Glory Film Company - Chapter 8

Episode 8. False Accusation (1)

“They’ll come. Those two are inseparable,” Jang Hyunmin said, clicking his tongue.

“Well, you can’t avoid each other forever in such a small industry. It’d be better to settle things with Director Gu, clear the air, and take what you’re owed. Don’t you think?”

A story that Youngkwang had never heard began to unfold, one that, even from the snippets, seemed steeped in drama.

“Yeah, it’s my fault for not handling things better. But what can I do? I’ll just have to avoid getting tangled up again.”

Lee Deokjae shrugged, his shoulders rising.

“Exactly. Best not to get involved again. Anyway, let’s just celebrate the movie today.”

Choi Suhyeon gave Lee Deokjae a friendly pat on the back.

“Oh, by the way, about today’s screening,” Suhyeon added for Youngkwang, who was visibly dying of curiosity. “The film’s based on a book Director Lee wrote back when he was still working as a filmmaker.”

“Pardon?”

Youngkwang’s heart pounded loudly. Even before hearing the rest, he felt a cold chill creeping over him.

“What’s the title? What’s it about?”

“The original title was One Day, Suddenly, right? The movie’s called That Night now, so it’s kind of similar. It’s a mystery thriller…”

Hah.

Youngkwang’s face turned pale. It was undoubtedly one of Lee Deokjae’s books, one of the ones he had been keeping tabs on.

What was going on?
This wasn’t just any script for Lee Deokjae to hand off as source material.

“So, you’re saying another production company developed the film based on your book?” Youngkwang asked for confirmation.

Suhyeon nodded. “That’s right. It’s being handled by Gray Film, a very capable studio, so it should turn out well.”

“…Wouldn’t it have been better for My Way to produce it if the movie was going to be made anyway?”

Youngkwang’s blunt question made the expressions of Lee Deokjae, Choi Suhyeon, and Jang Hyunmin harden.

“Oh, these MZ kids, so scary. They just say whatever they want,” Hyunmin joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Well, it’s unthinkable nowadays, but back in Director Lee’s early days, there was this producer he was close with. Since he was a rookie then, he signed a deal for about five works in advance.”

A close producer? Who?
Youngkwang tilted his head. Had there been a producer who’d marked Lee Deokjae as their property without his knowledge during his rookie days?

And five works? Were there five more besides the ones given to Youngkwang? Had this happened after his accident?

“But then that producer’s company went bankrupt, and all its projects and contracts got transferred wholesale to another studio.”

“Pardon?”

“Yeah, Director Lee’s contract got swept up in that. He’d been paid an advance of ten million won back then. Two hundred per project, but with toxic clauses that just wasted time. That was in 2003—nearly 20 years ago.”

“…2003?”

The numbers didn’t add up.
If it was 2003, Youngkwang had still been close with Lee Deokjae. It wasn’t possible for Deokjae to have been two-timing him.

“Anyway, one of those projects was transferred to Gray Film about five years ago. The movie premiering today is that one. A rookie director, Lee Changyoon, is helming it. It’s partly to encourage him that we’re going to watch it.”

Choi Suhyeon shot a glance at Jang Hyunmin, signaling him to stop talking, but Youngkwang wasn’t done.
There was too much he didn’t know, and he kept feeling as if he were the central figure in this story.

“By any chance… is the person who took over that contract the same Director Gu you mentioned earlier?”

“Oh, sharp guess.”

Hyunmin’s quick response made Youngkwang swallow hard.

“Then, the producer who originally signed the deal and went bankrupt—who were they?”

“Oh, that’s…”

“You’re going too far. Enough,” Lee Deokjae interrupted firmly.

“Right, right. Let’s save it for another time, maybe over drinks,” Hyunmin added, trying to laugh it off, but the damage was done.

It’s definitely about me.

What kind of contract had he signed that had ended up in Director Gu’s hands? How?

This feels like something straight out of a movie script.

Youngkwang’s heart raced.
Intuition could be terrifying like this.

After returning to 2022, Youngkwang had immediately questioned Director Gu’s rise to success and the disintegration of his own network.

How had Gu gotten his hands on Kwak’s book?
Why had the people in Youngkwang’s circle, like Lee Deokjae, lost their influence?
And why were there no concrete articles or records surrounding Youngkwang’s death?

Taking a deep breath, Youngkwang felt that the outline of the truth was starting to emerge more quickly than expected.

*****

The venue for the screening was a large multiplex in Yongsan.

Lee Deokjae, Choi Suhyeon, Jang Hyunmin, and Youngkwang had taken the Gyeongui-Jungang Line to Yongsan Station.
When someone explained that parking would be a hassle and it’d be more convenient to go car-free for the afterparty, Youngkwang nodded along absentmindedly.

Youngkwang was more surprised to see Jang Hyunmin taking the subway than by the fact that the company didn’t have a car.

“Once your popularity drops, public transport becomes super convenient,” Hyunmin muttered awkwardly, noticing Youngkwang’s gaze.

This was the same actor who once stirred up fan frenzies wherever he went as a Hallyu star, dictating trends. The same Jang Hyunmin who had been so obsessed with luxury that he wouldn’t even glance at a car unless it was foreign-made. For such humble words to come out of his mouth felt surreal.

Even more surprising was that, despite the mask covering half his face, not a single person seemed to recognize Jang Hyunmin. If this truly was a matter of waning recognition, it served as a stark reminder of how fleeting popularity could be.

“At least I got to blow through my money before my career tanked. You, on the other hand, messed up one contract and ended up like this,” Hyunmin said with mock sympathy.

“Why do you always have to pick a fight?” Lee Deokjae retorted.

“I’m just saying, it’s been years since I last saw you driving. The first mistake ruined everything—who in their right mind hands over five books for just ten million won?”

Their back-and-forth, teetering between self-deprecation and humor, left Youngkwang unsettled. Once the floodgates opened, the topic seemed to keep circling back to Deokjae’s ill-fated contracts from 2003.

Youngkwang decided he would press for more details over soju after the screening.

“Wow, it’s packed,” Choi Suhyeon commented, slowing her pace after checking the theater’s location.

Turning a corner, they saw walls plastered with posters for That Night, a long line of people waiting for tickets, and a hallway crowded with industry people exchanging greetings.

“Looks like the pandemic really is over,” Lee Deokjae murmured, shaking his head.

The nightmare of COVID-19, which had driven even the biggest domestic distributors to reconsider their theater operations, was finally gone. Blockbusters were back, and delayed films were flooding the market. Audiences, who had grown weary during the pandemic, hadn’t forgotten the magic of cinema and flocked back to theaters.

However, competition was fiercer than ever.

It wasn’t just a matter of when a film screened or how many screens it secured. If it didn’t perform within a short window, it would quickly be pulled and forgotten. The release cycles for films had shortened drastically compared to Youngkwang’s day. Now, movies had to make an impression within just two weeks—a brutal ticket war.

“Oh! It’s Jang Hyunmin!”
“Hyunmin oppa!”

Two actors and a young director whom Youngkwang didn’t recognize waved at Hyunmin as they approached.

“Congratulations, Director!”
“Seriously, congratulations!”

They also greeted Lee Deokjae.

“Huh? Why are you congratulating me?” Deokjae asked, puzzled.

“Oh, come on. Everyone knows.”
“It’s so great that we get to see your story on the big screen.”

The looks exchanged with Deokjae carried unspoken words. It seemed his story was an open secret in the industry.

“And who is this…?”

“Oh, he’s our new PD.”

All eyes turned to Youngkwang.

“Hello, I’m Lee Youngkwang, a producer at My Way Pictures.” He smiled calmly.

The introduction felt endearing, as if he were trying to puff himself up. While he was just “Youngkwang” at the office, here he was suddenly a PD. It wasn’t hard to understand his desire to appear impressive.

“A PD? Wow, are you preparing a project with the director? Finally?”
“But the producer looks so young.”

“Don’t underestimate him. He’s got plenty of hidden skills,” Deokjae interjected, subtly lifting Youngkwang’s status as he turned toward the screening room.

“Let’s go in.”

The group entered the theater slowly.
Though there were a few congratulatory remarks, everyone knew who the real stars of the day were. Deokjae, well aware of this, seemed determined to deflect attention from himself.

Though it stung, the past was the past. Now, the movie belonged to Gray Film and rookie director Lee Changyoon.

The film, That Night, had been shrouded in secrecy, with only a 30-second teaser trailer released. Whether due to the mystery marketing or sheer anticipation, the theater was packed.

Veteran actors Seo Juwon and Kang Sungho clashed as opposing forces, with enigmatic actress Go Yeonhee holding the key to the story’s resolution. This trio alone was enough to draw in younger audiences, according to critics.

As the murmurs of the crowd died down, the lights dimmed.

After a series of leader films for the production and distribution companies, the movie began.

*****

Under the blazing afternoon sun, bright enough to dry wet earth in mere hours, the camera panned slowly across the scene, following the light.

It settled on Sungho, crouched by the faucet in the yard of an old farmhouse, washing his face.

“Ms. Yoon Jungmi, are you there?”

A man’s voice called out from beyond the metal gate.

Sungho didn’t respond, either because he hadn’t heard or was pretending not to, continuing to roughly splash water on his face.

“Ms. Yoon Jungmi! Ms. Yoon Jungmi!”

As the man’s voice grew louder, Sangho froze, abruptly stopping his movements, and stood up.

Bang!
The gate swung open, and Sangho’s face twisted into an eerie expression.

The moment the man standing on the other side filled the screen, the audience let out simultaneous screams.

“Kyahhh!”
“Aaahhh!”

The man’s body appeared to have suffered some terrible accident—half of it was almost gone, making it seem impossible for him to even be standing. His grotesquely disfigured face was streaked with dried blood.

When a faint, heatwave-like shimmer began to rise from his body, the audience finally realized he wasn’t alive.

“Day or night, these goddamn things!”

Sangho, who had clearly dealt with such encounters before, didn’t even flinch. Instead, he grabbed handfuls of salt and random objects he had stashed near the gate, throwing them while yelling at the top of his lungs.

The vengeful spirit flailed, as if trying to say something, but soon dissipated into thin air.

“Hah.”
Sangho collapsed onto the ground in the yard, his legs giving out. Behind him, the sound of a door creaking open broke the tense silence. His hardened face gradually softened.

Springing up, he locked the gate, then muttered gruffly, his tone belying his expression.
“It’s gone now. Jungmi, come out if you want.”

****

“So they chose to open with this scene.”

As Youngkwang watched, he recalled the original story in vivid detail. This was the very work he had discussed in depth with Lee Deokjae not too long ago, down to the minutiae.

“It’s definitely more direct. They must’ve opted for this approach with the general audience in mind.”

The style was similar yet distinct.

In Deokjae’s novel, the three main characters, each holding a secret, were introduced in separate locations and timelines. However, the movie boldly pulled a scene from the middle of the book—where the three characters meet for the first time—and used it as the opening.

“An alternative plot structure—intertwined, non-linear storytelling—would’ve been too much for a rookie director.”

Deokjae had always insisted that the alternative plot was the most effective way to present this story and had painstakingly perfected the narrative structure. But the movie had simplified everything, opting for a more conventional storyline. While this sort of adaptation was understandable, it was bound to leave Deokjae feeling disappointed.

For the first ten minutes, Youngkwang’s thoughts revolved around these differences.

But then—

“Why did the genre change?”

Youngkwang glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed since the opening scene.

True to modern filmmaking, the movie had quickly wrapped up its first act and moved into the second. But from that point on, the story veered in an entirely different direction.

The original book, One Day, Suddenly, was a mystery thriller.

It followed Jungmi, a woman fleeing from mysterious forces, who sought refuge with Sangho. The story unraveled their hidden, entangled past through a series of twists. Initially, viewers suspected Jungmi, with her strange behavior and connection to vengeful spirits, to be a deranged murderer or psychopath. But in the book’s climactic revelation, she turned out to be a victim of a horrific crime, and the true villain was Sangho, who had been suffering from dissociative identity disorder.

Three seemingly unrelated events and characters converged in a jaw-dropping twist, leaving readers stunned.

But the movie?

“This is a disaster. They’ve crammed in melodrama, fantasy, and even cheap sentimentalism. They butchered such a great book.”

The film had taken Deokjae’s meticulous characters, direction, and narrative and churned out a mess. The suspenseful posters were bait; the actual movie was an incoherent mishmash without a clear genre.

Youngkwang sneaked glances at Deokjae’s face throughout the screening. At first, Deokjae looked shocked, then angry, and finally like a wounded artist. Occasionally, when the audience reacted strongly, his expression would shift to one of despair and self-reproach.

“If they were going to change this much, shouldn’t they have at least consulted the original author?”

What began as discomfort over the production company’s lack of courtesy quickly turned into sharp suspicion.

“This feels deliberate.”

*****

As the movie ended, everyone remained seated, watching the credits roll. When the lights finally came up, one glaring omission was clear—nowhere in the credits was Lee Deokjae’s name listed as the original author.

“Ha. It’s one thing to ruin a great book by turning it into this nonsense… but this?”

This was outright fraud.

“I can’t let this slide.”