Glory Film Company

Episode 17: Gathering Dragon Balls (2)

“He’s not even answering his phone,” said Jang Hyunmin, clearly exasperated.
Lee Deokjae offered an awkward smile, trying to smooth things over.

“Well, we did ask to meet him suddenly. He said he had something going on, remember?”

“That was supposed to wrap up by 6 PM, which is why he agreed to meet us at 8 PM,” Jang Hyunmin replied, making no effort to hide his annoyance.

“Director Kwak has always been a bit of a maverick—only talks when he feels like it, acting like some lone genius artist,” muttered Choi Suhyeon, his words made transparent by a few glasses of whiskey. His drinking tolerance was just as embarrassing as ever.

“Still, this isn’t the first time. He could at least send a text,” Jang said, clearly frustrated.

“He probably thought this was just a casual gathering among us and figured it wouldn’t be a big deal if he didn’t show,” Lee Deokjae suggested, trying to put a positive spin on things.

For someone who didn’t know Lee well, his words might seem understanding. But in reality, this was his way of rationalizing others’ behavior to protect his own ego.

What a tiring personality, thought Youngkwang as he clicked his tongue softly.

“Let’s just go. Director Bae said he might drop by after midnight, and that’s two hours away. I can already imagine how annoyed I’d be if Kwak texts me around 11 asking, ‘Are you still there?’”

Jang Hyunmin, who usually played it cool when no one recognized him in subways, theaters, or restaurants, suddenly pulled out his old Hallyu star pride and insisted on leaving.

Something about this atmosphere feels odd…

Youngkwang observed the uncomfortable tension.

Back in 2003, it had been Youngkwang who introduced the then 40-something Kwak Junghoon to the 20-something Lee Deokjae. At that time, Kwak had directed three films, but aside from his second, the rest had flopped. Meanwhile, Lee had just debuted with a film that skyrocketed him to fame, earning recognition at the Busan International Film Festival and an invitation to Cannes.

Despite their different reputations and ages, the two had quickly bonded over their shared taste in films and perspectives on the industry, becoming close friends who exchanged ideas on their projects.

So, it wasn’t surprising that they had maintained their relationship over the years. However, judging by the conversation, their dynamic was no longer as equal as it once had been. Kwak seemed to have repeatedly broken promises with Lee and occasionally dismissed him, whether intentionally or not.

Meanwhile, Jang Hyunmin had already risen from his seat. It wasn’t exactly a dramatic Hollywood moment.
If I try to stop him, I’d need a good reason. But if we leave, when will I get another chance to meet Kwak? Youngkwang pondered, caught in an awkward dilemma.

“What’s this? Isn’t that Director Kwak?” slurred Choi Suhyeon, pointing towards the entrance with a slightly unsteady finger.

Ding.

Sure enough, Director Kwak Junghoon, now 60 years old, stepped through the door. His snow-white hair, lean yet fit build, and calm demeanor made him look remarkably similar to the man Youngkwang remembered from 19 years ago.

Well, Kwak’s hair had turned white in his mid-30s after the failure of his third film, and he’d always looked older than his age.

“Phew. You still have that bottle I kept last time, right? Bring it out,” Kwak said, waving his hand dismissively at the bar manager before plopping down at the table with Youngkwang’s group.

“Wow, we were just about to leave,” muttered Jang Hyunmin, his irritation plain.

“Leave? Where? You guys are drinking with me until we’re falling over tonight,” Kwak retorted, running a frustrated hand through his hair before letting out a deep sigh.

Something must be bothering him, thought Youngkwang, watching closely. Whenever Kwak was frustrated, he’d mess with his hair like that, as if trying to suppress his anger.

“Hey, it’s been a while. When was the last time we met?” Kwak asked.

“It’s been almost a year,” Jang replied.

“Really? That long?”

“Yeah, because you kept bailing on us. You canceled on us in Euljiro, Cheongdam, Apgujeong, and Sinsa. Even on the screening day. Sigh.”

“Did I?”

“‘Did I?’ Oh, come on! Your acting’s getting better and better. Soon I’ll have to take lessons from you,” Jang quipped, pouring whiskey into Kwak’s glass despite his grumbling tone.

“So, it’s been since I started planning,” Kwak said.

“Planning? For your next project?”

“Oh, that. How’s it going? The last time I heard, the concept sounded pretty unique.” 

Director Kwak Junghoon sat at the whiskey bar, but his mind seemed elsewhere, his eyes staring into the distance. Instead of answering Lee Deokjae’s question about how his planning was going, he downed his first glass of whiskey straight.

“I’ve thought about scrapping it all thousands of times today. Ugh. I can’t take this anymore,” he muttered.

His complaint sounded no different from an office worker at a pub vowing to quit their job tomorrow, so Youngkwang didn’t think much of it—at first.

“They said I only get one round of edits again this time.”

Editing? What does that mean?

Youngkwang’s ears perked up.

“What? Only one round?”
“That’s outrageous. Was it the production company? Or did the investment committee force that through?”

Had Kwak done something to deserve this? A contract restricting a director’s editing rights sounded incomprehensible.

“They promised last time. Swore they’d guarantee my editing rights, no matter what. But now these damned swindlers are pretending it never happened. They’re saying the situation has changed because of COVID and that I should be thankful the investment hasn’t fallen through altogether.”

“Well, it’s true that even if it had been in writing, it could’ve been overturned under the circumstances. But since you just trusted their word…”
“Come on. You knew what to expect. Since when has CEO Gu ever kept a promise?”

The atmosphere shifted. Even Jang Hyunmin and Choi Suhyeon, who had been grumbling about Kwak earlier, offered words of sympathy, while Lee Deokjae wore a bitter expression.

Silently listening, Youngkwang pieced the situation together.
So Kwak hadn’t had much editing control in his previous works either?

“I should’ve pushed harder for those conditions, even if it meant giving up 2 billion won of the budget. Instead, I just focused on landing the project.”

Kwak mentioned his second ten-million-ticket film, Players. He had taken on a 10-billion-won project but had to relinquish much of his creative authority.

That explains it. The beginning felt unmistakably like Kwak’s style, but the further it went, the more it lost its touch.

Youngkwang nodded subtly. The decline in quality wasn’t due to Kwak’s stamina or persistence—it was because someone else, having seized control of the editing rights, had mishandled the work.

“But isn’t filmmaking the director’s art? Post-production editing would usually involve at least three or four rounds. And they only gave you one?”

Feigning innocence, Youngkwang asked a pointed question to dig deeper. He suspected meddling from the production or investment companies, but it baffled him that anyone would interfere with something as essential as editing, which should remain firmly in the director’s domain.

“The director’s art? Hah! That’s a fairy tale from a bygone era,” Kwak scoffed, his laugh tinged with bitterness.

“The world’s different now. The scariest thing is investors breathing down your neck. Production companies cross the line all the time. Who in this country can make a film without bending to their will? Besides Park Seyoung and Ahn Junseok, no one.”

Though Kwak chuckled, his eyes burned with frustration.

A brief silence fell over the group, giving Lee Deokjae the chance to introduce Youngkwang.

“Oh, Director, this is our new producer who’s working with us. His name is—”

“Ha! And speaking of my last movie—”

But Kwak, too agitated to notice, cut him off, venting his frustrations instead.
No rush, thought Youngkwang, deciding that for now, listening was the better course of action.

“You remember how after the first 30 minutes, it suddenly turns into a long stretch of over-the-top CGI? I hated it from the start. I’d edited it down, trimmed the fat, and worked to make it seamless. But those damn kids at the production and investment offices flipped it all back. I was so frustrated that I even went through the online comments later. People hated that part—said it was boring, overdone. All the criticisms lined up. But what did they say? Data this, trends that. It drove me mad.”

So the “kids” who had taken over the editing process were mercenaries from the production and investment sides. Youngkwang bided his time to interject.

“You know, Director Kim Minseong said the investment committee reps sat in during his editing sessions. Said he felt like he was developing an ulcer every time he made a cut,” Jang Hyunmin added, shaking his head in disbelief.

Wait, the investment committee? In the editing room?

The thought alone made Youngkwang’s blood run cold.

In the film industry as Youngkwang knew it, roles were clearly defined: producers handled external negotiations and logistics, directors took creative responsibility, and investors provided funding and collected their returns.

But meddling in post-production? Tampering with the artistic process itself?

“Well, there’s some truth to it,” Choi Suhyeon said, scrunching his nose. “You can’t entirely ignore data, after all. Directors only see their own work, but the committee folks analyze the success and failure of dozens of other projects.”

“They say the boom in smaller films was thanks to the data-driven feedback from those committees,” he added, slurring slightly.

In the name of reducing risks, the director’s authority—and prestige—had been whittled away.

Not bad at all.
Youngkwang smiled faintly.

If the conflict were vague and ambiguous, persuading Kwak Junghoon would be a challenge. But with such a clear and tangible issue, things could be different.

“Well, it’s not like there’s no way to fix this,” Youngkwang said boldly, catching the group’s attention.

Lee Deokjae’s eyes flickered with unease, while Jang Hyunmin looked intrigued, smacking his lips in anticipation. Meanwhile, Kwak Junghoon finally shifted his full attention to Youngkwang, locking eyes with him for the first time.

“A way to fix it?” Kwak asked.

“There are two ways, actually,” Youngkwang replied confidently, meeting Kwak’s intense gaze without backing down.

“First, if the rules won’t change, don’t fight against them—use them to your advantage.”

“What?”

Youngkwang swirled the ice in his whiskey glass before continuing.

“Editing. One round should be more than enough. The key isn’t the number of edits, but the sequence.”

“…Huh?”

“You should insist on being the final editor. Let the investment committee and production company do as they please with the earlier cuts—think of it as them doing a rough draft for you. That way, when it comes time for the final cut, you’ll have full control over the finished product.”

“……??”
“……!!”
“…Ha!”

The frustration and fury stemming from having only one chance at editing were palpable—especially for a director like Kwak, who understood the stakes better than anyone.

But Youngkwang, as a producer, had a different perspective. He could see the motivations and constraints of both the investment committee and the production company.

Do they really restrict a director’s editing rights just to insult them? Or because they enjoy power games?

Absolutely not.

A slight smile crept across Youngkwang’s lips. It was far more likely that they feared a director’s unbridled artistic vision might compromise the film’s commercial appeal.

Producers and investors naturally prioritized films that would sell well. At the crossroads of art and commerce, they would always lean toward elements that appealed to the masses. If reversing the director’s edits ensured those elements were included, then conflict was inevitable.

But this was a problem that could be negotiated, not a situation that called for opposition or resignation.

The key is that their objectives are different.

If the investors’ commercial priorities and the director’s artistic vision could be aligned, there was no reason they couldn’t coexist.

Investors didn’t care about the style as long as the film incorporated the elements they wanted. In fact, they would likely prefer a seasoned director like Kwak to execute their ideas with sophistication rather than leaving it to their own clumsy interference.

The solution was simple: let them tinker with the initial edits to identify what they wanted, then allow the director to refine and incorporate those ideas into a polished final cut. If a capable producer—someone like Youngkwang—could deftly mediate this process, the tension could be drastically reduced.

“Hah. Why didn’t I think of that?” Kwak muttered, his face a mix of astonishment and self-reproach.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, his curiosity about Youngkwang now genuine.

“I’m Lee Youngkwang, a producer at My Way Pictures,” Youngkwang said with a calm, confident smile.

Slap!

Out of nowhere, Kwak’s thick hand smacked Youngkwang squarely on the back. The sting spread across his shoulders, leaving him both shocked and speechless.

“What the—are you crazy?” Youngkwang exclaimed, his expression incredulous.

But Kwak burst into uproarious laughter.

“Hahaha! What? Lee Youngkwang? Lee Young-Kwang? Kid, you’re something else! I really lucked out meeting you!”

Kwak’s eyes gleamed with a peculiar intensity, a mix of exhilaration and madness.

Has this guy lost it in the past 19 years?