Glory Film Company

Episode 14: The Veteran Newbie, Director Ha

The setting was an old pub that specialized in roasted chicken. The faded menu on the wallpaper spoke of its age, while the glossy, crispy chicken skin and the chilled draft beer looked irresistible. Yet no one reached for them.

The male lead, Jungsoo, timidly broke the silence in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Director, are you sure the takes turned out okay?”

“Okay? We got what we need. It’s plenty,” Director Ha Pilsung laughed heartily, raising his beer glass. Some of the staff exchanged nervous glances before clinking their glasses with his.

“Wow, we’ve never wrapped up this quickly before.”
“We spent enough time calibrating the emotions, didn’t we?”
“Still… I felt like my performance was a little awkward.”
“Today was just a warm-up. Think of it as getting loose. The real work starts tomorrow. Now drink up; the beer’s getting warm.”

It was an unusual scene. On most sets, the cast and crew might laugh off their exhaustion while the director brooded alone, bearing the weight of the project. Here, however, the cast and crew seemed uneasy while the director exuded nonchalance.

“Wait, isn’t this a 90-minute film? Shouldn’t we have shot more today?”
“With the new 52-hour workweek rules, most sets are pushing harder than ever. Didn’t we only work about five hours, including setup?”

At a nearby table, some staff were whispering about how unconventional Director Ha’s style seemed.

“Relax. I was skeptical at first too, but this is just how the director works.”
“Seriously. I thought my scenes would get cut. He breezes through takes, and I was sure they wouldn’t make it into the final edit.”

A cinematographer and an actress, both veterans of Ha’s previous projects, came to his defense. They assured the others that as long as they trusted him, the results would speak for themselves.

“Do you remember the project two films ago? It rained so heavily it seemed like we’d need reshoots for sure. But we ended up wrapping a day early.”
“What happened then?”
“The budget we saved on that extra day went straight to a huge wrap party. The atmosphere was just as relaxed as it is now, and the film turned out fine.”
“Which film was that?”
“A Perfect Day.”
“Wow.”
“That was a massive hit.”
“‘Because the day was beautiful, or because it wasn’t, or because it was just right… every day was perfect!’ Wait, that was filmed like this?”
“Editing was a masterpiece. Not a single shot was wasted.”
“Everyone worried there wouldn’t be enough footage. I even visited the editing room, and let me tell you, it was like witnessing the miracle of loaves and fishes. The director patched the shots together with ease, and suddenly, the whole film was there. It was pure magic. Plus, he remembered every frame and knew exactly how to piece them together, no hesitation. The editor just followed his lead and, bam, the film was done.”

Hearing these accounts, the crew murmured in awe, while Youngkwang, sitting awkwardly in a corner, nodded in agreement.

“He’s definitely crazy. In the best way possible.”

It was clear that Ha Pilsung directed while editing the film in his mind. This allowed him to stay relaxed on set, knowing exactly how to make it work in post-production. His approach seemed reckless on the surface, but it was rooted in an unparalleled understanding of the craft.

If Lee Deokjae was unique in his eccentric genius, Ha Pilsung was a sharp, quick-thinking prodigy. His ability to visualize the sequence of work and structure it so seamlessly must have made everything seem effortless to him.

In a film industry where time is money, being able to visualize the final product and work toward it with such clarity made Ha an undeniable talent. His flexible mindset also allowed him to adapt to unexpected situations with ease.

“I had my doubts when I first saw his films,” Youngkwang thought, recalling Ha’s previous works. The dreamlike atmosphere of those movies, and the techniques used to engross the audience, all shared one key feature: a mastery of pacing.

Ha had a knack for stretching scenes in ways the audience wouldn’t notice. Dramatic moments repeated intentionally, or frames extended slightly longer than usual, subtly increased runtime while maintaining engagement.

“It all makes sense now. The calculated efficiency in filming and editing—this guy really knows his stuff.”

The pace of the narrative was skillfully adjusted to fill the content while maintaining a slow, flowing atmosphere and crafting its unique style. Once again, Ha Pilsung’s charm was on the rise.

“I still have a work I can’t forget.”

The camera director shared another anecdote about Ha Pilsung, as if telling a war story.

“Was it back in 2008? The investor was such a nightmare that the film was about to be scrapped mid-production.”

“Why?”

“By then, we’d completed about a third of the shoot, but the investor suddenly threw a tantrum, saying they didn’t like the material and demanded we redo everything with a different script.”

“What? What about the money that was already spent?”

“They didn’t care. The investor basically said, ‘Too bad. I won’t put another cent into this unless you start over,’ and kept harassing us like that.”

“So what did you do?”

“At the time, the production was being handled by Kangsan Film, and their CEO, Lee Hosik, was a real snake. He immediately sided with the investor and blamed Director Ha for everything.”

Everyone’s eyes sparkled with interest at the intriguing story from the past. Stories about other people’s battles and misfortunes always carried an enduring vitality, even with the passage of time.

“So our Director Ha lost his shirt—literally—and started banging his chest with his fists, yelling about how the actors’ and staff’s wages and time would be compensated. He even threw around some cheap props, threatening to scrap everything.”

“Wow, incredible.”

“Back then, though, films getting canned midway wasn’t all that unusual. Especially in the erotic film industry, where even more absurd things happened.”

“Wait, Director Ha, did you actually take your shirt off?”

Unable to stay quiet any longer, Ha Pilsung, who had been pretending not to hear, finally interjected, his face flushed.

“Well, we were shooting a pool scene at the time, and it was hot, so I just wanted to take a swim, that’s all.”

The camera director, undeterred, continued with even more enthusiasm.

“In the end, Director Ha went so far as to grab the investor by the collar. The actors, camera crew, and lighting crew all pretended to hold him back, but during the scuffle, Assistant Director Park Kyungsoo took an exaggerated fall and hit the ground hard.”

“Assistant Director Park? He was there too?”

“Of course. He and Director Ha have been close since the days when Ha was an assistant director. Honestly, it was like watching a scam artist performance. Park Kyungsoo started bleeding from his nose and dramatically rolled around, shouting, ‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’ Then Director Ha screamed that the investor had attacked someone and was going to kill him. Their synergy was flawless, truly an art form.”

“And then?”

“The investor’s face went pale, and he tried to slip away, but everyone surrounded him in multiple layers, trapping him in. It was absolute chaos.”

Even as he recounted the tale, the camera director shook his head, still amazed at the tense and wild fight.

“But here’s the thing—Director Ha had planned it all from the beginning.”

The camera director leaned closer to the table, lowering his voice as if the real story was only now starting.

“He made a deal right there.”

“A deal?”

“How?”

“He calculated the additional costs of scrapping the project and starting over, including wages owed to the staff. Then he asked how they planned to cover it. The producer and investor started blaming each other, and the argument escalated. Watching this, Director Ha calmly said, ‘I have a solution that would barely incur any losses. Are you interested?’”

Could it be that film?

Youngkwang recalled one of Ha Pilsung’s reference works—a film with a framed narrative that felt like watching two movies in one. It was the film that convinced him Ha wasn’t just another run-of-the-mill erotic film director but someone capable of true artistry.

“That movie is…”

“Is it My Man’s Woman?”

Youngkwang’s abrupt answer hit the nail on the head.

Everyone turned to him in unison. The camera director, whose excitement had been building to the climactic reveal, looked utterly deflated at having the moment stolen. His face quickly morphed into a look of confusion.

“Well, yes, but… who are you?”

Youngkwang, who had been waiting for Director Ha to wrap up filming, had blended in with the crew at the afterparty venue when Ha unexpectedly vanished after abruptly ending the shoot. The staff had assumed he was either an acquaintance of someone on set or a temporary hire, so no one had questioned his presence.

Now, having suddenly joined the conversation, his presence was impossible to ignore.

“Oh, hello. I’m Lee Youngkwang, a producer from My Way Pictures.”

“…?”

“My Way Pictures?”

“Oh… are you with Director Lee Deokjae?”

“The office in Yeonnam-dong or Yeonhui-dong, right?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

While My Way Pictures was a small production company, some of the industry veterans in the group seemed familiar with its name. The camera director and lighting director, who appeared to be in their 50s, exchanged knowing glances and nodded slightly.

Sizzle…

For a moment, the only sound in the pub was the kitchen frying up the garlic chicken they had ordered, filling the room with an awkward silence. The expressions around the table were a mix of curiosity and wariness, as if they couldn’t figure out why a young producer from a commercial film company had shown up on the set of an erotic film. Was it a good thing, or something to be cautious about?

“Oh! Ah!”

Thankfully, Ha Pilsung suddenly jumped up with a look of realization and extended his hand to Youngkwang.

“My Way Pictures! Producer Lee Youngkwang! You were supposed to come today, weren’t you? Wow, I’ve been all over the place.”

It was clear Ha Pilsung had been more focused on the drinking session than the filming. Laughing heartily, he moved to sit across from Youngkwang. The staff members already seated shuffled to the side to make room.

“You’re here about Men Met at a Funeral, right?”

“Yes, I’m here to discuss acquiring the rights.”

“That film has been floating around long enough, and it’s not exactly a masterpiece, so you’ll probably be able to get it cheap.”

Ha Pilsung spoke bluntly, as if talking about someone else’s work. He flashed three fingers and mouthed “three hundred,” openly naming the price while laughing good-naturedly.

“Park Kyungsoo, our production manager, will handle the details. He’s experienced with this kind of thing.”

“Experienced?”

“Our films have been sold to Japan twice before.”

“Ah…”

“But this is the first time a commercial film company has made an offer. I’m curious—if you remake it, what’s your plan?”

Though his voice sounded cheerful, Youngkwang didn’t miss the slight tremble in Ha Pilsung’s gaze. He was pretending to be indifferent, but he clearly seemed interested.

Youngkwang smiled faintly and replied, “I’m thinking of turning it into a high-concept romantic comedy.”

“A… rom-com? From an erotic film?”

“We’d keep the main premise from the original, but the setting and episodes would be almost entirely changed.”

“Huh. Will that even work?”

Scratching his head, Ha Pilsung looked doubtful.

“There are a few lines that are good enough to reuse as they are. They’d work well even in a completely different context.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true. Originally, I didn’t even write it with an erotic film in mind.”

He stabbed a piece of the garlic chicken thigh with his fork as he spoke.

“You didn’t?”

“No. The first draft was just a black comedy. Everyone lies and hides things, right? I thought it’d be interesting to explore what happens when those lies get exposed by circumstances beyond their control. It’d be tense but also funny. That’s the kind of story I wanted to write.”

“Then why did it end up as an erotic film?”

“Well, you know how it is. I got typecast as an erotic film director, which made it hard to secure funding for anything else. In the end, we decided to tweak the story and just make it an erotic film.”

Youngkwang, staring intently at Ha as he munched on chicken, asked, “Do you still have the original script? Could I take a look?”

“Oh, I think I still have it somewhere…”

Ha Pilsung tilted his head as if trying to remember.

“But the reactions weren’t great. I don’t think it’ll be much help to you.”

“I’m not interested in what other people thought. What did you think?”

“Sorry?”

“That script—if it had been made into a film, how do you think it would’ve turned out? You must have had a vision for it.”

At Youngkwang’s persistent questioning, Ha Pilsung put down his fork and drained the rest of his beer in one go.

“Auntie! Another round of beer here! Wow, suddenly I’m so thirsty.”

Ha shouted toward the kitchen, his voice loud enough to echo.

To Youngkwang, the sight looked oddly dramatic—like the protagonist of a film preparing for a climactic moment of revelation. It was as if Ha Pilsung was on the verge of awakening to something significant.