Glory Film Company

Episode 26: The Plan (1)

Script? Excellent.
Actors? Full of potential.
But would this combination secure funding?

No. It would almost certainly get rejected.

From genre to cast, director, producer, and production company, every aspect of the project carried undeniable risks. When scrutinized objectively, the packaging was filled with factors that might be dismissed outright.

If this were the old Youngkwang, he might have pulled off a one-man show to secure funding somehow. But now, starting from the bottom, he had no way to negotiate with the powerful investors on equal terms.

If they were to raise tens of billions in budget, a bold, head-on approach was required.

Instead of getting repeatedly rejected and drowning in endless revisions by the investment committee, we need to go all in. Yes, it’s costly, but if we make it undeniable, there won’t be an issue.

Youngkwang rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

His plan was to create a polished, 20-minute demo reel and personally showcase it to investors to strike a deal.

To Youngkwang, Ha Pilsung’s script was brilliant—perfect for those who understood Ha Pilsung’s style, like himself, the imaginative Lee Jaehyun, or Kang Jooyeon, who deeply appreciated the characters. But for risk-averse investors with different stakes? They would likely shake their heads and reject it outright.

Why? Because it wasn’t familiar.

It didn’t feature the common tropes or genres they were used to seeing.

While they might acknowledge the strength of the script’s foundation, they wouldn’t know if this fresh, unfamiliar approach would elevate the film or sink it. Without data to predict profits and losses, they wouldn’t gamble on the unknown.

In that case, why would they risk it when other projects with predictable returns are readily available? The result would inevitably be unfavorable to Youngkwang.

Instead of ambiguous text, we’ll show them compelling visuals.

If they could immediately feel the project’s charm and realize its potential, they’d see it as a guaranteed hit. Youngkwang would follow with a pitch about how this could become the ultimate niche-buster. Even the most arrogant investor committee members wouldn’t be able to resist.

Youngkwang believed he could do it.

“Hold on, PD Lee,” Kang Jooyeon interjected, rubbing her temples as if the idea gave her a headache. “You’re saying we should shoot some scenes in advance? Why?”

Her question wasn’t just curiosity—it carried hints of wounded pride and concerns about the practicality of such a move.

“This script is excellent… but right now, we’re the only ones who know that,” Youngkwang replied bluntly.

“If the result isn’t up to par, this could do more harm than good. How do you plan to ensure it’s good enough?”

Her question encapsulated concerns about budget, process, direction—all the details needed to produce a persuasive demo reel.

Instead of answering directly, Youngkwang shifted his gaze to Ha Pilsung.

“Director, which scenes in this script offer the best cost-to-impact ratio? Ones that highlight the film’s themes, draw the audience in, and leave a strong impression?”

“Scenes 32, 65, 92, and 97,” Ha Pilsung answered without hesitation, as though he had already anticipated the question.

“But it’ll cost a bit to make it work. If we’re going to impress investors, we need to go all out. On the bright side, the footage won’t just be a sample—we can reuse it in the actual film,” he added, sounding more proactive and enthusiastic than even Youngkwang.

Kang Jooyeon and Lee Jaehyun exchanged glances.

Are they both insane? Jaehyun’s eyes seemed to ask.

I don’t know where this confidence is coming from, Jooyeon’s slight head shake replied.

Even for a short demo reel, it would take at least three months of pre-production and filming. At the very least, it would cost 500 million won. If the results didn’t pan out, that money would vanish into thin air.

On one hand, their proposal implied they had the confidence to produce something extraordinary. On the other hand, it raised doubts about whether such a gamble was even feasible.

And the initial 500 million won—where was that supposed to come from? Even if they managed to scrape it together, what would they do if they failed to secure the tens of billions needed for full production later?

“Whew…”

Jooyeon sighed deeply.

In the film industry, it often felt like a gambling den. She’d seen producers mortgage their homes and pour their life savings into projects just to secure funding. She’d also seen directors and producers collapse in shock when projects were abruptly canceled halfway through after being rushed into production with no financial safety net.

A rookie director and a completely inexperienced producer.
They must not know how harsh this industry can be to be talking like this, thought Kang Jooyeon.

Everything about the film industry felt like a mirage at times. When hope filled your head, it felt like you could soar into the boundless sky. But when the reality didn’t match, everything—faith, confidence, ambition, even friendships—could collapse in an instant.

She had seen people she once thought of as family become more distant than enemies who had murdered loved ones. Remembering the incident that had shattered her own hard-earned career, Kang Jooyeon bit her lip.

How naive I was.

She had believed that the fans who had supported her since her rookie days would understand her sincerity. Instead, they turned on her first, hurling accusations and judgment. Industry insiders who had acted as though they’d give her the world one day were now prepared to charge her for any losses and stab her in the back the next.

That was when Kang Jooyeon learned just how devastating a freefall in this industry could be.

So, watching the fiery enthusiasm of Ha Pilsung and Youngkwang tugged at her heart—both as a senior in the industry and in life.

But that was only her perspective. In reality, the most seasoned and experienced among them was Youngkwang.

“How much do you think it’ll cost for a 20-minute demo reel? Do you have a plan to cover the expense?”

Kang Jooyeon fired off her questions, and Youngkwang responded with a confident smile.

“Five billion won should do. If we build a proper set, it could go up to ten.”

At the mention of ten billion won, Ha Pilsung, Lee Jaehyun, and Kang Jooyeon all stiffened. Youngkwang took in their reactions and continued calmly.

“I have a way to raise the initial funding, but to make it work, we’ll have to offer bold terms. We need to show unity and determination as a team.”

He emphasized the word “we” heavily. Though they hadn’t known him for long, none of them resented his use of such an inclusive term. Everyone present was equally invested in the project and wanted it to succeed.

Youngkwang bowed his head slightly.

“Director, lead actors—would you be willing to agree to receive only 50% of your guaranteed pay until the project achieves its goal?”

The proposal was straightforward: halve the upfront guarantees for the director, actors, and cinematographers to secure the initial investment. The remaining pay would only be disbursed once the film surpassed its break-even point.

This was the best bait Youngkwang could throw to his potential investor, who was already lined up to contribute ten billion won if this condition was met.

Thankfully, Ha Pilsung and the two actors nodded, agreeing to Youngkwang’s proposal.

****

The Whiskey Bar “Gin Sai.”

Located near Hapjeong Station, it was both a haven for film industry insiders and a hot spot for trendsetters.

The bar was owned by Director Bae Youngho, once in charge of a set that had been engulfed in a fire incident. After Youngkwang’s death, Bae Youngho had spiraled into guilt and despair, nearly losing himself. Eventually, he found a second life as a “master distiller” of whiskey.

His Korean-style, cost-effective whiskey, Wiro (meaning “Comfort”), was an instant hit. During the pandemic, it became wildly popular, especially among the MZ generation, leading to a booming franchise business. The original location in Hapjeong was joined by branches in Cheongdam, Gangnam, Pangyo, and more.

Bae Youngho’s clever concept of designing each location to resemble a film set created an atmosphere as if one were drinking whiskey in a movie. Each branch adopted a different film genre as its theme, becoming so famous that tours of the bars became a trend.

It was here, at “Gin Sai,” that My Way Pictures had met Director Kwak Junghoon for the first time. On that day, Youngkwang had briefly exchanged greetings with Bae Youngho.

The man had seemed polished in photos, but in person, the baldness of his head betrayed the direct impact of time. Youngkwang had momentarily felt pity, only to be struck by the notion that while the world seemed full of inequality, perhaps the universe had its way of distributing fairness in small doses.

The days have cooled since then, thought Youngkwang as he entered the bar with his group.

A glance around the interior revealed the same lingering traces of nostalgia. It didn’t take a sharp instinct to see that Bae Youngho still clung to his love for cinema.

Just as people who loudly claim that “a painful love is not love” often fail to move on, Bae Youngho’s declarations of leaving the film industry behind for whiskey came across as desperate cries of longing for his lost passion.

Knowing this so well, Youngkwang felt no tension as he prepared to execute his plan.

“This spot looks good,” Youngkwang said, gesturing for his group to sit on a long sofa. Then, he raised his hand high to place an order.

“Here’s a bottle of Wiro,” 

The manager nodded, and soon enough, Bae Youngho, who had surprisingly shown up to work that day, recognized actress Kang Jooyeon and brightened. However, upon seeing Youngkwang’s face, he tilted his head in confusion before his expression shifted, as if he had finally remembered who he was.

“Wow, but the chemistry between these actors… it’s incredible, even in person,” Youngkwang said loudly, pouring whiskey for each of them, deliberately lavishing compliments on the two actors.

“Huh?”
“Uh… where’s this coming from?”

“Kang Jooyeon, the queen of mystique, right? She’s got that aura, that face, that vibe. But in this script, we get to see her mystique evolve—add in some mystery, unease, and even…”

Youngkwang glanced around theatrically, then lowered his voice slightly.

“…sex appeal.”

“Oh, come on. That remains to be seen. The script has its charms, sure, but whether I can bring ‘Ha Yeonsoo’ to life is another story,” Jooyeon replied, smiling brightly for the first time that evening.

Perhaps it was the charming ambiance of the whiskey bar or the way Youngkwang was working to lighten the mood, but her dark expression had begun to soften. Despite the earlier headache-inducing discussions about money, Jooyeon couldn’t help but admit that it had been a long time since she’d encountered a script as captivating as this one.

And after a drink, the familiar optimism of “things will work out somehow” began to creep in.

“You saw it in the audition tape, right? This actor’s style is so unique. I’m excited to see how Kang Jooyeon and Lee Jaehyun’s synergy will keep audiences on their toes. What do you think, Director?”

Youngkwang dialed up the praise, now extending it to both actors. He casually transitioned into a story about how Jaehyun had stood out at Kwak Junghoon’s audition and subtly exaggerated how difficult it was to convince Director Kwak to let him go.

At the same time, Youngkwang made sure to glance occasionally at Bae Youngho’s face, noting how the man’s nostrils flared slightly as he strained to eavesdrop.

“He’s almost there. Just 30 more minutes—tops,” Youngkwang thought, suppressing a smirk.

He smoothly shifted the topic to Ha Pilsung’s bold new directorial style.

“You can already see it in the script, can’t you? This is the kind of screenplay that leaves anyone who knows good writing in awe.”

“Right? Just with a few subtle jumps, the tone of the film shifts so dramatically. Honestly, I was blown away.”

“Even how the scenes transition with dialogue—it’s so dynamic and expressive.”
“And you can almost feel how striking the mise-en-scène will be, right?”
“Exactly! And it has that vibe—like you can’t miss a single moment. You feel like you have to be immersed in it.”

As the actors enthusiastically discussed the script’s artistic merits, they began to ask Ha Pilsung a series of questions, their curiosity and admiration fueling the conversation. Ha Pilsung, having poured his soul into this script, responded smoothly, offering insights into his thought process while also engaging with their suggestions and concerns.

The energy at the table began to match the potency of the whiskey being poured.

“Service!”

Not even 30 minutes were needed.

Barely 13 minutes had passed when Bae Youngho, carrying a large plate piled high with dried snacks, walked over to their table. His expression was one of awkward eagerness, like a puppy needing attention.