Glory Film Company - Chapter 4

Chapter 4. Resetting the Goal

It was an era where ten-million-ticket films had become commonplace.
While still a remarkable achievement domestically, it no longer evoked the same awe that Youngkwang felt when he first reached that milestone.

“So that’s how Director Kwak managed to hit the ten-million mark twice.”

Back at home, Youngkwang delved into the history of the films he had missed. As expected, the movie market had grown exponentially, with staggering shifts in its scale and dynamics.

“Ugh… Over twenty ten-million-ticket movies? That means at least one hit theaters every year since 2003!”

Frankly, it left him feeling bitter and hollow.
Starting with Korea’s first ten-million-ticket film in 2003, he had envisioned several more successes, culminating in a bold plan to dominate the global market by 2013. Yet, it had all already been accomplished.

“Did my goals get forcibly retired?”

Still, there was an opening.
‘There are plenty of movies, but… why do they all feel so similar? Did everyone attend the same boot camp? It’s like they care more about formulas than individuality.’

Perhaps the industry had only bulked up in size without achieving true depth.
Though there were variations in genre and subject matter, most movies felt like mass-produced factory products.

The diversity and originality Youngkwang had once strived for, along with the essential functions of cinema, were exceedingly rare.

‘And why is there so much trash now?’

Many films were attention-grabbing but lacked substance, stuffing their runtime with meaningless depravity and violence.
‘If even these kinds of movies received such substantial funding…’

Youngkwang furrowed his brow—
But then his lips curled into a small smile.

‘…This might actually be worth a shot.’

His breath steadied. A new goal had surfaced.

‘Let’s create a niche-buster. Let’s show them what I can really do.’

Unlike the blockbuster, which denotes a massive film capable of “blowing up a whole block,” the niche-buster succeeds by targeting a specific audience and finding unexpected box-office success.

For Youngkwang, who no longer had access to the old networks or financial resources he once enjoyed, creating a niche-buster seemed like the most realistic shortcut to regaining his influence.

‘Movies and audiences—it all comes down to fun. That’s universal, even in 2022. If I can deliver genuine enjoyment, the potential is there…’

He began outlining his objectives and the steps to reach them.

There would undoubtedly be challenges, but he didn’t mind. He’d weathered every kind of storm, facing them as naturally as breathing.

******

Three weeks passed.

Youngkwang immersed himself in rigorous self-study, analyzing the turning points, causes, and contexts of Korean cinema to define its present state.

‘An era of ruthless winner-takes-all.’

It made sense, of course.
Film budgets had grown significantly.
‘With the influx of large-scale investments, the risks increased, so they prioritized safe projects with guaranteed returns. Conservative approaches were inevitable.’

It was a foreseeable outcome.

Even in the early 2000s, the film industry had attracted blind money. Rumors that cinema was profitable, coupled with the advent of ten-million-ticket films, likely drew even more large-scale investors. The experimental nature of the industry must have been overhauled into a structured system to accommodate this industrialization.

“The disappointing part is how uniform their risk management strategies turned out to be.”

Ten times out of ten, or a hundred out of a hundred, the winning formula was always the same:
A star director, A-list actors, experienced production companies, and scripts with a proven track record.

Yet, not all of these “safe bets” succeeded.
‘They reduced filmmaking to probabilities and figures. That’s why so many flops emerged. And when those who failed were cast aside without learning from their mistakes, the industry couldn’t reduce future risks.’

Data was essential.
But data wasn’t infallible.

The success or failure of a film often defied predictions, and audiences were far from simple enough to be understood through numbers alone.

This was why the instincts of producers and directors mattered so much.

Youngkwang slowly nodded.
‘A lot of investments focused on safe, mid-level successes rather than big gambles. If I can pick up a few overlooked gems, things will get a lot easier.’

But to do that, he needed absolute confidence in his judgment and abilities.

His instincts had been flawless up to 2003, but he still needed to verify whether they could accurately navigate the trends of this distant future.

“Let’s watch one more film.”

He launched an OTT streaming app.

During the first few days of his study, he’d holed up in the media room of the local library, determined to catch up on the hits of the past 19 years.
That was when a kind librarian had suggested using OTT platforms to binge-watch his choice of content from home.

And that…
Turned out to be a revelation.

Gone were the countless video stores and DVD rental shops. In their place stood a highly evolved online rental system.

The platform offered a staggering amount of content.
‘This makes it the 187th movie I’ve watched…?’

Youngkwang clicked on a random eye-catching thumbnail and began watching. As the movie played, he mentally estimated its production year, budget, break-even point, audience numbers, and marketing strategies.

After finishing, he cross-checked his guesses against actual data through internet searches.
It was a routine he had perfected since his early days in the film industry and had executed flawlessly up until 2003.

Initially, adapting to changes in inflation, labor costs, equipment, and production systems proved challenging. However, with solid fundamentals and keen intuition, he quickly grasped the present-day landscape.

His ability to identify promising films steadily aligned with 2022 trends, signaling that it was time for him to step out into the world.

****

“Ugh, it’s hot.”

The trip from Sangsu-dong to Sangam-dong was brief.
Today, Youngkwang planned to visit the Korean Film Archive and the Korean Film Council in Sangam-dong.
He intended to review key records in Korean film history and catch up on the status of a few individuals he was curious about.

The Korean Film Archive was just a short walk from the bus stop.
Its basement housed screening rooms, the first floor was home to a film museum chronicling 100 years of Korean cinema, and the second floor featured a film library.

The museum exhibited films that Youngkwang had poured his youth into—costumes, props, posters, snippets of behind-the-scenes stories, and even director interviews.

“Ha… Feels good. I wish I could have seen all this come together in real time.”

Smiling softly, he allowed himself to get lost in nostalgia for a moment.

“Hahaha! Exactly!”
“But you can’t even bring that up these days without getting laughed at. Hahaha!”

Boisterous laughter snapped him out of his thoughts.
“…What’s this?”

He spotted a group of men gathered near the elevator. At the center of the group was…

“It looks like him…”

A familiar face.

It was Park Mujin, the president of World Theater.
He had been a bold investor in the first film Youngkwang ever produced. Though his face was now lined with age and his hair white, he was instantly recognizable.

‘…This is an opportunity.’

Youngkwang strode purposefully toward the group.

“Hello, sir. It’s an honor to meet you.”

He bowed at a 90-degree angle without preamble, catching Park Mujin by surprise.

“Oh? Do you know who I am?”

“Of course. Aren’t you President Park Mujin of World Theater?”

At Youngkwang’s confident response, Park Mujin chuckled heartily.

“How does a young man like you know me and World Theater?”

World Theater, once an icon of Chungmuro, had long since closed its doors. For someone of Youngkwang’s apparent age, it would have been history from when he was barely ten years old. That made his recognition of Park Mujin all the more intriguing.

“I dream of working in the film industry. While studying, I learned about World Theater and the films you invested in.”

Youngkwang skillfully blended truth and fiction in his explanation.

“Ah, I see. So, you’re aspiring to join the film world. Which path are you preparing for? Screenwriter? Director? Or actor?”

Park Mujin’s tone was practical, his efficient nature suggesting this might be his final question.

“No, sir. I aim to become a producer.”

Youngkwang slowly raised his head, meeting Park Mujin’s gaze directly.

The older man’s expression flickered. A producer was not a widely recognized role outside the film industry, and it seemed to pique his curiosity.

“I believe that the remarkable growth of Korean cinema was thanks to the contributions of passionate producers who helped usher in the Renaissance of Korean films. I want to become a producer who can lead a second Renaissance for Korean cinema.”

“…A second Renaissance?”

Park Mujin’s eyebrows twitched—a reaction Youngkwang had anticipated.

He knew Park Mujin was a die-hard cinephile, a man who had spent his life pouring his fortune, time, and passion into films. This was someone who cared more about watching exciting new movies than making money.

If he had grown disillusioned or frustrated with the current state of cinema, the idea of sparking a second Renaissance would undoubtedly resonate with him.

“Are you saying the current state of cinema needs some changes?”

“Yes,” Youngkwang replied with a sly smile.

“Most of all, there’s no fun in choosing what to watch anymore. In a world where you can pick from 31 flavors of ice cream, going to the theater feels like having your preferences dictated to you. Don’t you feel the same way, sir?”

Youngkwang’s question prompted a hearty laugh from Park Mujin.

“Haha! I was just saying how alienated I feel when I go to theaters these days, so I’ve been rewatching old classics instead.”

‘Just as I thought.’

It was clear that Park Mujin harbored some dissatisfaction with modern cinema.

“But that’s how it was back in the Chungmuro days. The production environment is completely different now compared to the era of churning out cheap, high-volume films.”

Accepting the realities of the industry’s constraints, Youngkwang gently fanned the flames of hope.

“Yes, exactly. That’s why I plan to create change through small films.”
“Small films? Do you mean art films?” Park Mujin asked with a hint of skepticism.

Youngkwang shook his head firmly.
“No, I mean commercial films. That way, more people will watch them, and we can make substantial profits as well.”
“Oh? And how would you do that?”
“I’ll make niche-busters.”

Park Mujin’s curiosity deepened, and his eyes gleamed with sharp interest.
“…Do you even know what a producer does?”

Planning, developing ideas and scripts, casting, securing funding, scouting locations, managing the set, budgeting, marketing, and distribution—the producer oversees every stage of a film’s creation.

It was a question Youngkwang couldn’t possibly fail to answer.
“Of course I do.”

“Do you have any experience?”

That question made Youngkwang hesitate. Even with nearly two decades of experience, the body he inhabited didn’t share that history, making it a tricky question to answer.

Interpreting his silence as hesitation, Park Mujin straightened, pulling back slightly from the conversation.
“Knowing something in your head and understanding it with your body are different things. Still, give it your best shot. I’m always looking forward to entertaining films.”

He offered those words of encouragement and turned to leave, but Youngkwang wasn’t done.

“President Park, if I achieve meaningful results as a producer, would you consider becoming my investor?”
“…What?”

“I’ve heard you haven’t made any private investments since 2003. In fact, rumors say you stepped away from the industry entirely about five years ago. I’d like to be the one to break that hiatus.”

The gentle smile lingering on Park Mujin’s face vanished.
“Well, now…”
“This young man…”
“Let’s stop here,” one of the suited men muttered uncomfortably, unable to hide his displeasure at the bold conversation unfolding before them.

But they didn’t know Park Mujin as well as Youngkwang did.
He had always been a man who admired individuals who pushed boundaries with clear goals. It was that very quality that had led him to invest in Youngkwang long ago when he had nothing.

“Ha-ha-ha!”

Park Mujin threw his head back and laughed heartily, the sound echoing down the corridor.
“An investment, huh…? You’re aiming to be a producer or filmmaker from the ’90s, aren’t you? Alright. If you meet my standards with your results, I promise to invest.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll come to see you soon with those results.”

Youngkwang bowed deeply, his expression serious yet grateful.

“You’re an amusing one, truly amusing,” said Park Mujin with a wide grin as he extended his hand.

As Youngkwang shook it, Park Mujin pulled out a pen and neatly wrote his contact information on Youngkwang’s palm, an old habit of his.

“What’s your name, young man?”

Youngkwang paused to take a breath before answering.
“Lee Youngkwang.”

For a brief moment, Park Mujin’s expression shifted, but Youngkwang pretended not to notice and bowed again, retreating from the conversation.

It was a significant gain.

Though conditional on meaningful results, Park’s promise of investment for the next project was as good as gold. A verbal agreement, yes, but this was Park Mujin—a man who never went back on his word.

‘Looks like I’ll need to move my plans up.’

Initially, he had planned to spend the day studying recent trends and digging through resources at the Korean Film Council. Now, it seemed he’d have to revise his entire schedule.

Exiting the building, Youngkwang checked a saved link and dialed the unfamiliar number listed.
His goal was clear: secure a position at the production company he had set his sights on—today, no matter what.