Glory Film Company

Episode 46: 300 Days After We Break Up

When a director calls out “OK” on set, it usually means they’ve captured the perfect take. However, that doesn’t necessarily mean the shot will make it to the final cut.

In the editing room, a different take that better suits the overall flow of the film might be chosen instead.

This often leads to challenges like:

“The expression is better in this cut, but the voice is better in that one.”
“Let’s try syncing the sound from this one onto that shot. Not sure if the sync will match.”
“…Does it feel a little off?”
“If it’s just a few frames, we can adjust it. One moment.”

When patchwork editing doesn’t solve the issue, there’s always the option of ADR (Automated Dialogue Replacement), where actors re-record their lines in a controlled studio environment.

“Alright, let’s rehearse once. Just match the lip movements and rhythm before we record.”
“Got it. I’m ready.”
“Great. Let’s play the scene and give it a go.”

However, ADR comes with its own challenges. In the more solemn atmosphere of a studio, actors—especially newcomers—sometimes struggle to match the tone and energy they delivered on set. That’s where the director’s guidance becomes crucial.

“Let’s try one take with a little more energy. It’s good as is, but let’s raise the tension slightly.”
“Alright, I’ll try it step by step. Let me know what you think.”
“Perfect. Let’s go again!”

Once dialogue editing is complete, music, sound effects, and finally Foley work are layered onto the film.

Ssss… The rustle of fabric as a character moves.

Thud, thud. Footsteps, which vary with emotion.

Sizzle. The sound of samgyeopsal grilling.

Clink. The cheerful clash of glasses.

Drip, drop. The rhythm of raindrops falling.

All these sounds breathe life into the film, with each moment meticulously crafted.

Today, the Foley booth was set to produce just such sounds.

Inside the booth, surrounded by props, was Do Junyoung, while a seasoned recordist, who had worked with him many times before, was setting up the equipment.

“Hello!”

“Ah, welcome.”

As Youngkwang and his team entered the studio, Junyoung and the recordist greeted them warmly.

“We’ll just quietly observe.”

“Sure, though it might get a bit repetitive. These processes often are. The final files will take a few more days to prepare due to post-production work.”

“Please make sure we have them within this week.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

The requested footage was approximately 10 minutes long, spanning three pivotal scenes:

The opening sequence.

A middle scene where the emotions of the male and female leads clash.

The critical rest stop scene following the bus accident, where the protagonist undergoes a turning point.

“Calm and collected.”

Junyoung’s expression remained composed as he sorted through props while reviewing the footage. However, when the video started playing and he exchanged signals with the recordist, his previously indifferent gaze sharpened with intensity.

Winter afternoon.
The sound of a fierce wind blowing was abruptly muted as a window was closed.

Creak.

Using a small piece of metal, Junyoung recreated the sound of a window creaking shut, matching the rhythm of the footage perfectly.

“I just don’t want anything to happen to me.”

The faint rustle of fabric and soft footsteps followed as the female lead stepped away from the window. Her voice rang clear, though the blurry focus of the camera struggled to reveal her fully—her silhouette remained indistinct, like a painting smudged with water.

“Good things, bad things, anything at all.”

Her melancholic tone was overlaid by the male lead’s deep sigh.

“Haah.”

“Back then, I didn’t understand what she meant. I was too busy agonizing over whether I’d done something wrong.”

Minwook’s narration flowed over the scene. The two figures standing by the window were backlit, their expressions hidden in shadow.

Blink.

The screen flickered, mimicking the slow opening and closing of heavy eyelids. Dreamlike sound effects accompanied the transition.

Blink.

When the screen brightened again, the setting and time had shifted.

“At that time, I was an idiot. The biggest idiot.”

The male lead, Minwook, lay sprawled on a small bed, narrating his thoughts.

Rustle.
The sound of fabric shifting added vividness to his restless movements. Empty soju bottles, scattered chaotically around the bed, told a story of his despair.

Creak.
The cheap mattress groaned as it shifted, and
Clink, clink.
some bottles toppled over.

“You bitch.”

With swollen eyes, Minwook blinked slowly and spoke, his words overlaid by the ticking of a clock.

10:00, 1:00, 4:00.
The light outside his window dimmed as the hours passed, accompanied by the sound of a cold winter wind slamming against the panes.

Whistle.
Rustle.
Minwook sprang up from the bed, crumpling the sheets beneath him.

Beep.
He stepped off the mattress,
Swoosh.
grabbed his phone, and
Clunk.
swung open the wardrobe.

“It’s all my fault, Yeonsoo.”

Wearing a thick coat, Minwook stepped out of his apartment, his head bowed as he walked while typing a message.

Crunch, crunch.
The sound of snow underfoot mirrored his growing urgency.

“This will never happen again. Please, just forgive me this once.”
“I’m coming to you now. Let’s talk face-to-face.”

Tap, tap, tap.
The typing sounds were unnervingly precise, sharper than what a phone would typically produce. Junyoung created them by delicately tapping the keyboard with his fingernails.

The howling winter wind was enhanced by adding the sound of fluttering fabric to a pre-recorded natural wind effect.

Whistle.
Crunch, crunch.
Minwook’s footsteps on the snow were brought to life by squeezing a bag of cornstarch, simulating the texture perfectly.

“Impressive,” whispered Jung Yeoul, the sound supervisor, her eyes wide as she watched the recording process.

Though they would still need to adjust and refine some of the sounds, the process flowed smoothly, with Junyoung demonstrating professional precision. His inventive use of simple props left nothing to be desired, and his timing was impeccable.

“It’s all about rhythm,” Jung Yeoul noted. “Foley work depends heavily on how well the sound syncs with the actors’ movements, and he’s nailing it so far.”

“I agree. His emotional expression through sound is on point,” added Ha Pilsung.

“Take the scene where Minwook is walking while messaging Yeonsoo,” Ha Pilsung continued. “That moment is critical. He’s spiraling—he can’t accept the reality of Yeonsoo’s situation, but he also can’t let go of her. He’s desperate, impatient, losing his mind.”

“That’s why his steps quicken,” Jung Yeoul chimed in.

“Exactly. In editing, we shortened that part to tighten the pacing, but this current length feels like it conveys everything about the character’s emotional state.”

“You’re right.”

The next scene transformed their growing approval into full-blown confidence.

“Haa. Haa.”
“Huff. Haa.”
“I’ll do better. From now on, I’ll do whatever you want. Even if you only want to see me on Thursdays, I’ll wait. I promise. Please…”

Minwook’s voice trailed off, his breathing interspersed with sobs. The scene transitioned into a steamy kiss and an unconventional bed scene that blended flashbacks with present-day intimacy.

This scene, which avoided nudity, relied on props, close-ups, and sound design to ignite the imagination. From the beginning, Ha Pilsung had invested heavily in crafting its emotional and sensory impact.

Now, as the Foley work exceeded expectations, he closed his eyes and smirked.

“Brilliant.”

Junyoung’s movements, as he replicated the actors’ gestures by rubbing his body, kissing his elbow, and creating delicate contact sounds with his hand, were mesmerizing—almost artistic.

Can sound be this sensual?

The actors’ labored breaths and nearly inaudible moans, combined with Junyoung’s carefully layered effects, subtly pushed the scene’s rating higher.

“Wow. We might need a few versions of this.”

Director Ha Pilsung, whose DNA as a former erotic film director still seemed to influence him, was brimming with excitement. His enthusiasm shone as if his instincts from his prime were coming back to life.

Meanwhile, unaffected by the lively atmosphere around him, Do Junyoung remained deeply immersed in the emotions of the actors on screen, crafting the soundscape with meticulous focus.

“Forgive me for asking to observe the process,” Jung Yeoul, the sound supervisor, began on their way back from the studio. “It’s just that there aren’t any official certifications or educational programs in this field yet.”

She wore a slightly sheepish expression, as if making an excuse for her earlier doubts.

“It’s hard to gauge someone’s skills or level just from a resume.”

It was clear that today’s performance had far exceeded expectations. Enough, in fact, to make her retract her earlier statement about being able to find someone equally qualified within her network.

But beyond the satisfaction was a tinge of regret.

“So he said four months, huh? After that, he’s not planning to work anymore?”

Her disappointment was evident—this seemed like a connection too good to end after one project.

“I didn’t ask for details. He seems to have his reasons,” Youngkwang replied.

Junyoung’s mention of wanting to leave Korea could have stemmed from personal frustrations or some deeper issue, but it wasn’t clear yet.

Realizing how rare a talent Junyoung was, even Youngkwang was tempted to ask him to collaborate on future projects. However, he decided it was better to wait for the right moment—there was still time.

When the sample files arrived, Jung Yeoul immediately approved them, and a formal contract was signed with Do Junyoung.

A single film can require thousands of sound clips, each tailored to its direction and purpose. This meant countless meetings and preparations would need to take place before the actual work could begin.

*****

Winter crept in fully, and the end of the year passed in a blur.

In December, the picture lock—the finalized edited version of the film—was completed. With dialogue, music, and sound effects layered on, the last files were handed over to Junyoung. Now, it was his turn to pour his heart into crafting the myriad sounds that would complete the film.

This also marked the near end of post-production, signaling that it was time to dive into marketing and distribution efforts.

“This is good. It has a unique touch.”

“The emotional punch in the reveal—when it’s disclosed that Yeonsoo had been standing in for someone else—hits hard.”

“The comedy works too. It’s not cheesy, and it aligns well with contemporary cultural sensibilities. I’m curious how Gen Z audiences will react, but the test screening should answer that.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea to leverage Director Ha Pilsung’s filmography and an interview with actress Kang Jooyeon for marketing?”

“Of course. Keeping things hidden would only seem strange. It’s cleaner to take the official route before speculation starts flying.”

“What about distribution? How about February or March? There are too many blockbusters this winter.”

“Exactly. If it were just one or two, we could aim for a niche, but with several major releases, it’s better to aim for February or March. Rushing the end of post-production wouldn’t be worth it.”

Unlike many other projects, 300 Days After We Break Up didn’t encounter significant friction with the review board. Sharing a 20-minute edit during the planning phase had fostered mutual understanding, and the film’s status as a low-budget production worked to its advantage.

Additionally, insider information from Yang Hyesoo smoothed the way.

“We should aim to submit for review in early January.”

“Why’s that?”

“Park Sunghoon from Jeil Entertainment and Director Ahn Junseok will be abroad for business in January. It looks like they’ll be handling actor casting, location scouting, and meeting cinematographers.”

“Sounds like a hectic time.”

“Exactly. Let’s wrap things up before their schedules complicate matters.”

Jeil Entertainment’s Head of Production, Park Sunghoon, was consumed with projects related to Director Ahn Junseok’s franchise films. As a result, 300 Days After We Break Up—a much smaller project—was largely left to Yang Hyesoo, who worked tirelessly to make it shine.

“There’s no pushback from the review board, which is great. Normally, we’d have to re-edit multiple times.”

“Director Ha Pilsung’s vision was clear from the start, and the collaborative approach to production helped avoid issues. If Jeil Entertainment suddenly starts complaining now, they’d be the crazy ones.”

“Haha, you really don’t get power dynamics, do you?”

“And yet we’re still working together, aren’t we? That says something.”

“Judgment’s still out on that one.”

Though there were occasional disagreements, the project was progressing smoothly. As the finish line approached, both Youngkwang and Yang Hyesoo felt a growing sense of satisfaction.

However, the true measure of success or failure for Youngkwang’s first film still hinged on several key decisions yet to be made.