Glory Film Company

Episode 12: The Starting Point

“You said you were confident you could handle the entire packaging process on your own, didn’t you?”
Choi Suhyeon brought up something Youngkwang had said during his interview.

“Yes.”

Oh no, is this what I think it is?

Sensing where this was headed, Youngkwang instinctively braced himself, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Out of the total 3 billion won we’ve secured for development, we’ll allocate 1 billion to your team as project development funding. Let’s see you create something exceptional.”

“Seriously?”

Outwardly, he expressed joy, but internally, Youngkwang felt like his insides were collapsing.

One billion out of three? And you’re entrusting that to a rookie? You’ve only known me for a month—what are you thinking? Why are these people so amateurish? Why are they letting emotions drive their decisions?

“It’s not a blank check,” Choi Suhyeon clarified. “You’ll need to submit a budget for approval, and any expenses above a certain amount will require reporting.”

“You’ll also need to share the project ideas and plans. Let’s assume daily planning meetings for now,” she added.

Lee Deokjae chimed in with additional details, but none of it registered in Youngkwang’s ears. Despite feeling frustrated, the idea of the authority that came with the role was too appealing to dismiss.

I can shorten the timeline.

With rent, utility bills, and living expenses eating away at his balance, Youngkwang’s bank account was dangerously light. His first paycheck of 800,000 won had already disappeared without a trace.

I was even considering approaching private investors… but with 1 billion in development funds ready to go, I can start immediately.

Circumstances and resources are relative and dynamic. In the world of commercial filmmaking, 1 billion won could easily vanish in the blink of an eye. But for Youngkwang, it was enough to serve as a springboard.

He already had an idea he wanted to explore. It was time to get moving.

A growing smile spread across his face as the pieces for a serious endeavor began falling into place.

*****

“Being low-profile is great. It’s so convenient to move around. I can hit up street stalls without a care, no one bothers me,” mused Jang Hyunmin.

The team had gathered for lunch at a famous Chinese restaurant in Yeonnam-dong, courtesy of Lee Deokjae, who was treating them.

With some money to spare, they ordered generously—sweet and sour pork, eggplant in spicy garlic sauce, assorted vegetables with jellyfish, and seafood crispy rice soup.

But as they dug into the feast, Jang Hyunmin suddenly grew sheepish, rambling on about the perks of living as a celebrity without much public attention.

This wasn’t the first time he’d done this. On the day they ran into CEO Gu at the film premiere, he’d made a similar comment on the subway.

Even today, in the bustling restaurant, neither the patrons nor the staff recognized the Hallyu star, Jang Hyunmin.

“Hyunmin, maybe it’s time to take better care of yourself,” Lee Deokjae teased in his trademark listless tone.

“It’s not about popularity—it’s just that people might not believe you’re actually Jang Hyunmin.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They might think you’re just someone who looks like him. You gained 18 kilograms for your last project and still haven’t fully lost it, have you?”

“Hey, I started dieting right after the final performance! I’ve slimmed down completely.”

“True, you did… until about six months ago. But you’ve definitely rebounded since then. No matter how much you hide it under your clothes, the camera doesn’t lie. You know that.”

“Really? Where’s it showing?”

“Your waist and stomach. Your body’s gotten soft overall. Your face looks a bit puffier too. And those pores… yeah, not much better than mine. Oh, and your portions have gotten bigger. You’ve been drinking a lot more too. Once your stomach stretches, it’s hard to shrink it back.”

“It’s the off-season right now! Once I get paid, I’ll whip myself back into shape.”

Despite his irritated protests, his slightly bloated face betrayed the truth.

Actors who made headlines for their “ageless looks” and “masterful self-management” didn’t seem to age a day even in their fifties. In contrast, Jang Hyunmin’s face had a natural, unpolished charm that seemed almost organic in its approach to aging.

“Keep it up, and you’ll end up with gastritis and esophagitis again. That project really was a problem. You haven’t been the same since.”

“What do you mean, not the same? I’m still Jang Hyunmin. I’m still worth something.”

“You could’ve just relied on makeup and insisted on it, but no, you had to gain all that weight for the role. Tsk.”

The conversation ran in circles.

Lee Deokjae clicked his tongue. Jang Hyunmin fumed. And Choi Suhyeon chuckled quietly.

Youngkwang’s eyes widened in astonishment as he listened. The story unfolding before him was completely unexpected.

Jang Hyunmin gained weight? Why?

“What kind of project required you to gain weight?” he asked, still in disbelief.

“Oh, Hyunmin did a play two years ago. For the role, he bulked up significantly—about 18 kilograms.”

“Eighteen kilograms? Jang Hyunmin?”

Youngkwang’s shock was written all over his face as he stared at Jang Hyunmin.

Actors’ bodies often take a toll after completing projects, but Youngkwang didn’t see Jang Hyunmin as that kind of actor. With his stable acting skills, charming looks, and magnetic appeal, he had everything he needed to secure roles without pushing himself too hard.

From what Youngkwang could tell, Jang Hyunmin was someone who carefully picked his battles—choosing projects with high efficiency and avoiding roles requiring physical transformations, flashy action, or complex skills.

At a glance, Jang Hyunmin’s glittering filmography seemed impressive, but upon closer inspection, it was filled with calculated choices.

And now, he was hearing that Jang Hyunmin had transformed his body for a stage play, not even as the lead but as a supporting character? The very idea was shocking.

“It was because of Jiseop. The lead actor took the craft so lightly that Hyunmin wanted to show what it meant to approach a role with sincerity and dedication as a senior actor. It was a bit over the top in hindsight,” someone explained.

Jang Hyunmin laughed heartily, seeming unbothered.

“Yeah, right. After all those drunken nights lamenting about breaking every mirror in the world because of a huge slump! Anyway, get back in shape. We’re wrapping up packaging and starting production in three months.”

Lee Deokjae slyly hinted at bringing Jang Hyunmin on board for a My Way Pictures project, revealing his ambitions for the next film.

“Wow, what is this? You order a feast like this, then torture me by talking nonstop. Am I supposed to eat or not?”

Despite his grumbling, Jang Hyunmin smiled brightly, opening his mouth wide to munch on sweet and sour pork.

Lee Deokjae gave him a disgusted look, then quickly turned to Choi Suhyeon and Youngkwang across the table.

“Eat up, you two. PD Youngkwang, you too—this isn’t the time to dawdle. Once Hyunmin gets going, all this food will disappear in an instant. Oh, and let’s pour a round of drinks.”

“Seriously! Why do you always make me out to be some kind of caricature?”

As the two bickered, Youngkwang couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I never thought those two would get along.”

A sensitive and introverted genius like Lee Deokjae paired with a laid-back, naturally talented actor like Jang Hyunmin—it was an unexpected combination. The thought of what kind of character Jang Hyunmin would play in Lee’s world made Youngkwang anticipate the next project even more.

But what kind of story was Lee Deokjae planning to tell next?

“You know, once I finally got my hands on the script and read through it, it turned out to be different from what I remembered,” Lee Deokjae confessed after a few drinks.

“Especially the action—it feels outdated. I’m not sure if it will resonate with today’s audiences.”

Action?

If it was action by Lee Deokjae, it would have been a gritty, realistic, bare-knuckle noir.

Recalling what he knew, Youngkwang quickly pinpointed Lee’s concerns.

“The story isn’t bad, but the scale feels dated compared to current trends.”

From the 1990s to now, action films had increasingly incorporated larger-than-life elements like organized crime, law enforcement, or political intrigue.

In contrast, Lee’s script was a revenge story about a small-town thug. The conflicts were intense but neither flashy nor expansive.

Even if the concept worked at a planning stage, the next hurdle—securing investors—would be challenging.

“So I’ve decided to rework it a bit,” Lee announced with a meaningful smile.

“You’re changing it? How?”

“What’s this? Weren’t you saying earlier that without your old script, you had no other stories to tell? And now you’re nitpicking and coming up with new ideas? Should’ve written those down sooner,” Choi Suhyeon and Jang Hyunmin chimed in, clearly surprised.

“There’s no reason to take the hard road on purpose. To get through investment committees and make a film that sells, I need to write something that appeals to as many people as possible.”

“Wow.”

“Seriously?”

Lee Deokjae’s decisive answer gave him an air of a repentant prodigal, earning astonished looks from his companions.

“It’s obvious, but… can he pull it off?”

Youngkwang, meanwhile, looked at Lee with a mix of admiration and doubt.

Films are created with theatrical releases in mind, meaning the general public must always be considered. For commercial films, it’s not enough to cater to the director’s vision or a niche audience; the goal must be to captivate a wide range of viewers and appeal to their tastes.

Still…

“There are rare geniuses who don’t need to bother with such calculations.”

Youngkwang squinted, observing Lee Deokjae. He was one of those rare individuals who could simply follow his instincts and still enthrall audiences.

While it would be a welcome development if he grew further by considering commercial appeal, there was a risk of him losing his unique edge if he became too cautious.

It was something worth keeping an eye on—whether his genius had dulled over the past 19 years or matured to a richer form.

“What about you, PD Youngkwang? How’s it going?” Lee Deokjae asked, his face serious as he meticulously chewed on a piece of sweet and sour pork.

“Me?”

“Yeah. Found anything promising?”

The question hinted at whether Youngkwang had identified a project worthy of development funding. With confidence, Youngkwang nodded.

“Actually, I think I’ve found something interesting.”

“Really?”

Youngkwang’s exploits during the showdown with CEO Gu had been impressive. His efforts had secured 3 billion won in development funds for My Way Pictures, earned him official recognition as a PD, and granted him the authority to manage 1 billion won in funding.

However, the funding had been more of a reward than an outright vote of confidence in his project planning abilities. Lee Deokjae’s question was more of a casual inquiry to deflect attention from himself.

But as Youngkwang smoothly transitioned into his report, the others’ expressions turned to surprise.

“There’s an original work, so I think I need to meet the creator first.”

“An original work? What is it, a webtoon? A novel?”

The curiosity in their eyes grew sharper. Despite having access to My Way Pictures’ existing scripts—albeit of questionable quality—Youngkwang had shown no interest in them. Naturally, they wondered what kind of work he deemed worthwhile.

“Do your homework before meeting them. Licensing fees can vary greatly, and the era of indiscriminately buying adaptation rights is over,” Lee Deokjae advised in a low voice.

Production companies, even the most aggressive ones, had suffered losses trying to secure original works for adaptation. The frenzy of acquiring intellectual properties had subsided in recent years.

The underlying question was clear: Did Youngkwang really understand the market conditions when he mentioned licensing fees?

Glancing at their skeptical faces, Youngkwang smirked mischievously.

“The licensing fee shouldn’t be too high. It’s not a novel or a webtoon… it’s a film.”

“A film? Are you planning a remake?”

“Wait, if you expect the licensing fee to be low, does that mean the original wasn’t successful? Why bother reviving a film like that? Even if you improve it through adaptation, the impact might be limited, no matter how good the material is.”

“What’s the genre? Romance? Action? Thriller? And when was it made? Is it domestic or international?”

As soon as he mentioned the source was a film, everyone voiced their concerns, barraging him with questions. Amused by their reactions, Youngkwang dropped a bombshell.

“It’s a domestic film. Made about two years ago. The genre… is erotic.”

“…?”

“…What?”

“Wait. Did I hear you correctly? Erotic? As in… erotic?”

A brief silence followed.

The weight of the word “erotic” hung heavily in the air as the three of them sat speechless, their mouths slightly agape.

Did he know what he was saying, or was he oblivious?

Unsure whether to reprimand him or try to understand his reasoning, they wrestled with how to respond to this audacious rookie.

Seeing their reactions, Youngkwang grinned widely.

This was exactly what he had hoped for. He planned to elicit even stronger reactions from more people in the future. Starting with this provocation, he was confident in his ability to launch his first film and take a bold step toward his ultimate goal.