only natural, given the sudden and unexpected nature of his statement.

“If you agree to take on this project, a few titles will come your way.”

Youngkwang smiled as he spoke.

“Titles? What kind of titles?”

“You’ll be known as the cinematographer of a ten-million-viewer movie, the one with the highest-ever pay, and the director who worked in the most ideal filming environment.”

As always, Youngkwang exuded unshakable confidence.

Lee Deokjae and Jang Hyunmin, familiar with this side of him, exchanged glances that said, There he goes again, being Youngkwang. Meanwhile, Joo Kanghyuk stared at him as if to say, Who does this guy think he is?

“A ten-million-viewer director? There’s no guarantee the next film will hit that milestone, just because the last one did.”

“Oh, of course not. But I happen to know a little about the project lined up after this one.”

At that, Joo Kanghyuk’s brows furrowed.
Despite his aversion to Stay Film, born from bad blood, he had a certain respect for Kwak Junghoon’s talent.

“He’s undeniably capable. His recent slump is due to systemic issues, not his own shortcomings…”

The fact that Kwak specifically wanted him, that the script was tailored to his taste, and that the young PD sitting across from him radiated such conviction piqued his curiosity.

The figure of ten million viewers—an aspirational benchmark for filmmakers everywhere—lingered in his thoughts.

To some, such numbers might sound like a lottery ticket pipe dream, but Youngkwang hadn’t thrown it out casually. He knew exactly what Kwak Junghoon had up his sleeve.

“I’ve had this concept in mind for years. Set in modern-day Korea, it’s a fantasy-action drama where mythical beings, long thought to be mere legends, suddenly spring to life!”

That night at the whiskey bar, Kwak had excitedly outlined the premise of his next-next project:

A story centered on guardian spirits. The narrative followed the unsealing of ancient beings trapped in relics, statues, and old texts, intertwined with the fated meeting of a prophetic figure.

Before writing 18 Degrees, Kwak had been developing this story. Youngkwang, having worked alongside him during that period, had heard it countless times.

The story was fresh and original, though difficult to execute with the technology of the early 2000s. Moreover, Kwak’s poor track record at the time meant it had no chance of seeing the light.

Even after achieving success with a ten-million-viewer film, misfortune or bad timing had kept the project shelved.

“If executed well, it could be a niche-buster. With the right investment, it might even surpass the competition.”

Youngkwang trusted Kwak Junghoon’s abilities. The rare, captivating concept coupled with a relatable and emotionally engaging story had massive potential. Kwak’s strengths—his knack for creating vivid characters and sharp, witty dialogue—would bring it all together.

“Well, I suppose we can assess that once the script is ready. But what about this ‘unprecedented deal’ you mentioned? Isn’t it premature to discuss budgets or terms when the project hasn’t even been greenlit? Isn’t that irresponsible?”

“While the budget hasn’t been finalized, we can set the terms in advance,” Youngkwang replied calmly.

“…What terms?”

Joo Kanghyuk’s face now bore a massive question mark.

“We’ll offer you a fair rate within the budget constraints. Plus, we’re prepared to propose a running guarantee contract.”

“…A running guarantee?”

“What?”

At Youngkwang’s bold declaration, even Lee Deokjae and Jang Hyunmin sobered up, exclaiming in disbelief.

“Why? Do you think it’s impossible?”

“No, not impossible, but…”

“Wouldn’t it be too risky? It could be seen as disrespectful if the project flops, or spark controversy even if it succeeds.”

Look at them suddenly becoming tightwads at the mention of money.

Youngkwang shook his head slightly, undeterred.

The focus and nuance of the conversation were undeniably suspicious.

Youngkwang had emphasized that the payment would be set at a reasonable level within the budget, ensuring there would be no undue burden on the director even if the project didn’t perform well.

Then what’s the controversy if it does succeed?
‘It’s probably about the relative sense of deprivation other teams and staff might feel.’

He understood the caution, driven by concerns over fairness. If that were the issue, the solution would be to ensure clear rewards for other staff as well. Suggesting that no one should be given such incentives to avoid controversy would be a narrow-minded approach.

Of course, the hesitation was understandable. Even if a film succeeds, it’s notoriously difficult for a production company to achieve stable profits. The pie is already small, and the production company is last in line for the distribution. The reluctance to divide up the remaining sliver further was only natural.

‘But without changing that mindset, My Way Pictures will never climb back up from the bottom.’

“What exactly can we offer, then? A sense of camaraderie? Loyalty? The comfort that comes from long-standing relationships?”

Youngkwang didn’t mince words, delivering a sharp dose of reality.

Camaraderie? Loyalty? What nonsense.
The film industry might run on relationships, prioritize the project above all, and view mutual assistance as honorable, but at the end of the day, people need full stomachs to focus on their work.

That’s an unchanging truth.

Joo Kanghyuk, having suffered financial hardships in the past, needed the assurance that he could enjoy a stable life while doing what he loved. Only with that expectation could he comfortably return to this field.

Money doesn’t solve everything, but it resolves plenty.
Asking someone to concentrate on their art while struggling with next month’s living expenses is a joke.

Youngkwang recalled the injustices he had witnessed on past sets and the ruined reputations of his team members.

No one on my sets will go hungry again.
Not only that, I’ll make sure the treatment they receive makes their passion and self-esteem soar to unparalleled levels.

Youngkwang’s philosophy and work ethic dictated that to win someone’s body and soul, you must first give them everything. He was confident he could do so because he didn’t see his success as a one-off. He was certain he would continue to succeed and earn enough money to avoid getting stingy over immediate costs.

“Heh. You’re all worked up. I didn’t even ask for any of this,” Joo Kanghyuk remarked.

“No, sir. It wasn’t pre-discussed, so we were caught off guard. But now that I’ve thought it through, there’s no problem with providing these terms. It’s entirely feasible if you agree to join us.”

Thankfully, Lee Deokjae snapped back to focus, completing his mental calculations.

“So, we’ll finalize the pay once the budget is set?”

With a refreshing gulp of water, Youngkwang wrapped up the explanations for the two conditions: ten-million-viewer cinematographer and unprecedented compensation. Then, he smoothly transitioned to the last condition: creating the ideal filming environment.

“As you know, Director Kwak doesn’t use storyboards on his sets. Instead, all staff members participate in rehearsals. During these rehearsals, they freely exchange ideas, and everything comes together for the actual shoot. Naturally, the cinematographer’s role becomes immensely significant in this setup. Doesn’t that sound like the most ideal working environment for you?”

The concept of an “ideal filming environment” wasn’t fixed or universal—it varied by individual.

For example, Lee Deokjae, with his attention to detail and technical expertise, preferred meticulous storyboards that allowed everyone to visualize the scenes in advance. Directors who sought perfection would want to work on his sets.

On the other hand, Kwak Junghoon focused solely on the script, refining direction and emotional nuances until the final moment. His sets would be more suitable for someone like Joo Kanghyuk, who thrived on improvisation and quick thinking.

That was all there was to say. No need for long-winded explanations—someone with Joo Kanghyuk’s experience would grasp it well enough.

“……”

Just as Youngkwang had anticipated, Joo Kanghyuk silently sipped his drink, mulling it over. Objectively speaking, Youngkwang’s terms sounded like lofty, unrealistic promises—little more than a con man’s pitch.

Yet, his confident voice and piercing gaze inspired an inexplicable sense of trust, as if everything he said would come true.

“Those are certainly tempting terms.”

Finally, Kanghyuk gave his approval.

“Wow!”

“Cheers!”
“Let’s go!”

Lee Deokjae, Joo Kanghyuk, and Jang Hyunmin clinked their glasses energetically, their spirits high. Just as the momentum was about to peak, Youngkwang interjected with one final request.

“Director, it’s not that I don’t trust you, but since we’re a bit pressed for time, would it be alright if I asked you for a quick video call?”

Even as he spoke, Youngkwang was already dialing Kwak Junghoon’s number, not waiting for a response.

****

“Should we move offices?”
“Are you kidding? The rent here is insane! We still need to tighten our belts.”
“Yeah, but this is embarrassing… and it’s way too hot!”

Three weeks had passed. August was over, and the season stood on the threshold of autumn.

For the first time since its founding, My Way Pictures’ office was buzzing with activity, almost bursting at the seams. Naturally, the noise level was through the roof.

“Does this even make sense? The narrative goes, ‘I thought I was her last love, but that was just my assumption. In her story, I was only a supporting character—a passing figure, destined to eventually be forgotten.’ To make this impactful, it’s too late to introduce it in Scene 83. But if I bring it forward to the 60s, it’ll ruin the buildup of earlier episodes. Damn, this is driving me nuts.”
“Can’t you split the episodes? If you start intercutting around Scene 63, it might still make sense.”
“No, that’d make the direction feel cheap. I want the two narratives to blend naturally. Should I just scrap this scene? Ugh, but it feels too valuable to throw away.”
“Think carefully. Imagine each page is worth ten million won in production costs.”
“Ten million? So if it’s 100 pages, does that mean this is a 10 billion won film?”
“It’s one billion, you idiot. If it were 10 billion, you’d be writing a script worth 100 million won per page. Can you handle that? By the way, how are you this bad at math?”

Director Ha Pilsung and his childhood friend, production manager Park Kyungsoo, were breaking down and rebuilding Ha’s new draft daily, struggling to get it just right.

“Let’s start with Seoul. Cover everything from the Four Main Gates to the famous guardian spirits and even the lesser-known ones with no records.”
“Anticipating that, I’ve compiled everything. This file is for Seoul, this one’s for Gyeonggi, and here are files for Chungcheong, Jeolla, Gyeongsang, and Jeju. Just in case, I’ve also included Pyeongan, Hamgyong, and Hwanghae provinces.”
“Wow, you’re thorough!”

Director Kwak Junghoon had decided to refine the script further, enlisting a writer to flesh out the characters and their narratives.

Even Joo Kanghyuk, now freshly shaven and looking sharp, occasionally joined in, offering his input.

“So, this story relies heavily on perspective shots, right?”
“Exactly. With such a diverse cast of characters in opposing positions, that approach will be most effective. Some scenes will need to shift perspectives multiple times.”
“Right. Like moving from the guardian spirits’ perspective to the humans’ viewpoint in the same scene.”

Meanwhile, the original My Way Pictures crew bustled about in the background, adding to the chaos.

At times, nearly ten people crammed into a corner of a bar to hold meetings, making the place feel like a packed sardine can.

“Should we just head outside, grab a beer, and have our meeting there?”
“Maybe we should.”

Unable to bear the cramped conditions any longer, Choi Suhyeon and Lee Deokjae tactfully excused themselves.

“By the way, where is that rascal Youngkwang? He’s the one who gathered everyone in this tiny office.”
“He seems super busy lately.”

The one responsible for the chaos, Youngkwang, was rarely seen in the office these days.

It was now the perfect time to start recruiting actors in earnest, and he was constantly on the move.