Glory Film Company

Episode 58: How to Create an Issue (1)

Finally reaching her boiling point, Na Sejeong shouted,
“Are you saying my portfolio has been circulating like that? I’ve only shown it to a few places!”

“Well, I don’t know exactly how it was obtained…”

“Do you still have it?”

Startled by Youngkwang’s sharp gaze, the informant, realizing there was no point in hiding it anymore, nodded obediently and opened the file they had kept. Na Sejeong snatched it up with a horrified expression and confirmed its contents.

“Wow, it’s real. This is absolutely my original manuscript.”

Pressing her hand against her forehead as if her blood pressure was spiking, Na Sejeong turned to glare at the informant.

“So, you took this and used it to fabricate evidence?”

Youngkwang cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“…Yes.”

After the confession, silence lingered at the table for a while. Youngkwang drained the rest of his tea and asked,
“Do you have any evidence?”

“Excuse me?”

“Evidence that what you’ve told us so far is true. Like records of your conversations or proof that they were the ones inciting this.”

“Well, um…”

The informant stammered, visibly flustered.

“It was a chatroom that automatically deletes messages after a set period. And if you take a screenshot, the other person gets notified, so I couldn’t do that either.”

A chatroom like that? Impressed by how advanced such technology had become, Youngkwang kept his expression neutral and furrowed his brow.

“Did you ever communicate through another method?”

“No, that’s it.”

The informant nodded dumbly.

“How did you get the file, then?”

“I accessed it through a shared drive and downloaded it, but I don’t have access anymore.”

“Ha. So, as of now, there’s no evidence to back up your story. How are we supposed to believe this isn’t just a fictional tale you made up?”

Under Youngkwang’s relentless pressure, the informant seemed to realize the precariousness of their position. Their face grew increasingly anxious.

“Uh… but I can contact them again! They said if things went well, they’d introduce me to a job!”

“Did you at least get their contact information?”

“No. They just said we’d talk again later…”

“Ha.”

What could anyone expect to squeeze out of this person? They were frustratingly naive—easy to manipulate and easier to discard.

“I swear I’m not lying. I’m not even smart enough to come up with something like this!”

“Then think of something. Anything to prove that person isn’t imaginary.”

Under Youngkwang’s piercing gaze, the man’s eyes suddenly widened.

“Oh! I remember their ID!”

“Their ID?”

“Yes, you need to add them as a friend to chat. I received their ID back then. It was in English… a pretty plain name… Michael! Oh, Michael Hong, I think?”

“Michael… Hong? Ha. Hahaha.”

The same person who’d gone to such lengths to manipulate this situation couldn’t even bother with a creative pseudonym.

“Tell me that ID properly.”

Youngkwang let out a dry laugh, realizing he had uncovered yet another connection to Hong Ingi, who had been operating under the alias Michael Hong.

*****

“Anyway, thank you for clearing your name.”

January 2023

Na Sejeong officially joined My Way Pictures.

Youngkwang hadn’t yet revealed his suspicion that Michael Hong was, in fact, Hong Ingi. The circumstantial evidence was compelling, but he didn’t yet have irrefutable proof, so he planned to gather more before taking action.

However, he had kept his promise to clear Na Sejeong’s name. Facilitating a meeting between her and the informant, securing a confession, and even obtaining a video admission of the false report—everything was handled with precision.

As a result, My Way Pictures warmly welcomed Na Sejeong aboard.

“So, did you meet with PD Hong Ingi?”

Before Youngkwang extended his offer, Na Sejeong had been considering a proposal from Hong Ingi to transfer to Gray Films.

As promised, Na Sejeong proceeded with the meetings, but the aftermath and conclusion of the next steps were left unsaid due to her busy schedule.

“Well, I met with him twice more, and honestly, it went as expected. He offered his hand as if doing me a favor. I almost said, ‘Thank you, Michael,’ by mistake,” Sejeong said with a biting smile, her eyes blazing.

Her sharp personality had been evident from the first meeting and consistently showed in subsequent encounters. Youngkwang found that aspect of her rather appealing. That very day, she made a decision that wasn’t easy.

“If we spread the confession video around, it might feel satisfying immediately, but it’ll leave a bitter aftertaste.”

“Exactly. Questions would remain. So, PD Youngkwang, you’re suggesting we find the person who incited him as well, right?”

“Yes. It might take some time and be frustrating, but that’s the only way to bring this Michael Hong out into the open.”

“Hah, I’ve got a good idea already. The only people who could have accessed my recent drafts are Director Ahn Junseok and PD Hong Ingi. If it’s a ‘Hong,’ it’s obvious. Isn’t PD Hong the culprit?”

“We don’t have definitive evidence yet.”

“Hmm. I do wonder what grudge he has against me to throw such a mess my way. I guess I’ll have to wait patiently to find out.”

Sejeong nodded and promised to keep silent about the incident for the time being.

“It’ll be better for the long term,” Youngkwang said with a nod. “Sensational and malicious rumors tend to spread quickly, whether they’re true or not. On the other hand, explaining that the plagiarism accusation was a deliberate lie will be frustratingly slow to gain traction. It won’t be enough to fully restore your reputation.”

“Well, I’m just an unknown rookie, so I don’t have much of a reputation to restore. But I get what you’re saying—it’s better to wait and hit hard later than to waste time defending myself everywhere.”

“Exactly. Plus, I’m certain this isn’t the only scheme Michael Hong has pulled. When it all comes out at once, the unjust treatment you faced will become a proper issue and be resolved.”

The extent of Hong Ingi’s wrongdoing visible to Youngkwang was limited to the false accusations against Sejeong. But it was unlikely that was all. Would someone like Hong Ingi go to such lengths just because he was embarrassed publicly? More likely, Sejeong had been an obstacle in a larger, more sinister plan.

It was important to figure out what Hong Ingi’s ultimate goal was, how it involved Director Ahn Junseok’s production company and Jeil Entertainment, and what ripple effects it might have on My Way Pictures.

Luckily, Sejeong was cooperative.

“As long as this doesn’t drag on forever, I can be patient. If things don’t work out, we always have the confession video to use. Oh, by the way, PD Youngkwang, going through such a ridiculous experience has sparked some new inspiration for me. I feel like I could write something fun in the crime genre. If I can flesh out a treatment, I’ll show it to you!”

Sejeong’s attitude was remarkably positive and strong. It was clear she had the resilience needed to survive in such a rough industry.

That day, they laughed it off. But true to her word, on her first day at My Way Pictures, Sejeong handed over a five-page paper.

“Take a look at this.”

“What’s this?”

“The crime genre idea I mentioned! I came up with an item and sketched it out. I’d like to hear your thoughts on whether it’s worth developing.”

“Wow, your passion is incredible.”

“I’ve had plenty of time to prepare.”

“Great. Actually, I was hoping we could try something new alongside your existing portfolio.”

“Something new?”

“The projects currently in production at My Way Pictures are all based on scripts the directors already wrote. For example, Director Ha Pilsung’s 300 Days After We Break Up, Director Lee Deokjae’s Youth, and Director Kwak Junghoon’s Guardian Spirit—all of them had foundational material ready.”

“Ah…”

“While we work through those projects, I wanted to develop at least one project from scratch, step by step.”

Youngkwang smiled broadly. He had become a PD through an opportunity he created for himself in 2022 and secured a development budget of 100 million won. While it was typically used as general operating costs for preparing one film, Youngkwang planned to produce three films with it. He was currently finalizing plans for what to work on after Ha Pilsung’s and Kwak Junghoon’s films.

Now, he had the chance to slot a project with Sejeong into that final spot.

“It’d be ideal to release one every one or two years…”

The success of these three films would determine the scale and scope of the next projects he undertook.

“Fortunately, all three are on track so far,” he thought, taking a deep breath.

The journey from conceiving a film idea to refining it, completing it, and finally presenting it to audiences could take months or even years. While long-term projects allowed for time to respond to crises, they also came with the drawback of unpredictable challenges that could strike like waves at any moment.

The challenges of the film industry weren’t lost on Youngkwang, whose careful steps reflected his deep understanding of its workings. Even so, external factors could crash down like an unstoppable tide.

This time, the tide was threatening Ha Pilsung’s first commercial film, 300 Days After We Break Up, which was fully prepared for its release but now faced its first major hurdle right before distribution.

*****

“We might need to push back the release date.”

By mid-January, the film had passed censorship and secured a 15+ rating. But Yang Hyesoo of Jeil Entertainment, looking troubled, suggested that the late February or early March release slot might no longer work.

“It’s almost a relief,” she added. “With such a small budget, releasing in February could mean we get completely overshadowed.”

It was an unusually packed winter season, with blockbuster after blockbuster gracing screens like a continuous parade of Christmas presents. From December through January, theaters were filled with crowd-pleasers. For a small-budget film, competing in that atmosphere would be daunting. Still, having the distributor shuffle things around so casually was a bitter pill to swallow. It felt like an admission of how little they valued the film.

“Two of December’s films will still dominate screens well into late January, holding a 70% share of the market.”

Yang sighed, frustrated by the situation. Another film was poised to break the ten-million-ticket mark, with a superhero movie amassing 5 million viewers and global auteur Patrick’s ambitious blockbuster, Pandora 2, nearing 8 million. The upcoming lineup wasn’t looking any more forgiving.

“So when can we release it? Mid-March? Late March?”

“They’re suggesting April or May, as other films are also being pushed back.”

“That’s a dead period.”

“I know. But compared to getting crushed between major releases, that might be better. March will mostly feature smaller, more charming films, so the atmosphere might suit us better.”

“Is late February or early March entirely out of the question?”

“If we insist, we can release it, but…”

Yang trailed off, hesitant.

“And?”

“…The number of screens we can secure will be far lower than expected—probably fewer than 100.”

In Korea, there are about 500 theaters and roughly 3,500 screens. For a film like 300 Days After We Break Up, securing 250 to 300 screens had been the goal—enough to cover about one theater per city. It wasn’t much compared to blockbusters, but the strategy was to extend the film’s run and rely on word of mouth to build an audience. This was the best marketing strategy available for low-budget commercial films in Korea. For independent or art films—or even smaller ultra-low-budget productions—getting 100 screens was often a challenge.

Youngkwang had accepted those limitations. But this? This felt like a slap in the face.

“So, the choice is to go out with fewer than 100 screens in February or wait until April for 300 screens. No better options?”

After pouring their heart into the project, hearing this news drained all the energy from him.

“Exactly. It’s frustrating from our perspective, but for the distributor, it makes sense to stick with products that sell well for as long as possible.”

“Hmm.”

When stacked against competitors, 300 Days After We Break Up was a modest 3.5 billion won production—just barely a commercial film. In the eyes of a distributor swimming in blockbuster revenues, it wasn’t worth prioritizing.

“If the market had just one or two blockbusters, we might try to carve out a niche. But with the way things are flooding the screens now… you know what could happen, right? We might barely get a chance to breathe before being forced out of theaters.”

Yang Hyesoo advocated for waiting, aiming to release after the storm of big releases had subsided.

But Youngkwang wasn’t the type to accept the options others handed him.

“When do we have to decide?”

“What?”

“The release date. How long do we have to make the call?”

“Well… this week. Next week at the latest.”

“Then let’s hold off for a few days.”

With that, Youngkwang shot up from his seat.