Glory Film Company

Episode 36: Diverging Lines (1)

Franchise.
The term evoked the grand, long-term film projects often seen in Hollywood studios. Franchises, unlike simple series, extended stories through sequels, prequels, and spin-offs or films sharing a common universe. While franchises required massive initial investment to establish their world-building, they promised long-term profitability akin to a goose laying golden eggs once they succeeded.

Youngkwang was now proposing that Ahn Junseok aim for such a franchise.

“Wow, the scale is getting way too big,” Ahn said, his tone showing intrigue rather than rejection. His expression, however, hinted at curiosity—what made Youngkwang so confident?

“You’ve written a story far too large for two two-hour films,” Youngkwang explained plainly, addressing Ahn’s unspoken concerns.

“You’re certainly skilled at spinning sweet words that are music to the ears. For someone so young, you’re remarkably shrewd.”

Gu Bonjik’s irritation was palpable, his tone biting.

“Why? It doesn’t sound entirely implausible,” Yang Hyesoo interjected, subtly offering support.

Gu Bonjik’s face hardened as he let out a derisive laugh. “These youngsters these days, so reckless because it’s not their money. Do they even know what it takes to create a franchise? This isn’t something you can just throw around casually.”

Though Gu Bonjik was careful to avoid bruising Ahn’s ego, his glare at Youngkwang was menacing. It was as though he were silently warning, Watch your mouth, punk.

Unfazed, Youngkwang continued. “The protagonist has a very unique ability, doesn’t he?”

He seamlessly steered the conversation toward the content of Ahn’s script.

“The opening sequence is fantastic. The protagonist has a heightened sense of smell that allows him to identify alien lifeforms, and he works for an organization tasked with capturing suspicious extraterrestrials and deporting them off Earth. This is all well-established visually.”

“Really?”

It was an intriguing setup.

In the film’s universe, interstellar trade between alien civilizations and Earth had been ongoing for centuries. The protagonist, an employee of a regulatory agency overseeing this trade, used his unique talent to track down illegal aliens and contraband. One day, he discovered forbidden goods capable of altering Earth’s fate, triggering the main conflict.

The issue, however, was the overly complex world-building.

The narrative juggled too many elements: a sudden disruption in the previously peaceful trade, aliens plotting Earth’s invasion by sabotaging commerce, their hidden motives, Earth’s impending doom, and a group of other superpowered individuals stepping in to save the day—all while the protagonist harbored a secret of his own.

It was simply too much for two films, even if stretched to their limits.

Sure, you could cram it all in. But that would strip the story of its nuance and rob the audience of the small, delightful moments in the setup—the layered intrigue that builds toward satisfying resolutions or catharsis from well-developed characters.

What would happen then?

The result would be painfully predictable.

The first film would end up as nothing but an exhaustive info dump of settings and ideas.

Ahn’s script showed that he was aware of these pitfalls. He had made deliberate efforts to pace the story and flesh out the characters while keeping the scenes efficient and economical.

For example, the opening scene began with news coverage of missing persons in a specific area. The camera panned inside a tunnel, revealing a pile of corpses believed to belong to the missing victims. The angle then shifted to follow a mysterious creature rifling through the bodies. Finally, the protagonist, smelling the scene from a distance, identified the location and began his pursuit.

This sequence—three simple shots—efficiently conveyed innocent victims, a suspicious alien creature, and the protagonist all at once.

Other scenes throughout the script employed similarly compact storytelling. However, the problem with such an approach was that it could fatigue the audience.

If viewers missed even one key scene, they’d struggle to follow the story. But this wasn’t a thesis or a novel—it was a film.

A movie needed to control its rhythm, tightening and loosening tension, letting the audience focus and then relax. If the film continued relentlessly like this, viewers’ eyes would strain, their brains would shut down, and they’d walk away feeling overwhelmed rather than entertained.

“That’s why I think it’s challenging to condense this story into 120 minutes. The plot, characters, and world-building are so densely packed that it actually becomes a drawback,” Youngkwang said, finishing his critique.

At the table, only Ahn Junseok fully understood Youngkwang’s points. Yang Hyesoo and Park Sunghoon grasped about half, while Gu Bonjik stared blankly, as if Youngkwang were speaking in riddles. Meanwhile, another member of the investment committee, lacking the experience to discern the core issues, merely looked puzzled.

For Lee Jaehyun, who was meeting everyone for the first time, it was an awkward situation to chime in.

“To help with the decision,” Youngkwang began, his tone oozing confidence as he continued, “let me add one more point: the production cost for creating two films or developing a franchise would likely be similar.”

“…!”
“…!!”

Everyone’s eyes widened.

If the cost of producing two films equaled that of building a franchise, the logical choice would clearly favor the franchise—more entries meant greater potential for long-term profit. However, there was a lingering question that begged to be asked.

“And what do you know about the production cost?” Gu Bonjik smirked, skepticism dripping from his words. “Do you even have a sense of the scale of this project?”

Youngkwang had been waiting for this exact moment.

“I’ve got a good estimate. At maximum, we’re looking at 30 billion won per film. For two films, that’s 60 billion. But if we approach this as a franchise and expand the platform, we could divide the story into six parts, budgeting 10 billion per installment. Totally feasible, don’t you think?”

At this point, it was no longer a shot in the dark.

It was clear he had some basis for his claims. But how much of it was actual skill, and how much was bluster?

“Huh.”
“Wow.”

Gu Bonjik narrowed his eyes, while Park Sunghoon glanced suspiciously at Yang Hyesoo, Youngkwang’s friend.

“Did she tip him off somehow?”

The projected budget of 30 billion per film for Ahn Junseok’s project was confidential. How had Youngkwang pinpointed the figure so precisely? Could it be that someone had leaked internal information?

“…But why?”

It didn’t make sense. If Yang Hyesoo or Youngkwang had traded information secretly, they wouldn’t flaunt it so obviously.

And then—

“Wow. Unbelievable. Are you kidding me?”

Ahn Junseok, who had been flipping through his book, suddenly froze, his expression one of astonishment.

“You calculated all this in such a short amount of time?”

His finger traced across the pages as he muttered, half to himself. Both Gu Bonjik and Park Sunghoon, seated across from him, leaned in to read the tiny notes scrawled in the margins.

“You’ve outlined everything—sets, locations, filming sites, special equipment, even the CG ratio? And you’ve marked overlapping equipment and venues separately?”

The book contained meticulous calculations for every aspect of production.

It detailed equipment and personnel costs multiplied by shooting days, additional costs for key “money shots,” and even post-production expenses. The level of thoroughness in breaking down the pure production budget was astonishingly precise.

“This isn’t something you can just figure out, even if someone told you.”

In simple terms, Youngkwang had reverse-engineered the entire production cost in his head, purely from reading the script. Not a single detail was missing, and it was all done through mental arithmetic.

Ahn flipped through the pages again and again, trying to process what he was seeing.

“Have you worked out production budgets often?”

“Well, I’ve trained myself for fun, and I suppose it’s a bit of a natural talent,” Youngkwang replied without hesitation. “When I read a script or watch a film, I can roughly gauge the budget just by looking at it.”

“Fascinating guy,” Park Sunghoon said, his suspicion giving way to curiosity.

“If we were to go the franchise route, that would mean splitting the story into six parts. Have you thought about how best to divide it?” Ahn Junseok asked, his voice tinged with excitement.

He didn’t care whether Youngkwang was young or experienced.

“Maybe this guy’s mind works like mine?”

The possibility that this talented young producer might offer clarity to the murky paths in his own mind set Ahn’s heart racing.

“Of course,” Youngkwang replied succinctly.

Ahn’s face lit up with anticipation, waiting for what came next.

“But I’m not in a position to share that,” Youngkwang added, drawing a clear line.

“Oh.”

It was a fair point. While contracts had yet to be signed, this was still a business meeting, and technically, today’s discussion involved Gu Bonjik as Ahn’s partner.

Even if Ahn Junseok were tempted by Youngkwang’s suggestion to expand the project into a franchise, the next steps would involve practical considerations—tasks for the actual production team, not hints gleaned from someone like Youngkwang from a rival camp.

“Ha, well,” Ahn muttered, clicking his tongue in disappointment, his curiosity clearly not yet satisfied. “But about the rough cut you mentioned earlier—let’s hear more about that.”

This time, it was Park Sunghoon who made his move.

“Our film, you mean?” Youngkwang replied smoothly, fully aware that he had stolen the spotlight Gu Bonjik was supposed to command.

“You said you made it for the investment committee’s review? Did you get any reactions?”

Was he probing? No, his eyes seemed too sincere for that.

Youngkwang alternated glances between Gu Bonjik, whose expression was tinged with unease, and Park Sunghoon, who looked genuinely curious, before breaking into a confident smile.

It was clear that Park Sunghoon was unaware of the behind-the-scenes sabotage Gu Bonjik had orchestrated to prevent My Way Pictures’ film from seeing the light of day.

“General Manager,” Youngkwang began.

“…?”

“How about we give Jeil Entertainment the first opportunity to evaluate the response? Would you be willing to give us that chance?”

“Huh? What? Hahaha!”

Park Sunghoon burst into laughter at Youngkwang’s bold suggestion and shifted his gaze to Yang Hyesoo.

“Let’s proceed formally, then.”

“Yes? Oh, yes. Understood,” Yang Hyesoo replied, careful not to mention that she had already seen the rough cut. She knew better than to steal the spotlight from Park Sunghoon, understanding that giving him credit would smooth the process.

“Well, I’m curious. Let’s take a look. We’re always on the lookout for different kinds of films, after all.”

“Yes. Oh, it looks like next Wednesday is open,” Yang Hyesoo said, checking her diary and nodding.

“Was there a cancellation?”

“Yes. Shall we slot it in?”

“Do you think you can be ready by Wednesday?” Park Sunghoon asked, his tone exuding authority as he looked at Youngkwang.

“Of course. See you then.”

Youngkwang had achieved his goal.

“Haha, well, the film industry needs a mix of big-budget films, indie projects, and artistic pieces to truly thrive. But whether this is worth the investment or a waste of time… well, quality is so subjective and tied to personal taste,” Gu Bonjik rambled, his words increasingly disjointed as he watched the conversation veer far from his intentions.

Still, he steeled himself, reminding himself that Ahn Junseok’s project was the ace up his sleeve.

“Well, we’ve heard plenty of opinions today, and it seems Director Ahn is open to developing the format and storyline of the draft further. As for the concerns raised by the investment committee, we’re ready to address them. The priority, of course, is to make this project happen,” Gu Bonjik said, trying to wrest control of the narrative back into his hands.

What was he even saying?

The attendees exchanged puzzled glances, trying to make sense of Gu’s muddled attempt to refocus the discussion.

“So, as today’s meeting was primarily about Director Ahn’s next project, let’s be candid about its potential and appeal, discuss how to develop it, and adjust as needed. Starting now, our conversation will need to remain confidential,” Gu concluded, his gaze landing on Youngkwang and Lee Jaehyun—a clear signal for them to leave.

However—

“Well, let’s continue that conversation another time. I just got hit with inspiration, and I need to write it down immediately,” said the centerpiece of the meeting, Ahn Junseok, as he abruptly stood up.