Glory Film Company

Episode 37: Diverging Lines (2)

The meeting ended on a hollow note. Without Ahn Junseok, the gathering was like bread without filling.

“Haha, well, artists—directors, actors—they’re just like that. When inspiration strikes, what can we do but wait for them? In the meantime, how about another round of drinks?” Gu Bonjik attempted to salvage the atmosphere, but—

“We’ll be heading out. See you next Wednesday,” Youngkwang said as he rose with Lee Jaehyun, leaving the table even more deflated.

“We should just reschedule,” Park Sunghoon concluded, unusually blunt as he called an end to the meeting. Youngkwang internally chuckled, savoring the sight of Gu Bonjik’s face twisting in frustration.

****

By Wednesday, things had shifted dramatically.

“This is great.”
“It’s unique.”
“Lee Jaehyun? He’s bound to rise to stardom.”
“Kang Jooyeon’s acting is beyond critique. She’ll undoubtedly prove herself again in this one.”

After the screening of the rough cut of 300 Days After We Break Up, Jeil Entertainment’s investment committee showered the film with favorable evaluations.

“Of course, there are minor issues. For instance, the friend Minwook who appears early on feels like a throwaway character. Developing the supporting roles could add more depth to the story.”
“I found the metaphors quite compelling. With more attention to props from the art team, the mood could be enhanced even further. But naturally, that’s something additional funding would cover.”

Though a few critiques were raised, they were minor—just enough to justify the committee’s role. Nothing hindered the film’s overall appeal.

“Unanimous approval. It’s been a while since we’ve seen such an imaginative project,” Park Sunghoon announced in his composed voice, wrapping up the meeting.

It was rare for investments of tens of billions of won to be decided so quickly, even for smaller-scale films. This was a testament not only to the quality of the rough cut Youngkwang had presented but also to the undeniable allure of the film itself.

However, such smooth sailing rarely happened without hidden forces at play. The notion that everything had gone so smoothly without interference seemed too good to be true.

And Youngkwang wasn’t one to let such suspicions slide.

“Unanimous approval. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. But this decision came so quickly?”
“It’s not the norm. It happens occasionally when we’re absolutely certain.”
“But your committee doesn’t operate on instinct. You rely on data.”
“That’s true. Which is why My Way Pictures submitted a video instead of a proposal document, isn’t it?”
“Even so, isn’t this a little too smooth?”
“Hm.”

“What’s going on? Come on, spill. You told me you don’t get along with your general manager. You even warned me that any project tied to you would face hurdles. So how is this going so well?”

At Youngkwang’s pointed question, Yang Hyesoo frowned, then sighed lightly.

“Alright. Just don’t misunderstand or take offense.”

So there was something.

Youngkwang swallowed hard, bracing himself.

“Park Sunghoon—our general manager—he’s a scary man.”

“Huh?”

“He’s planning to sideline Gu Bonjik.”

At the mention of Gu, Yang Hyesoo lowered her voice and glanced around cautiously. They were in a café on the first floor of Jeil Entertainment’s building, a seemingly secure location. But who knew if some eavesdropping mouse might be lurking?

Youngkwang instinctively leaned closer, lowering his voice as well. “Wait, you mean he’s going to handle the project directly?”

“Exactly. He’s considering bypassing Gu entirely. So, tell me—if that happens, would you join this project?”

What’s with this sudden acceleration?

The industry had always been a place with no room for ethics, past or present. While the revelation left Youngkwang momentarily dizzy, he quickly grasped the situation and began calculating his options.

It wasn’t a clean move, but Park Sunghoon’s actions weren’t entirely unjustified.

To put it bluntly, Gu Bonjik had failed to package the deal.

He hadn’t aligned with the director’s vision, nor had he secured the necessary investments. Without signed contracts, Gu’s position rested on flimsy conditional agreements that could fall apart at any moment.

After that day, Ahn Junseok vanished into his writing, declaring he was reworking his script. No one knew the new direction or format he was pursuing. Whether he returned with a series, spurred by Youngkwang’s suggestion, or decided to go for a full-fledged franchise, the real negotiations would only begin later. For now, both the script and Ahn himself remained uncommitted to any party, floating freely.

It would have been strange if Park Sunghoon, Jeil Entertainment’s general manager, let this opportunity slip away without acting.

“That day, Ahn seemed to really like you,” Yang Hyesoo whispered, still speaking in a hushed tone.

“It seems like the general manager plans to use you as a bridge to secure a contract with him.”

“Ha.”

Youngkwang chuckled bitterly. He had thought such predatory tactics were only reserved for smaller production companies, but even a major player like Stay Film could find itself outmaneuvered.

Though he inwardly clicked his tongue at the industry’s ruthlessness, his mind was already racing. His value had been proven, and now he wondered how best to leverage this game to maximize what he could gain. The most immediate and negotiable factor was the budget.

“How much do you think we can secure?”

“Well… Considering it leans more toward indie film territory, I’d estimate somewhere between 1.5 and 2 billion won.”

“3.5 billion.”

Youngkwang stated firmly.

“What?”

“This film’s budget is 3.5 billion. With 1.5 billion already secured for pre-production, Jeil Entertainment needs to put up 2 billion.”

The initial budget had been around 2 billion, but the project had grown in scale as Ha Pilsung’s vision expanded. At 3.5 billion, they could adequately translate their ambitious story to the screen. In fact, this figure was far from unreasonable in an era when even modest romance films often surpassed 10 billion in production costs.

Still…

“Isn’t that a weird amount?” Yang Hyesoo asked, skeptical.

The middle ground of 3.5 billion didn’t quite fit the categories of either low-budget indie films or commercial blockbusters. Commercial mid-budget films usually sat around 5 billion, while indie films could be well-made for 1–2.5 billion.

The initial pitch for 300 Days After We Break Up had been based on a smaller-scale 2 billion budget, so the sudden jump to 3.5 billion seemed hard to justify.

Her reaction wasn’t surprising—Youngkwang’s calculation method wasn’t aligned with traditional investment committee logic.

“This isn’t an indie film. It’s a commercial one. Two billion won won’t cut it,” Youngkwang replied confidently.

“Then why not raise the budget properly?”

“If I ask for 5 billion, do you think they’d approve it? A rookie producer, from a no-name production company, helming a film without a single track record?”

At Youngkwang’s blunt honesty, Yang Hyesoo burst out laughing.

“Wow. If you’re that cautious and something goes wrong during shooting or post-production, what are you going to do?”

“It won’t go wrong. We’ll make it on a 3.5 billion budget, but deliver a film that looks like it cost 6 billion or more,” Youngkwang said with unwavering confidence.

And with Ha Pilsung’s knack for maximizing value, he believed it was entirely possible.

Yang Hyesoo observed him, weighing her options.

A total production cost of 3.5 billion, with 2 billion requested from Jeil Entertainment. While it exceeded the budget discussed internally, it wasn’t an impossible figure.

Given that Park Sunghoon seemed to have broader plans for Youngkwang beyond this project, there was a significant chance he’d approve it.

More importantly, the potential success of this low-to-mid-budget commercial film could reflect positively on her as someone involved in the early stages.

“Alright, let’s give it a shot. No guarantees, though,” she said with a playful grin, extending her hand.

“No, you will guarantee it,” Youngkwang replied, grinning back as he shook her hand. “I only work on win-win projects.”

*****

Park Sunghoon, Jeil Entertainment’s general manager, was an ambitious man with an eye for talent.

He had recognized the potential of Ahn Junseok long ago, spotting him at an obscure film festival. Park had always wanted to collaborate with him on a major film someday, so when Gu Bonjik brought him the opportunity, it was a welcome surprise.

But as things progressed, he realized he couldn’t simply leave it in Gu’s hands. The lack of progress worried him.

Since the meeting, it had also become clear that Ahn Junseok had yet to sign any contract with Gu.

This knowledge solidified Park’s next move.

“Before Ahn changes his mind, we need to lock him down with Jeil Entertainment. Trust? We can build that with an offer too enticing to refuse.”

The quirky nature of artists was proving to be an issue.

Despite offering Ahn Junseok a contract with better conditions than what Gu Bonjik had presented—considering production costs and environment—Ahn remained silent. Park Sunghoon contemplated raising the budget again, but it dawned on him that money wasn’t the problem.

It wasn’t the funding; it was the people.

“Deputy Yang, about that guy,” Park called Yang Hyesoo discreetly after the weekend had passed.

“Yes?”

“The producer from My Way Pictures.”

“Oh, Producer Lee Youngkwang?”

“He’s coming in on Wednesday, right?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“I’m inclined to push forward with that project.”

“What?”

“I’m not petty enough to let past events dictate my decisions. But keep in mind, ‘inclined’ doesn’t mean a free pass. It still needs to meet Jeil Entertainment’s standards.”

“…Understood.”

Though caught off guard by this sudden olive branch, Yang quickly realized Park’s true intent.

“By the way, is this Lee Youngkwang fellow a full-time employee at My Way Pictures?”

“Yes? As far as I know, yes.”

“Dig deeper. Find out if he’s freelancing or tied exclusively to them. And while you’re at it, get a rough idea of the company’s organizational structure.”

It was during this period that the investment in 300 Days After We Break Up was finalized with surprising ease.

******

A few days later, the budget was formally discussed.

“A commercial film? With a 3.5 billion won budget?”

“Yes. Judging by the attached estimates, they seem to have adjusted costs to fit within the range of a mid-to-low-budget film. They saved significantly on shooting schedules, locations, and labor costs. It might actually be feasible.”

“Hm.”

“They’re asking for 2 billion won from us. The remaining 1.5 billion has already been secured.”

“What? Haha.”

Hearing this from Yang, Park chuckled softly. He had considered positioning Jeil Entertainment as a patron of indie films, but backing an unconventional low-budget commercial project had its own appeal.

Commercial films were far easier to market and profit from than indie films. The fact that 1.5 billion had already been secured was particularly impressive.

Most intriguing of all was that this proposal had come from Youngkwang. It was bold, almost audacious, to frame a small-budget commercial film as a major project.

What kind of film was he trying to make?

“So My Way Pictures operates with just four people: Director Lee Deokjae, Director Choi Suhyeon, Jang Hyunmin, and Producer Lee Youngkwang?”

Park skimmed through the company profile Youngkwang had submitted to the investment committee, a satisfied smile creeping across his face.

“Small but elite… They’ve been making waves recently, haven’t they?”

“Yes, besides 300 Days After We Break Up, they’ve also secured Director Kwak Junghoon’s next project.”

“A dual-ten-million-ticket director signing with such a tiny company—no one saw that coming.”

“And there’s also Lee Deokjae’s own film in the works.”

“An action film, right? With Director Lee, it won’t be just any action flick.”

The more Park looked into it, the more My Way Pictures piqued his interest.

Each member of the team was exceptionally talented, and their lean structure meant minimal overhead. They already had several promising projects in the pipeline and were poised to grow rapidly if things went well.

“Which is why I should swallow them up before they get too big.”

Park nodded decisively.

While he had worked with Stay Film for a long time, there was always dissatisfaction when it came to profit-sharing.

Internally, voices had been growing louder about the need for Jeil Entertainment to establish its own production studio rather than relying solely on investment and distribution. Instead of starting from scratch, acquiring shares in a small but capable company seemed like the smarter route.

And with Youngkwang and My Way Pictures on his radar, it felt like fate.

“Contact Producer Lee Youngkwang and Director Lee Deokjae. Tell them we’re interested in their other projects as well and suggest a meeting at the earliest opportunity.”

“What?”

Yang felt a sense of unease at Park’s sudden interest in My Way Pictures. It wasn’t just her—anyone would have picked up on the suspicious undertones of his proposal.

But for Youngkwang, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. A jackpot moment that might never come again.