Glory Film Company - Chapter 7

Episode 7: The Deal

Minimum wage.

Typing those four letters into the search bar, Youngkwang soon let out a dry laugh.

“Ha, would you look at this?”

He’d thought the chaotic nature of the film industry would remain unchanged no matter how much the world evolved. But he was wrong.

Film, drama, broadcasting—the world had started guaranteeing the rights of content creators, even enforcing minimum wage laws.

So, even with an eight-hour workday, five days a week, including 35 hours of weekly paid breaks, the monthly salary should be 1,914,440 won. And they’re offering 800,000 to 1,000,000?

Do they think I’m clueless about 2022’s wage standards and just slashed it in half?

No, they probably don’t even know.

In that case, they weren’t just ignorant—they were offering a wage far below the industry average, with no confidence in their future success. That explained their hesitant demeanor around a rookie.

Then why are they even in this industry? Why run a production company?

“Unbelievable.”

Youngkwang loved movies. Just hearing the word sent his heart racing with excitement. Every step of the filmmaking process was thrilling to him, not to mention the staggering profits it could bring.

He wasn’t sure why he’d suddenly landed in 2022, but diving back into the film industry had been an obvious choice. However, that didn’t mean he was desperate enough to accept just anything.

My Way Pictures.

A production company destined to fail. With no operational budget, their office was tucked into the corner of a bar, and drinking during the day seemed to be their primary activity. They couldn’t even offer minimum wage for skilled workers.

The diagnosis was clear: by modern standards, My Way Pictures was a sinking ship.

“They’re barely even a ‘C-level’ company, offering me ‘D-level’ terms.”

“Is it worth staying?”

Youngkwang weighed his options. If they weren’t the aces they used to be, then even with Lee Deokjae’s scripts, there might not be any reason to work with them. Though the potential of their projects still intrigued him, it was all uncertain.

“Time to tip the scales in my favor.”

Pressing his fingers against his twitching under-eye muscles, Youngkwang stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Change the conditions. Smash through their defeatist attitude. If there’s still no hope, move on to plan B.

Nodding to himself, he resolved not to let old relationships dictate his business decisions—especially with quick success as his goal.

Returning to the office, Youngkwang smiled and spoke confidently.

“Let’s make the salary a clean 1 million won.”

“Oh, are you sure?” Choi Suhyeon asked, hesitating. “It does require some passion, and you might feel differently later…”

“And, since I won’t be earning minimum wage…”

Before she could finish, Youngkwang cut her off with a grin.

“How about a guaranteed 10% incentive for projects I bring in?”

The room froze.

Youngkwang’s counterproposal had responded to Choi’s hesitation with an even bolder demand.

“Ah… 10%, you say. Well, this is awkward,” Choi sighed immediately.

“You don’t have any field experience yet, do you? That makes it difficult to start as a producer right away. Even if you have good instincts, we’d need to confirm them. In this industry, practical experience—meaning time on the job—is absolutely essential. And even if you work your way up to producer, a 10% incentive…”

Cautious by nature, Choi had often missed opportunities because of her hesitancy. Youngkwang silently resolved to fix that habit of hers someday. Unaware of his thoughts, she continued her lengthy explanation.

“To be honest, a 10% incentive is something we’d only offer to actors—and even then, only when we can’t provide high guarantees or need to sweeten the deal with extra compensation. In any case, it’s extremely rare.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. It’s an unspoken rule in the industry. Since you’re new, you wouldn’t have known.”

I made that rule. And I’m here to overturn it.

Suppressing the words rising in his throat, Youngkwang maintained a calm expression.

“Typically, staff are offered 2–3% incentives, and even that’s for experienced professionals. So promising incentives to someone with no experience… it just doesn’t happen.”

“In that case…”

Taking a brief pause, Youngkwang proposed something else.

“How about 500,000 won per month with a 13% incentive?”

“…?!”

Confusion, embarrassment, a hint of irritation, and anger—Choi Suhyeon’s face was a spectacle.

Unbothered, Youngkwang spoke earnestly.

“In exchange, I’ll take full responsibility for packaging in the pre-production stage—script, casting, and director—and even secure investments.”

“Hah, have you been reading interviews with active producers? You sure talk the talk.”

“I’m serious.”

“Wow. Why not take charge of post-production and on-site management while you’re at it?”

“Isn’t that a given?”

“Do you really think that’s possible?”

Though her tone was sharp, her shaky voice and wavering eyes betrayed her. Anyone could see that Choi Suhyeon was on the defensive.

The confident tone, the boldness, and his uncanny way of speaking and acting—all of it left her flustered, reminding her of someone she couldn’t quite place.

Planning, securing investments, on-site management—tasks that would typically require multiple producers and even a project leader—he was claiming he could handle alone.

Maybe it was ignorance. Or perhaps he had something to back it up. Choi furrowed her brow, staring intently at Youngkwang.

Stop staring. You’re going to drill a hole in me.

Youngkwang even considered waiving his salary and asking for a 15% incentive instead. It would be a win-win—My Way Pictures wouldn’t bear the burden of paying him a salary, and he’d ensure his share by securing projects.

Bringing in investment funds was second nature to him; it wouldn’t be difficult.

“Haha, this is getting awkward,” Lee Deokjae interjected to break the tense atmosphere.

“Talking about all this when there’s nothing on the table yet—it’s like my Saturday evening routine. That’s when I fantasize about what I’d do if I won the lottery. Should I buy an apartment? Get a new car? Lease an office? Or just dive into producing my own film without worrying about anyone else? Haha.”

“…True. We’re stressing over money we don’t even have yet,” Choi said sheepishly, rubbing her nose.

“…Well, if bold ideas lead to great results, then why not? If you can really secure investment and make progress, I wouldn’t say no to anything. I’d even spoon-feed you meals and buy you all the drinks you want,” she added, nodding lightly as her thoughts settled.

“Our environment is rougher than other production companies, so bold moves might be necessary… Fine. Let’s agree on 800,000 won monthly. In return, we’ll pay you 10% of the profits for projects you handle independently. How does that sound, CEO?”

“I agree.”

Both Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon laughed. Though slightly exasperated at how slyly they’d cut his base salary down to 800,000 won, Youngkwang responded with a broad smile.

“I’ll do my best.”

After all, careful money management was part of a producer’s skill set. Besides, scraping together that kind of money from different sources would be easy enough.

“Film is a tough industry, but you never know when a project might take off. Let’s hold on to hope and aim to last long in this business,” Choi said, her tone now cautious and steady, returning to her usual demeanor.

“Oh, wait! I just realized we don’t even know your name. What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.

“Oh, my name?”

Taking a breath, Youngkwang answered.

“Lee. Young. Kwang.”

“…Huh?”

“…Lee… Youngkwang?”

“Yes, I’m Lee Youngkwang.”

“…What?”

The delayed revelation left all three with their jaws hanging open.

Feigning ignorance, Youngkwang burst out laughing.

*****

It didn’t take a week.

Within three days of starting, Youngkwang had already grasped the issues with both the revamped film industry and My Way Pictures’ shortcomings.

“This isn’t going to work, is it?”

“Right. It’s great that Hyunmin and Hyeju are willing to help, but they’re not suitable for the lead roles.”

Failed film projects were as common as sand on the beach in the industry, but that wasn’t something to take solace in.

My Way Pictures’ poor performance had deep-rooted, obvious reasons.

Today, we need to settle this.

Overhearing Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon’s discussion, Youngkwang sighed, closed the script he’d been reading, and spoke up.

“Do you have any other scripts?”

His desk was already cluttered with about 100 books—submitted manuscripts, scripts he’d found online, and potential adaptations of existing works.

They’d all been handed to him in the hopes he’d find promising new projects, but not a single one had caught his eye.

Was this some kind of hazing or conditioning exercise? At first, Youngkwang suspected as much. However, when he saw that the scripts developed by Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon were just as uninspiring as the rest, he lowered his guard.

Why don’t they have any original projects?

It was strange. My Way Pictures lacked the most fundamental and crucial element of filmmaking: a proper script.

“Oh? You’ve already looked through all of them?”

“Yes. Nothing stands out.”

Youngkwang directly asked, “Does Director Lee Deokjae not have any scripts of his own?”

In his rookie days, Lee Deokjae had conceived a rather compelling series. Its themes and subject matter weren’t trend-dependent, and its unique style was perfectly suited to the niche busters that Youngkwang wanted to create.

But the scripts that should have been at My Way Pictures were nowhere to be found.

“Haha. There are a few more here,” Lee Deokjae said, lightly placing another stack of scripts on Youngkwang’s desk.

• A Love Not Allowed by Heaven
• The First Love of My First Love
• I Need a Reset

Just reading the titles made him grimace.

Where in the world did they pick up this junk?

Unintentionally, Youngkwang shot a glare at Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon, who were already back to their unproductive meeting.

It wasn’t the first time Youngkwang had asked if Lee Deokjae had any personal scripts. Each time, Lee dodged the question or changed the subject.

Why’s he acting like this?

Is he embarrassed? Lacking confidence?

Should I get him drunk and coax it out of him?

As he mulled over how to lure out the scripts, the door burst open, and a familiar face walked in unannounced—actor Jang Hyunmin.

“Aren’t you getting ready yet?”

“Huh?”

“Is it already that time?”

Whether this was a scheduled meeting or not, Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon glanced at the clock and began tidying up.

“Hey, Youngkwang, if you don’t have anything to do, why not come watch a movie with us?” Choi asked him.

“A… movie?”

Youngkwang forced a smile.

It was something he was still struggling to get used to. From his very first day, Choi Suhyeon, Lee Deokjae, and even Jang Hyunmin had been calling him “Youngkwang” and speaking informally, which made his blood boil.

These guys couldn’t even meet my eyes back in the day…

“Hey, what’s with your face? It’s all red. Are you feeling sick?”

“…No, I’m fine. So, what movie is it?”

“There’s a preview screening today,” Jang Hyunmin said, plopping down in an empty chair at the meeting table.

“You know how a lot of films held back by COVID are finally getting released? Oh, and…”

Speaking casually, Jang Hyunmin hesitated before continuing cautiously.

“Actors Lee Soo and Kang Jiseok, as well as Director Kim Sungho, are confirmed to attend. They invited us to come watch. …Also, Director Kwak is supposed to be there today.”

“Director Kwak? You mean Kwak Junghoon?”

Youngkwang’s ears perked up.

If it was Kwak Junghoon, he was the one who had taken 18 Degrees—the script Youngkwang had developed with him—and turned it into a ten-million-viewer hit under Stay Films, led by Gu Bonjik.

Now, Kwak Junghoon was a celebrated director, with two ten-million-viewer films to his name.

Youngkwang had been curious about him and wondered when their paths might cross. Perhaps today was the day.

“Why would he come to this screening instead of supporting Director Choi’s film?”

Choi Suhyeon’s response was sharp.

“They’ve already seen Director Choi’s movie internally. He’s coming to show support, apparently. I don’t know—Ji-seok called me yesterday and said they’d be there.”

“Then is Gu coming too?”

This time, it was Lee Deokjae who asked with a stiff expression.

What? Gu? Don’t tell me… Gu Bonjik?

Youngkwang’s ears perked up again.

If the “Gu” they were referring to was Gu Bonjik—the man who had clashed with Youngkwang, stolen 18 Degrees after his death, and risen to prominence at Stay Films—then…

I’m going to this screening. No question about it.

Unconsciously, Youngkwang clenched his teeth.