Glory Film Company

Episode 18: Reunion (1)

“We were just as surprised. Not just the name—his mannerisms and actions are exactly the same.”

“At first, I just wanted to smack him a few times,” Kwak Junghoon said, punctuating the statement with a few more hearty slaps on Youngkwang’s back, causing everyone to erupt into laughter.

“Come to think of it, it’s uncanny. I couldn’t figure out why he felt so familiar. A namesake, huh? By the way, is he arrogant too?”

Arrogant? Youngkwang’s brows furrowed instinctively at Kwak’s teasing.

“Don’t take it the wrong way, Producer Lee. I mean, not you, but the old Producer Lee was a bit narcissistic, you know.”

“…Narcissistic?”

“Let’s put it nicely—he had high self-esteem. But, well, people around him sometimes got a little fed up. He could be exhausting.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t exactly bad, but he had this way of getting on your nerves.”

Both Lee Deokjae and Jang Hyunmin chimed in, grinning.

These punks! Is that really how they saw me?
Youngkwang’s thoughts wandered briefly into existential territory as he processed their comments.

“Wow! In any case, it’s brilliant. Editing order wasn’t explicitly addressed in the contract. If it’s one round of editing but the director retains the final say, that’s something I can demand. After all, I’m still a ten-million-ticket director. This could really put me in a position of power!”

Kwak Junghoon’s face, previously somber, now brightened into a full grin. It reminded Youngkwang of the look Kwak had worn while drafting the script for 18 Degrees.

“But you said there were two solutions,” chimed in a somewhat tipsy Choi Suhyeon, thrusting a V-sign in front of Youngkwang’s face.

Wasn’t he drunk a minute ago?
Despite appearances, Choi had been sharp enough to catch the earlier comment.

Nice one, Choi Suhyeon.

“Of course, the second one is to guarantee not only the order but also the number of edits,” Youngkwang said casually.

“…Hah. Is that even possible?” Kwak replied, his skepticism evident.

“Absolutely. These terms can be renegotiated if the investor or production company changes,” Youngkwang said with unwavering confidence.

The tension in the room immediately thickened. The mention of changing production or investment partners made it clear—Youngkwang was laying the groundwork to bring Kwak to My Way Pictures.

“Director, how about working with My Way Pictures for your next next project? We’ll help you fully realize your vision as a filmmaker,” Youngkwang said boldly.

It wasn’t “please help us,” but rather “we’ll help you.” This assertion of authority left Kwak both impressed and amused.

“Hah. You’re a spitting image of him. Are you sure Producer Lee didn’t secretly have a son somewhere?”

“…I look nothing like him. And even if I were his son, no one would name their child after themselves.”

“True enough,” Kwak said, chuckling as he exchanged a few more lighthearted quips with Jang Hyunmin.

“Why not? Let’s do it,” Kwak said unexpectedly, leaving the group stunned.

“Huh?”
“Seriously?”

Lee Deokjae and Choi Suhyeon blinked in disbelief.

“But I have conditions,” Kwak added, his tone suddenly serious.

“I have a concept I’ve been developing—a fantasy story. A Korean-style fantasy. If you don’t give me grief about being a 60-year-old making a fantasy film and agree to this project, I’ll be on board.”

Kwak’s talent for crafting compelling characters and engaging entertainment made him a standout director. His experience with large-scale projects was also extensive. But fantasy was a different beast, fraught with risk.

If he’s bringing up this concept now, it’s probably because it’s been rejected everywhere else. Maybe it’s already been criticized to the point of being shredded.

Narrowing his eyes, Youngkwang decided to hear him out. He already had an inkling of what kind of fantasy Kwak was envisioning.

“Second, the budget must be no less than 7 billion won. Ideally, it should be over 10 billion, even up to 20 billion. But given the production company’s scale and the unique situation with COVID, I’ll settle for 7 billion.”

“So, you’ll do your best to cut costs, but My Way needs to secure that budget, right? Do you think that’s possible?”

Whether it was 7 billion won or 10 billion, these were astronomical figures for My Way Pictures—far beyond anything they had ever handled. Kwak’s “cutting back” barely seemed relevant.

Youngkwang nodded, letting the second condition slide for now.

“And lastly…”

Kwak Junghoon glanced slyly at Choi Suhyeon before speaking.

“Attach Director Joo Kanghyuk as my cinematographer.”

Joo Kanghyuk? Who’s that again?

“Characters, Zero, Time of Silence, The Candle—he shot all those films. Works that dance between fantasy and modernity. His other filmography is just as impressive.”

Kwak must have noticed the blank look on Youngkwang’s face because he helpfully elaborated.

Hearing that, Youngkwang’s foggy memory instantly cleared.

Oh, Joo Kanghyuk! That name sounded familiar.
Back in 2003, Joo was just starting to make a name for himself. Youngkwang hadn’t worked directly with him but had heard plenty about his rising talent. By his early 30s, Joo had climbed to the top, leaving more experienced directors in the dust. People often raved about his genius, and Youngkwang had even thought about collaborating with him someday.

“They say his sharp eye for stories helped build his impressive filmography, but I think it’s Joo Kanghyuk’s camera work that made those films truly shine. He’s had a huge hand in their success,” Kwak continued, showering Joo with praise.

However, Choi Suhyeon’s expression suddenly darkened, as if a bucket of cold water had sobered him up instantly. Lee Deokjae and Jang Hyunmin exchanged uneasy glances, fidgeting in their seats.

What’s going on with them?

“Director, why don’t you just say you don’t want to work with us?” Choi Suhyeon said sharply, uncharacteristically biting in tone.

“What?”

“Director Joo Kanghyuk retired. Didn’t you know? You’re obviously bringing this up on purpose.”

Retired? At his age?

Joo shouldn’t have been anywhere near retirement—he was still in his early 50s, more than capable of active work. With his stellar filmography and sought-after skills, opportunities should’ve been lining up for him.

“Come on, what our Director Choi means is, it’s not like actors or staff we rank as our first pick always say yes. And someone like Director Joo, who’s been retired for five years now, isn’t going to move so easily, even if we try to convince him. It’s just a reality check,” Lee Deokjae interjected, trying to mediate.

But the tension was only growing thicker.

“If I didn’t want to work with you, I’d say so outright. Why would I need excuses? This is me being sincere. I think Joo Kanghyuk would be perfect for the scenes and style I have in mind. It’s just a gut feeling as a director,” Kwak said firmly.

“Then why don’t you approach him yourself?” Choi Suhyeon shot back, now fully sober, his enunciation crisp. The atmosphere was tense enough to make one wish for a conveniently drunk oblivion.

“Joo hates Stay Film and Gu’s entire team. He’s distanced himself from any directors who’ve worked with them. That’s why I’ve never had the chance. But now that I’m working with My Way, I thought you could ask him on my behalf. It’d be a cleaner proposal coming from you.”

Wait, what’s this now?

Joo Kanghyuk had ties to My Way Pictures? And apparently, he had a falling out with Stay Film and its CEO, Gu? That was surprisingly good news, but Youngkwang couldn’t recall ever seeing Joo’s name attached to a My Way project.

Was there a shelved project Joo had once been involved in? Or was this simply a personal connection?

As Youngkwang tilted his head in confusion, Kwak continued, addressing Choi again.

“Director Choi, it’s been five years. That’s plenty of time to move past things. Why can’t business be business? Joo’s far too talented to waste in retirement. I bet he’s itching to get back to work. If you reach out, he might agree to come on board.”

“Wait a second. Were you two… something special in the past? Former lovers or something?” Youngkwang joked, chuckling, trying to lighten the mood.

But the air in the room felt like it cracked.

The oppressive heat of the tropical night, unfazed even by sudden summer showers, seemed to freeze over in an instant.

What’s going on? Is that true?

Choi Suhyeon silently downed another glass of whiskey in quick succession. Lee Deokjae shook his head furiously, and Jang Hyunmin subtly leaned back, slicing his hand across his neck to signal danger.

Realizing what he’d stepped into, Youngkwang froze, his jaw slack.

“Yeah, we dated. So what? What are you gonna do about it?” 

Choi Suhyeon groaned incoherently, his drunkenness spilling over like a wounded beast.

*****

“Dating and breaking up—nothing unusual in this industry.”
“The work is so demanding; plenty of people have secretly dated over the years.”
“But Choi Suhyeon and Joo Kanghyuk? They were something else. Honestly, I found their love story more entertaining than the movies back then.”

They had quite the dramatic romance.

December 2003.
When Youngkwang’s production company, Haru Pictures, collapsed after his death, Choi Suhyeon spent three years quietly dealing with the aftermath, receiving no compensation for her efforts.

Then, in the winter of 2006, it seemed fate smiled upon her. Spring had come to her life in the form of Joo Kanghyuk.

The two met at a wrap party and reportedly fell for each other at first sight. Choi, then 32, and Joo, 34, started dating with the freshness and intensity of a first love in their 20s. Their relationship lasted for an entire decade.

“It’s exhausting. I just got rid of that label, and now if we work together again, people will start talking all over.”
When they broke up in 2016, they hadn’t crossed paths even once in the small, tight-knit film industry. Their breakup made everyone around them uneasy, and a year later, Joo declared his retirement, marking the end of their tumultuous romance.

But had it truly ended? Were there no lingering feelings?

*****

A Few Days Later – Saturday.
The road to Ganghwa Island, where Joo Kanghyuk was rumored to reside, stretched ahead of them.

In the car, driven by Jang Hyunmin, sat Lee Deokjae, Youngkwang, and a scowling Choi Suhyeon.

“Let’s just confirm his willingness. Keep it as brief as possible,” Lee Deokjae announced, reminding everyone of the purpose of the meeting.

“The conditions Director Kwak proposed—tackling a fantasy film? That’s doable. The 7 billion won budget? We’ll only know once the package is complete and passes the investment committee. For today…”

“I know,” Choi interrupted, gazing dryly out the window. “We need Joo Kanghyuk’s answer before we can decide whether to continue persuading Director Kwak or abandon the contract altogether.”

“I could have gone alone,” Youngkwang muttered, expressing his honest opinion.

Was it really necessary for all of us to go? It felt like overkill for just one cinematographer.

Youngkwang was skeptical of the team’s insistence on accompanying him. What’s the point of dragging everyone along for what’s supposed to be my solo effort?

When meeting Ha Pilsung, they had been hands-off. But now, they seemed overly involved.

The decision to approach Joo Kanghyuk felt different. Lee, Choi, and Jang all jumped at the chance, with Jang even volunteering to drive. There was clearly some underlying motive.

As they neared the sea, the scenery changed. A road lined with small restaurants appeared, giving off the vibe of a tourist hotspot. Soon, the sign for Joo Kanghyuk’s restaurant came into view.

“Turbone Grilled Clams”

At that moment, a man stepped out of the restaurant, looking every bit the part of its owner—a large, burly man with a thick beard.

Except he wasn’t just any man. He was strikingly handsome.

And in his arms…

“Wait, what?”
“Hold on—what?”

The man carried a young girl, no older than three or four, affectionately cradled in his arms.