Glory Film Company - Chapter 6

Episode 6: Pressure Interview

Choi Suhyeon’s brow furrowed deeply. The alcohol had worn off long ago, but her head throbbed.

‘He’s too confident. Sure, we live in a world where you can look up any film’s information online, but how does he know what kind of question we’ll throw at him out of thousands of films?’

Doubt began to creep in, but so did curiosity.

‘Even if he gets lucky and we mention a film he knows, he might guess the audience numbers if they’re public. But matching production costs or break-even points (BEP)? That’s impossible. Ordinary people don’t have access to that kind of information.’

What if, on the off chance, this guy really had talent like PD Lee Youngkwang? Someone who could draft budget estimates from just a script?

As she mulled it over, her expression shifted through a range of emotions. Watching her, Youngkwang spoke casually, his tone relaxed.

“Why don’t you just give me a shot? Pick any film. Even something old is fine.”

“What?”

“Huh?”

His suggestion to raise the difficulty left Choi Suhyeon, Lee Deokjae, and Jang Hyunmin exchanging incredulous glances.

“Man, the more I look at this guy, the more he’s something else. Gotta love his guts,” Jang Hyunmin said, stroking his sharp chin.

“Are you sure? What if we ask you about a film from the 1980s or ’90s, with no official records available?” Lee Deokjae asked slyly.

That’s even better for me. Those are my specialty.

Youngkwang’s calm smile mirrored Lee’s teasing one.

“For films from that time, I’d have to answer based on the standards of the era, wouldn’t I?”

“…!”

“…?”

“…??”

His unwavering confidence made the three interviewers stiffen one by one.

Does he really have something?

Having worked as a PD until 2005, Choi Suhyeon was well-versed in 1990s films. She knew enough about unofficial records to quickly discern whether Youngkwang was bluffing.

“Well, we’ve got time,” she said, heading to a cabinet in the corner.

Clang.

She had nothing to lose. If he turned out to have real talent, they could train him quickly with a Spartan approach. If he was simply overconfident, they could give him a much-needed reality check as seasoned industry veterans.

Looking through the cabinet stuffed with scripts, Choi ran her finger along the spines before selecting a few with just the right mix of challenge and traps.

“Here, take these,” she said, handing them over.

Youngkwang nodded as he accepted them, thinking, Relax. Stop glaring like that.

He chuckled inwardly. If it was a movie he’d already seen, the budget and performance would come flooding back even before flipping through a few pages. Even if it was one he hadn’t seen, predicting its success or budget was hardly difficult.

This test wasn’t nerve-wracking for him. It was exciting.

He planned to firmly establish his presence with the test and then demand the proper title and authority. There was no time to waste.

A well-rounded selection, huh?

The three scripts Choi handed over included a 90-minute commercial film, a two-hour feature-length film, and a thinner short film.

… The Vanished Fields?

The first script was for a project he recognized. It was a work by Director Baek Youngbeom that had stirred excitement in Chungmuro during the early 1990s, a period when Korean cinema was regaining momentum.

Though it needed exceptionally skilled actors to bring the characters to life, that very requirement ironically made it impossible to secure investments, leaving the project shelved.

Are they testing if I can estimate the budget?

Youngkwang raised an eyebrow.

The intention was clear—they wanted to see if he could deduce the production cost just from the script. That’s why they’d chosen an unproduced work whose budget details had never been publicly disclosed.

It was a meticulous test, typical of someone like Choi Suhyeon. But maybe it was time to surprise them.

“If they had found the right investors at the time, the budget would’ve been around 200 million won.”

Youngkwang delivered his assessment swiftly.

“…200 million? What is this, an indie film?” Jang Hyunmin reacted immediately.

In contrast, Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon exchanged peculiar glances.

“Why do you think that?” Lee asked cautiously.

“It seems like a script that could have worked in the early ’90s, so I answered based on the production cost standards of that time.”

“It would have only worked in the early ‘90s?”

“It’s not that it’s unsophisticated; it’s just that it fits that era the best—in terms of its themes and emotional tone. There’s no need for overseas shoots or CGI. With well-chosen locations, the film could’ve been adequately handled with a few minor construction projects and small sets. Scene 37, Scenes 86 and 93 would require a couple of special equipment setups, and the shots of dawn and dusk seem critical. But those depend on the director’s skills and ambitions. Still, 200 million won should’ve been more than enough.”

“…Amazing.”

“You scanned the script and immediately mapped out the budget and equipment per scene?”

“Can someone actually do that?”

The three interviewers were astonished at the unexpected level of detail, and Choi Suhyeon quickly pressed on with another question.

“Then how many viewers do you think it would’ve attracted in the early ‘90s?”

“Well, back then, audience numbers were calculated based on Seoul theaters. It would’ve easily surpassed a million in Seoul alone.”

“…What!”

“…A million?”

The eyes of Choi Suhyeon, Lee Deokjae, and Jang Hyunmin grew wide. A million viewers in the early 1990s was equivalent to the shock of a ten-million-viewer film today.

“It would have easily passed the break-even point. In fact, it would’ve been such a big hit that it would’ve made the evening news.”

Youngkwang’s confident response was met with wry smiles this time from Lee and Choi.

“A million viewers back then? If that were the case, we’d all know this movie,” Choi said calmly.

“But this film didn’t draw a million or even ten thousand viewers. It didn’t even get made. …Still, identifying the budget and its potential is impressive. And catching that it was a ‘90s script is remarkable,” she admitted, genuinely impressed.

The intent had been to test whether Youngkwang could estimate the scope and budget of a project, but they hadn’t expected him to pinpoint the script’s era.

Yet, Youngkwang wasn’t finished.

“That’s why I said, ‘If it had found a good investor at the right time.’ It would have been a massive hit under the right circumstances. Of course, there are a few other conditions,” he added.

“Other… conditions?”

“First, the director would still need to be Director Baek Youngbeom. Second, it would have had to be released no later than 1993 to capitalize on its potential. Third, the lead actors would have to be Kim Jeonghee, Park Yoonseong, and Choi Kyungho. They would’ve been the ideal cast.”

“…!”

“…!”

“How did you know this was Director Baek’s script?” Choi exclaimed.

“Wait, and the actors too… they’re correct, right?” Lee added, his mouth agape.

This is one of those films you could talk about forever.

Youngkwang’s eyes narrowed. The Vanished Fields had nearly been Director Baek Youngbeom’s final work. It required 200 million won, a shocking sum for its time. However, Baek had insisted on casting skilled actors like Kim Jeonghee, Park Yoonseong, and Choi Kyungho over big-name stars, causing friction with investors.

When a new investor was eventually secured, the reed fields, a central location for the film, had been sold and redeveloped. By the following year, when a new location was found, Baek’s health had deteriorated, rendering the project impossible to complete.

Despite the efforts of the film community to bring the project to life, it seemed cursed, with one obstacle after another.

Youngkwang had personally found it a heartbreaking story. His intuition told him this project would’ve been a hit, but at the time, his position in the industry had been too weak to intervene. By the time he became a renowned producer, the script had lost its relevance.

“If this script were made today, what do you think would happen?” Lee asked, his face flushed with excitement.

“Today, it’d be nearly impossible to secure funding, and even if it were made, it would result in a 100% loss. You’d need at least 6 billion won to make it now, but there’s no element in the film that would entice the key target audience—people in their 20s and 30s—to spend money on it.”

At his cold, analytical conclusion, everyone laughed awkwardly. Choi Suhyeon looked visibly pale.

Even Youngkwang’s former mentor, Lee Youngkwang, had once said the same thing. The film’s window of viability had closed with the 1990s.

Moreover, Youngkwang’s detailed understanding of the conditions needed for the film’s success was perfectly aligned with what industry veterans had concluded.

“…The script reflects Director Baek’s signature style. His use of visual symbolism, his sense of humor in dialogue, his contemplative yet deliberately unfriendly direction—it all shows his unique touch. And the theme of loss? That’s unmistakably Baek,” Youngkwang said, responding calmly to the earlier skipped question as if oblivious to Choi’s emotional turmoil.

“Now, the second script.”

He picked up the next script, and six pairs of eyes followed his every move.

“A retro-style family melodrama. These were popular in the early 2010s. …This one’s too easy. The production cost was 3.5 billion won, and the break-even point, including marketing costs, was around 2 million viewers. It ended up being a huge hit with 12 million viewers. This is Youngshin’s Diary.”

Youngkwang smiled.

“Oh, correct. The title, the budget, the performance. All of it,” Lee nodded.

And just as Lee acknowledged him—

“But this isn’t the Youngshin’s Diary script; it’s the Youngshin’s Diary casting book.”

“…!!”

Once again, Youngkwang effortlessly exceeded expectations.

A casting book, or “casting-go,” is a document presented during pre-production once the script is finalized to recruit actors for the project.

Most scripts go through 50, even 100 revisions based on producer feedback. Once the overall framework is solid and the script reaches a point where actors might find it appealing, a casting book is created to start setting up lead actors.

That’s how you can quickly secure investments.

“But… how did you know this was a casting book?” Choi asked urgently. The intention had been to see if he could deduce a film’s details and performance even from a casting book, yet he had even correctly identified it as such. Her head spun.

“I paid close attention because it was a ten-million-viewer film,” Youngkwang replied nonchalantly. “This book is full of scenes that would have drawn actor Oh Sangwon’s interest, but the final film diverged significantly.”

The ten-million-viewer hit, Youngshin’s Diary. Film enthusiasts remember it as one of the most cost-effective blockbusters, produced for under 4 billion won.

“…A 7-billion-won film with a clear casting book, and Oh Sangwon committed to the role. But the actual production cost was slashed dramatically?”

“Haha!” This time, Jang Hyunmin burst into laughter at Youngkwang’s observation.

“That’s right. It was a very difficult project to fund. It wasn’t provocative, and there was a risk it could devolve into a tear-jerking melodrama. The casting process was tough too.”

“Many scenes and characters were cut entirely before shooting. Not everyone knows this, but Oh Sangwon significantly reduced his guaranteed fee. He opted for a running guarantee instead,” Lee Deokjae added.

“Well, there’s no need to confirm anything else,” Choi concluded, and the others nodded in agreement.

“So, does this mean my qualifications as a producer have been proven?” Youngkwang asked cheekily.

“Outstanding. What do you think, Director?” Choi asked.

“I’m intrigued. You don’t have much experience, but your potential is tremendous. We’re looking forward to working with you,” Lee said warmly.

The mood brightened, and Youngkwang felt a sense of warmth in return. Even though their faces were twenty years older, meeting his old connections felt like a homecoming.

“But… as you can see, our production company is small,” Choi began, trailing off.

“Of course, we have projects in progress, but most are still tentative. It’ll be tough going… so…”

Ah, here comes the money talk.

Catching on, Youngkwang nodded.

“I’m really sorry to have to say this, but… haah, this is awkward…”

Some things never change. Even over 40, she was still the same. Youngkwang clicked his tongue internally.

Choi Suhyeon had always been soft-hearted. While other producers boasted and dazzled with bravado, her unnecessary honesty often left her at a disadvantage.

Even now, instead of showing vision and confidence, she’s slouching like this. Come on, don’t shrink back. You need to inspire confidence.

I know the situation. That’s why I’ve shown my skills—I’m not here to work unpaid as an intern. Don’t panic.

He watched her with a mix of exasperation and affection as she struggled.

“…The salary would probably be around 800,000 to 1 million won per month?” she finally said.

Huh?

That’s… not bad.

For entry-level producers, it wasn’t unusual to go unpaid. Occasionally, they’d receive small amounts whenever investments came in, treated like pocket money.

A monthly salary of 800,000 to 1 million won? That was a respectable figure, something a director could offer without shame. Youngkwang found himself worrying more about whether My Way Pictures could afford to pay it than the amount itself.

Then why is she so apologetic?

She looked like she felt guilty for offering such a salary.

“I mean, 800,000 to 1 million? Someone’s bound to explode over this. I wash my hands of it,” Jang Hyunmin said, waving his hands.

“If we hit it big, though…” Lee Deokjae chimed in with an empty promise that didn’t suit him.

Wait. This feels off.

His instincts kicked in. What’s the going wage in 2022?

He knew guessing in his head wouldn’t help.

“Excuse me, may I use the restroom for a moment?” Youngkwang raised his hand.

It was time to use a search chance.