Glory Film Company

Episode 1: A Day of Glory (Youngkwang)

“James! Come here!”
In front of the main entrance of the H Hotel in Haeundae.
Youngkwang raised his hand high, calling loudly for Hollywood star James.

“Hurry up! Hurry up!”
Responding to Youngkwang’s urgent gestures, James rushed over breathlessly and quickly climbed into the backseat of a black limousine.

“You really saved me today. I owe you big time. Thanks, Youngkwang.”

Behind James, his interpreter, manager, director Oliver Smith, and Hallyu star Jang Hyunmin followed, boarding the vehicle one after another.

“We’re off! Ah, why did they divide the screening venues this year? It’s so exhausting,” Jang Hyunmin grumbled as he sat down.

Youngkwang gave him a light pat on the shoulder.
“It’s the Busan Theater. You went there last year, remember? Do well, and when it’s over, head to the street food village in Haeundae.”

“Got it, PD. But where did you suddenly find a car like this? It’s amazing!”
Despite his earlier complaints about the disorganized film festival logistics, Hyunmin’s lips curled upward as he admired the limousine.

“It’s an hour to Nampo-dong. I can’t send VIPs off in a taxi, can I?”
Youngkwang smiled and spoke softly to the limousine driver.
“Please take them safely to the theater.”

Click, the door closed—
Vroom, and the limousine smoothly turned the corner, leaving the hotel behind.

“Finally, some peace and quiet…”
But his moment of respite was short-lived as Youngkwang’s phone vibrated. Checking the caller ID, he flipped it open.

“Hey, PD Choi. What’s up?”
“Director! Where are you?”
“I’m in front of the hotel, about to head out.”
“I heard you met Director Pierre Berge. Did he say anything?”
“Yeah, we talked. Did the director’s GV (Guest Visit) go well?”
“Yes, the atmosphere was great.”
“Good. Come to the street food village now, and bring the director with you.”

After hanging up, Youngkwang stretched his neck left and right before heading down the familiar path toward the heart of the festival at 9 p.m., a place where filmmakers would gather like moths to a flame.

******

2003, the 8th Busan International Film Festival

The streets were filled with posters and banners celebrating the festival.
Since its inaugural event in 1996, launched amid widespread skepticism, the Busan International Film Festival had firmly established itself as Asia’s premier film festival.

Excited enthusiasts declared that the festival was on its way to becoming one of the world’s top four international film festivals. The October night was as heated as the fervor that gripped the nation during the World Cup the previous year.

More than 5,000 guests from 50 countries attended, with audience numbers exceeding 160,000.
Over 250 films from around the globe were screened across Nampo-dong theaters, Haeundae multiplexes, and the Suyeongman Yacht Center.
At the film market, which drew participants from 30 countries and over 300 companies, hundreds of business meetings took place.

At the heart of this grand festival were prominent figures basking in the spotlight—
And among them, Producer Lee Youngkwang stood out as the undisputed top. He was the monster producer who had rewritten the history of Korean cinema.

*****

“Director!”
“PD! You’re here!”
“Wow, it’s great to see you. How long has it been?”
“Nice to meet you! I’m Lee Jinsu, a rookie actor working on dramas!”

As Youngkwang entered the street food village, filmmakers, directors, and actors who recognized him stood up in droves, eager to greet or appeal to him.
To an outsider, it might have looked like a mafia boss had just entered.

Having consistently delivered box office hits since the mid-90s, Youngkwang was the driving force behind the renaissance of Korean cinema up to the current year, 2003. Naturally, everyone wanted to leave an impression on him.

“Director! Over here!”
“Let’s have a drink together!”
“Wow, PD, your latest film is incredible! From the first week, it’s been making waves… Could this be our country’s first film to hit ten million viewers?”
“Haha, thanks. But I have someone to meet first. Let’s talk later.”

Youngkwang offered polite nods and made his way decisively toward his crew’s table.
Neither too fast nor too slow, he allowed himself to feel the attention directed his way. Then, while people’s focus remained sharp, he addressed one individual in just the right tone and volume.

“Director Lee Deokjae, congratulations.”
“…What?”

Lee Deokjae looked utterly baffled.
At just 25 years old, he was a young director whose graduation project from film school had caught Youngkwang’s eye. Before meeting Youngkwang, he had been a nobody in the film industry. Now, thanks to Youngkwang’s support, he had risen as a rookie director causing a stir in Chungmuro.

“Director Lee Deokjae, your film has been invited to Cannes.”
“What?”

Lee Deokjae’s eyes widened in shock.
At the same time, the crowd fell into a stunned silence.

“Director Pierre Berge strongly recommended Your Memory. The festival organizers will be sending an official invitation soon.”
“R-Really? Are you sure? Am I… really allowed to go?”

Youngkwang nodded with a satisfied smile—
“Wow!”

The previously hushed crowd erupted in cheers.

“Cannes? No way! A debut film invited to Cannes?”
“He really is a genius.”
“Wow, I’m so jealous! Congratulations!”

Initially, voices marveled at the young director’s talent—

“As expected of Lee Youngkwang.”
“His eye for talent is incredible.”

“His planning, discovery abilities, and execution are unmatched. He’s a natural-born producer. To think someone like him exists—he’s truly a treasure and blessing for Korean cinema.”

“Just look at BIFF. Without Producer Lee Youngkwang’s efforts, would it have grown this fast?”

“And his recent film Two Nations was a massive hit! Wasn’t that script once a ghost in Chungmuro, floating aimlessly?”

“They say he supervised the script revisions flawlessly. Word is, Lee Youngkwang handled every detail.”

Praises and accolades about Youngkwang’s talent echoed all around. Of course…

“What does a producer even do? Is it like being a production manager? What exactly is it?”

Some timidly expressed their curiosity about his still unfamiliar title.

“To put it simply, think of him as Korea’s Jerry Bruckheimer.”

“Jerry Bruckheimer? The producer of Top Gun and Armageddon?”

“He’s more than just a producer. That guy was deeply involved in his films.”

“So, is there a difference between a producer and a filmmaker?”

“In Korea, it’s entirely different. We usually call the head of a production company the producer—the CEO who oversees everything. But a producer like Lee? They handle the nitty-gritty—everything from planning, casting, financing, production, marketing, and distribution. Basically, they’re involved from start to finish.”

“Wow, incredible. So he’s like the person who strings the beads together and turns them into a treasure.”

“Exactly. Imagine what it must feel like, having investors running after you with suitcases of money, begging to work with you, and top actors like Hwang Minseong, Na Yoonhee, and Seo Minsik clamoring for scripts.”

“No wonder he was chosen as ‘Asia’s Producer to Watch.’ Not producer—producer,” they corrected themselves, laughing. “Man, I wish I could get a call to work with Lee Youngkwang.”

‘Sounds delightful.’
Youngkwang savored every compliment he overheard, enjoying the electric satisfaction it brought.

Then, even when the former head of Stay Film approached in a belligerent tone, sounding like a second-rate movie villain, Youngkwang greeted him with a serene smile.

“Isn’t it time you stopped hogging all the glory?”

The ex-director had deliberately picked a crowded moment to air his grievances, raising his voice for maximum effect.

“I heard you insulted Director Kwak last month, calling his script trash. And you’ve been sabotaging Lee Jooeun and Kim Haesung’s casting behind the scenes!”

Youngkwang played along for a moment, meeting him halfway.

“Director Kwak? Did you meet him?”

“Of course! I spoke with him directly!”

“That’s odd. He left for Southeast Asia the day after we talked, saying he’d show me a new script in two months. Did you meet him there?”

“Y-Yeah! I had a shoot in Southeast Asia and met him there!”

“Oh, wait. My mistake—he wasn’t in Southeast Asia. He’s in Gangneung now. I booked his accommodations myself.”

“You… You little—!”

As the ex-director trembled with rage, muffled laughter spread among the surrounding crowd.

Youngkwang delivered the final blow with a calm grin.
“Look forward to it. I had a very constructive brainstorming session with him. We stumbled upon something extraordinary. I can’t share details yet, but suffice to say, we both shouted, ‘All first drafts are trash!’”

“Pfft!”

Even those who had been holding back burst into laughter. The ex-director’s face turned a deep shade of red, his balding head making the sight all the more comical.

“Honestly, if you want Stay Film to succeed, maybe you should step down as director.”

“What?!”

“You keep recycling the same stories—slandering directors, sabotaging actors. It’s boring. No wonder the films you produce never improve.”

“You…! How dare you?!”

The ex-director looked ready to lunge at Youngkwang’s throat, but with so many eyes on him, he could only shake with impotent fury.

“Director!”

Just then, PD Choi came rushing in like a bolt of lightning, screaming.

“News from Seoul! Two Nations has surpassed ten million viewers! Ten million! It’s the first movie in Korea to ever hit that milestone!”

PD Choi, overcome with emotion, had tears welling in his eyes.

“Is that so?”

For once, Youngkwang’s poker face cracked, and a subtle smile crept across his lips.

“Wow! Congratulations!”
“Ten million viewers?! The first of its kind in Korea!”
“So it’s true—we’ve entered the era of ten-million-audience films!”

Cheers erupted, and hands holding drinks swarmed toward Youngkwang, leaving the ex-director as forgotten as a washed-up seashell.

“This is a double celebration!”
“Unbelievable! Such things rarely happen!”

An invitation to Cannes.
Korea’s first ten-million-audience film.

Both were monumental pieces of news, too grand to be announced on the same day.
Yet their simultaneous revelation further cemented Lee Youngkwang’s name as a legendary figure in the film industry.

“What’s your next goal?” someone shouted amidst the celebration.

The question drew laughter, and Youngkwang replied with a sly grin.

“It’s finally time to step onto the global stage.”

His words left the crowd momentarily breathless, for his ambitions were the shared dreams of every filmmaker.

“Even the haughty Europeans are starting to take notice of Korean cinema. Within ten years—just ten years—I’ll create films that will sweep Cannes, the Oscars, and every major festival in the world. Senior colleagues, junior creators, all of you I hold dear—let’s make it happen together!”

“Hurrah!”

Thunderous applause and cheers erupted.

As he raised a freshly poured glass of soju and drank deeply, Lee Youngkwang couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude.

It had been a wild, relentless journey.
He had discovered future stars, delivered countless box-office hits, and expanded the playing field for Korean cinema. Finally, the foundation for reaching the world stage had been laid.

That had always been Youngkwang’s ultimate goal. Not a vague dream, but the next inevitable step on his journey.

“I’ll make it happen.”

Youngkwang was confident.
He possessed a genius foresight that pierced through trends and projects, an exceptional intuition for understanding audiences, and a knack for unlocking the wallets of even the stingiest investors. Moreover, he could call upon brilliant directors, top-tier actors, and elite staff at a moment’s notice.

To him, it was only a matter of time before Korean cinema planted its flag across the globe.

Yet… something went wrong.

*****

Two Months Later, on the outskirts of Gyeonggi Province

Whoosh!
Flames roared as explosions followed one after another.
Boom! Boom-boom!

“I-director!”
“PD Lee!”

The staff’s desperate screams echoed in the distance.

‘I have to get out. I must get out.’

Youngkwang scanned the scene for an escape route, but the intensifying flames left no openings.

It had been an accident. A wretched stroke of bad luck.
It was the crank-in day for Director Bae Youngho’s new project—a film he had spent three years preparing.

During a rehearsal for a critical scene where the protagonist awakens after losing his loved one to a fire, disaster struck. Despite multiple safety checks and thorough rehearsals, a sudden hissing sound gave way to flames engulfing the set.

“Aahhh!”
Kim Minseo, an actress waiting for her cue in the semi-basement studio, let out a blood-curdling scream.

Amid the chaos, another explosion resounded, BOOM, sending everyone scrambling. But while others hesitated, Youngkwang rushed straight into the inferno without a second thought.

“I’ll lift you up! Climb out through the window! Here, grab Kim Minseo!”

“Director, get out of there! It’s too dangerous!”

The fire had spread rapidly to the stairs and hallway, leaving a small window as the only escape route.
As he hoisted Kim Minseo through the narrow opening, a thought crossed his mind:

‘If Minseo barely fit through, how can I possibly make it?’

The window was large, but more than half of its space was obstructed by the ground outside. The gap left for someone to crawl through was only about 20 to 25 centimeters at best.

With his broad shoulders and muscular build, there was no way Youngkwang could squeeze through.

‘…Director Bae. I told you we should set this scene in a rooftop room.’

He cursed Director Bae Youngho, who had insisted that the scene had to be shot in a dimly lit semi-basement to capture the bleak mood.

‘No, I can’t blame him. I signed off on it for budget reasons.’

Youngkwang shook his head, recalling the decisions he had made. To save costs for the highlight scene, they had opted for a semi-basement in a soon-to-be-demolished building instead of a proper rooftop room.

‘Regardless, I have to get out.’

He needed answers. Who could have caused this catastrophe? How could this happen on his set?

Shhhhhh!

The sound of water spraying reached his ears. His blurred consciousness sensed that rescue was near.

But then—
“Shit…”

His eyes fell on the gas stove valve in the middle of the kitchen. It was open.

This wasn’t just a disaster. It was a ticking time bomb.

“That valve was supposed to be disconnected! Why is it still attached?”

He would never find out the answer.

Whoosh!

The winter wind blew through the open window, feeding the flames until they swelled into a monstrous blaze.

And then—

KABOOM!

The explosion was deafening. Everything was obliterated in an instant.

‘I can’t… I can’t let it end like this. I have to go to Cannes in May… Start the new film… Fulfill my promises… Prepare for the global market… I have so much left to do… It can’t end like this…!’

Youngkwang’s consciousness snapped into darkness.

******

…

…

…

“Haaahhh!!”

When he opened his eyes again, Youngkwang found himself in a body that wasn’t his own.