Glory Film Company - Chapter 5

Chapter 5. The Interview

Youngkwang’s meteoric rise to becoming Korea’s top producer was built on a foundation of exceptional instincts, talent, an unwavering sense of duty, and an obsessive passion for film.
But it was also thanks to his boundless optimism—the belief that any bad situation could be turned into a good result.

“There are tough times, but nothing’s impossible.”

This bull-headed determination, which seemed almost reckless, shone brilliantly in the fast-growing film industry of the ’90s and ultimately propelled him to the top.

*****

1989, Spring.

On his third day at a small film company, brought in by a recommendation from a certain director, Youngkwang was suddenly appointed production manager. His predecessor had fled the previous night.

“It’s no big deal. These are the projects in production, and these are the ones under review.”
Papers and scribbled notes came tumbling onto Youngkwang’s desk—schedules, scripts, casting lists, contracts, budgets…

Though he had experience working on two commercial films in the directing department, suddenly taking on the responsibilities of a production manager seemed impossible.

And it was.

The fact that his predecessor and even their predecessor—both more experienced than him—had also fled said it all. Promises of additional staff from the president of the company turned out to be empty words.

“Ha…”

Within days, Youngkwang understood why his predecessor, perpetually frazzled, had randomly handed him a Choco Pie before disappearing.

Every day was a blur.
His mental and physical health deteriorated.
At first, he resented his predecessor, but over time, he grew to admire them.

“How did they handle all this alone?”

The constant work must have drained their life force. No matter how fast he worked, the lashes of the metaphorical whip never ceased. Even cutting back on sleep wasn’t enough. Praise was replaced with curses, and exhaustion turned into bloody noses, bloodshot eyes, and a hoarse throat.

“Is this really what I wanted?”
“This isn’t the film industry I dreamed of…”

Doubts filled his mind.

But—
“Just one more day.”

He refused to give up.

His parents, who had promised to help with college tuition, had passed away long ago. As a high school graduate with no career options beyond film, there was no other path for him.

It was either survive or perish on this single road.

Youngkwang persevered and kept pushing forward because, despite everything, he loved movies.

Eventually, he began to see things more clearly.
“…!”

Scenes from masterpieces he had watched countless times became vivid in his mind, almost as if he had lived through their production himself.

How the camera explained a character, how set and location choices were optimized, what was needed to synchronize actors and directors for the best results. The importance and brilliance of sound, music, art, and lighting became undeniable.

His instincts grew sharper by the day.

One by one, his efforts bore fruit.
More than five consecutive films succeeded, and he was soon leading a significantly larger production team. With each completed film, his title evolved—from production manager to production director, and finally to producer.

By the mid-90s, after ten consecutive hits, he had become a celebrated producer in Chungmuro. He established Haru Pictures and spearheaded the renaissance of Korean cinema. At just 32 years old, he was at the top of his game.

Now?

At 26—six years earlier than that time—he was back to square one.
But his experience was unmatched, even if it was tied to a different era.

“Times may change, but the core remains the same. I’ll take over this field again and nurture it properly.”

Youngkwang reviewed his plans once more.

A small production company would be the best place to unleash his skills and grow quickly. It had to have a team with potential, though—if he could prove himself there, he’d climb back to his former position in no time.

The thought of making movies again made his heart race.

“And for that, My Way Pictures is perfect.”

My Way Pictures was founded by Lee Deokjae, once a promising genius director dubbed “the man of Cannes,” who had since fallen to ruin. But Youngkwang had a plan to revive both Lee Deokjae and himself.

“I’ll go and make a film based on that script Lee Deokjae wrote ages ago. It could definitely be a niche-buster.”

♫ It was a crazy love, I can’t forget you… ♫

The phone’s tacky ringtone dragged on before a click connected him to the other side.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I’m calling about the job posting from My Way Pictures.”

“My Way Pictures?”

“Yes.”

The ad, which Youngkwang had found online the night before, was five months old. However, there was no listed deadline, so he had boldly dialed the assistant director’s contact number, planning to create an opportunity for himself.

“Hah. I thought I deleted that…”

“Sorry?”

The response was curt.

“The project’s been scrapped.”

“Scrapped? But I thought it was still in pre-production, with both funding and casting secured?”

“Well, scrapped projects aren’t exactly uncommon in this industry.”

The assistant director sighed and added cynically:

“Besides, it’s My Way Pictures we’re talking about. They’ve had so many scrapped projects that people joke the CEO doesn’t have knees left.”

“…What?”

 “Look, go check somewhere else. I already quit, and most of the in-house production team has left too.”

Though his tone was pessimistic, Youngkwang saw an opportunity.

“So even the production team needs to be replenished? Then I don’t have to aim for the directing team to get my foot in the door.”

“Who’s even left at the company?”
“What? Why are you asking that…”

Realizing what Youngkwang was getting at, the assistant director chuckled humorlessly.
“Well, probably just the CEO and a couple of the original staff. That’s it.”

“Wouldn’t they need help?”

The assistant director sighed again, this time longer.
“They’re good people. But… do you even know how little they pay?”

“That’s fine. Can you give me their contact details?”

“If you’re the type to learn by eating something to find out if it’s shit or soy paste, then… alright, write this down.”

Though his tone bordered on exasperation, the assistant director gave Youngkwang My Way Pictures’ phone number and address, even offering to let them know someone would be coming in for an interview.

Youngkwang thanked him sincerely and wished him luck before heading straight to My Way Pictures.

“So it was right under my nose… in Yeonnam-dong.”

The production company was within walking distance of his home in Sangsu-dong.

When Youngkwang arrived at the address, he stood in front of the building, confused.

“This is odd…”

The address was correct, but there wasn’t a single sign indicating a film company. The first floor housed a café, the second a Thai restaurant, and the third and fourth floors were bars.

“Fourth floor, Suite B?”

It was a small building, with one establishment per floor, and the fourth floor was no exception. Aside from the entrance to a bar called “Monsters,” there were only emergency stairs and an elevator.

“Maybe it’s on the rooftop?”

After checking the rooftop and finding it empty, he wondered if they had simply rented the address for registration purposes.

“Should I call again?”

He’d tried calling several times on his way here, but no one had answered. Standing by the fourth-floor stairs, he pressed the dial button again.

That’s when he heard it:
Riiing… riiing…

Faint but unmistakable, a phone was ringing inside Monsters.

Pushing open the heavy metal door, he stepped into the dimly lit bar, where an employee was cleaning up for opening.

“We’re not open for business yet,” said the worker without looking up.

“I’m looking for My Way Pictures. Is it here?”

With a reluctant nod, the worker gestured toward the back.
“Just go straight in.”

Following the direction, he found what appeared to be a private room, probably meant for hosting large groups. The walls were makeshift and flimsy, but a small plaque reading “My Way Pictures” hung on the door.

Knock, knock.

No response.

Knock, knock.

Still nothing.

“Is anyone in there?”

He opened the door slightly, and the stench of alcohol hit him. Inside, sprawled across a meeting table, were three people who looked like corpses.

“What the hell? Are they passed out drunk? Is that why no one answered the phone?”

There were three of them. Could one of them be Lee Deokjae?

Letting out a deep sigh, Youngkwang knocked harder, this time pounding on the door.
“Excuse me! I’m here for an interview!”

When the knocking didn’t wake them, he raised his voice.
“I’m here for an interview!!”

“Ughhh!”
“Argh, shut up!”
“What’s going on?!”

As the groggy figures stirred, Youngkwang’s emotions became a mix of relief and frustration. Seeing their faces, he couldn’t help but recognize them.

“No way…”

There they were: Lee Deokjae, the genius director he had once discovered, Choi Suhyeon, the producer who had revered him like a god, and actor Jang Hyunmin.

‘You idiots…’

These were people who should have been pillars of the Korean film industry. Instead, they were holed up in this dingy office, drunk and passed out in the middle of the day.

Still, he swallowed his criticism.

“…An interview?”

Lee Deokjae’s raspy voice broke the silence, reeking of alcohol.

Time had not been kind to him. The once sharp, elegant face had grown wider, and his striking double-lidded eyes now drooped, giving him a haggard appearance that made him look closer to fifty than his actual mid-forties.

“Suhyeon, did you schedule an interview?”

“No… I didn’t post anything. Oh, wait. Gyeongsik called me… Oh, it’s a referral from Gyeongsik.”

As the three groggily tried to make sense of the situation, Youngkwang calmly asked:
“This is My Way Pictures, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah…”

“You’re Director Lee Deokjae, Producer Choi Suhyeon, and Actor Jang Hyunmin, right?”

“…Yes…”

It wasn’t surprising that they were stunned. While it made sense for him to recognize Jang Hyunmin, a former Hallyu star, knowing the names of an obscure director and producer down to the last detail would have been unusual.

Youngkwang flashed a triumphant smile, but…

“Oh, by the way, I’m not a producer—I handle the camera work,” Choi Suhyeon said with a casual laugh, properly introducing herself.

Camera work? She rolled under me for seven years and gave up being a producer? Now that he looked closely, her once long, delicate hair had been replaced by a short bob, and her formerly slender frame was now muscular.

“Oh, and I’m acting as the producer,” Lee Deokjae added, going even further and introducing himself not as a director but as a producer.

Youngkwang’s eyes widened.

What is wrong with these people?

“I heard the production team was short-staffed. If you had a proper producer, wouldn’t the CEO be able to resume his role as director?” Youngkwang asked, directing his question at Lee Deokjae.

While it wasn’t unheard of for someone to take on both producer and director roles, Youngkwang knew Lee Deokjae wasn’t the type to balance both. His personality was ill-suited to being solely a producer.

“Well, that’s possible, but… right now, we’re desperate for planning work,” Choi Suhyeon interjected, glancing at Lee Deokjae as if to gauge his reaction, then trailing off vaguely.

It didn’t require further explanation. If money were flowing well, they wouldn’t be renting a tiny corner of a bar as their office.

“Then I guess you need to come up with a solid plan and secure some investments quickly,” Youngkwang nodded.

“Oh? True.”

“Haha! He’s got a point. But why does my chest hurt?”

“Ahaha! My heart is aching too,” Choi Suhyeon, Lee Deokjae, and Jang Hyunmin burst into laughter together.

Did they think he was joking?

Youngkwang alone wore a serious expression.

“Do you know what a producer actually does?” Lee Deokjae, the most composed of the group, asked.

“A producer oversees everything from the beginning to the end of a film. A capable producer should not only ensure fun and profitability but also bring films of value and meaning to the world.”

The room fell silent.

What they’d expected to breeze over casually had been answered with intense sincerity.

“My Way may be a small production company, but we don’t just take anyone,” Lee Deokjae said, now speaking more seriously than before. “If you’re truly interested in working here as a producer, would you be willing to take a test?”

“Of course,” Youngkwang replied without hesitation.

A test during a production interview? It was obvious what kind of test it would be. Knowing the styles of Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon, it would be a piece of cake. Even if they decided to mix things up, Youngkwang was confident it wouldn’t be a challenge.

“One moment.”

Lee Deokjae shuffled over to a corner, typing laboriously on a computer, while exchanging signals with Choi Suhyeon to adjust the difficulty. A few minutes later, he handed Youngkwang a lightly printed test paper.

What is this nonsense?

This is the best they’ve got? Youngkwang’s lips curled slightly. The questions were transparently designed to gauge understanding of technical jargon, perspectives on filmmaking, and personal tendencies. While it might stump a rookie fresh to the industry, it wasn’t going to faze him.

“Here you go.”

Youngkwang swiftly wrote his answers and handed the sheet back. As they read over his responses, the eyes of both Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon widened.

“…Have you worked in this field before?” Choi Suhyeon couldn’t suppress her curiosity.

“Anyone can grasp the theory if they put in some effort. But are you satisfied with just this level of testing?” Youngkwang asked casually.

“…What?”

“I’m saying this isn’t enough to demonstrate whether I’m truly capable of being a producer.”

“Haha. Well, we can’t exactly assign you a project right away,” Choi Suhyeon chuckled.

As she laughed, Youngkwang observed her quietly, then threw out a bait.

“In that case, can I show you one of my special skills?”

“Special skill?”

“What kind of skill?”

Both Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon leaned in curiously, and even actor Jang Hyunmin, who had been quietly observing, now focused intently on Youngkwang.

“Give me the script of any film, and I can estimate its production cost, break-even point, and even its expected audience turnout.”

“What?”

“Excuse me?”

Lee Deokjae looked bewildered, while Choi Suhyeon, with her experience as a producer, seemed to catch on quickly.

“You’re saying you can tell whether a film will succeed or fail just by looking at the script?”

“Exactly.”

“Hah.”

The warm smile disappeared from Choi Suhyeon’s face.

“There’s only ever been one person in the history of Korean cinema who demonstrated that kind of ability. Did you hear about them somewhere and decide to try and emulate them?”

That’s me, you fool. Even if I said it a hundred times, you wouldn’t believe it.

It didn’t matter, though. His abilities hadn’t changed, and he could prove them as many times as necessary. Whether they accepted it was up to them.

Youngkwang smiled confidently at Choi Suhyeon.

“Why don’t you test me and find out for yourselves?”