Glory Film Company

Episode 30: The Watching Eyes (1)

“Why is someone who’s never cared about others’ opinions suddenly so focused on the staff’s reactions?”
“Wha—? I’m not! Who says I am?”

Ha Pilsung snapped, clearly struck by Youngkwang’s pointed observation.

Relax. This isn’t about blaming you. It’s to help you.

Youngkwang looked at him with a tinge of pity before continuing.

“Today, you only need to direct.”
“What?”
“Just focus on the monitor.”

There had been ample time for pre-production.

Ha Pilsung and the staff, including team leaders, had spent countless hours discussing the script and aligning on the film’s tone and direction. Even if minor variables arose on set, the staff was capable of handling them. They were experienced and adept at managing such issues.

The technical aspects could be entrusted to the experts. The director’s role was to focus on directing.

“Take the cinematographer, for instance. Ever since the sets and locations were finalized, he’s practically lived here. Even without you stepping in, he’ll handle most of the problems himself.”

“Haah…”

Despite his outward appearance of ease, Ha Pilsung was a perfectionist—a sensitive one. From the scripting phase, he envisioned the final cut in his mind, editing the film as he went along.

This adaptability earned him a reputation for flexibility on set. However, it was less about flexibility and more about his inability to tolerate deviations from the mental picture he’d already constructed. He always had a contingency plan, but it stemmed from his refusal to let go of the image in his head.

With his bear-like physique and easygoing laugh, no one would have guessed he was so sensitive.

The issue here was that Ha Pilsung didn’t need to play problem-solver on this set. With the best professionals assembled, all he needed to do was focus on directing.

Specifically, he had to think about the story: “Does this scene flow like a grounded, real-life story?”

Was Lee Jaehyun’s discomfort stemming from a lack of authenticity in his performance? If so, how could that emotion be resolved to bring out the realism the scene required?

These were the questions the director needed to focus on—not the technical aspects.

“Maybe I’ve been too fixated on the storyboard,” Ha Pilsung muttered as he exhaled a long puff of smoke, flipping through his tattered storyboard.

“This thing is packed with everyone’s ideas from weeks of discussions. It feels almost sacred—like a guidebook that has all the answers. Like some sort of talisman.”

He chuckled awkwardly.

The storyboard indeed represented the collective effort of the entire team, filled with precise instructions and serving as a blueprint for realizing the director’s vision. But it wasn’t the film itself, nor was it the ultimate solution.

“I once visited the set of a famous director,” Youngkwang began, delving into an old anecdote.

“He was known for drawing highly detailed storyboards. Just by looking at them, you could understand the emotions and narrative flow perfectly.”

It was a story from over 20 years ago, yet one with timeless relevance.

“When you watched his movies, you’d notice the editing order was… unusual. He’d shoot without master shots. He’d go from close-ups to wide shots, then to aerials, and back to handheld.”

“With that kind of approach, you’d need a storyboard. Every shot would demand precise focus.”

“Exactly. That’s why he was famous for it. But one day, he tore up his storyboard.”

“…What?”
“Yeah, ripped it to shreds.”

“It was during a location shoot. According to the plan, it was supposed to rain that day.”

“And it didn’t?”

“The weather report had forecast a 90% chance of rain. So, they didn’t even bring water trucks. But when they arrived, all they got was fog rolling in over a lakeshore.”

“That must’ve been a nightmare.”

“It could’ve been. But that fog created an eerie, unsettling atmosphere—a sense of something ominous about to happen. Perfect for the thriller they were shooting. The fog conveyed more suspense than a downpour ever could.”

“Ah. I can see that.”

“The cinematographer suggested a new angle, the director gave the green light, and the actors revised their movements. They shot without a storyboard or a detailed camera plan—just following the vibe of the natural setting and the actors’ interpretations.”

“…And?”

“It was a massive hit. That scene became iconic, talked about for years. It was from the 1999 film Clue, which drew 4.6 million viewers.”

Clue was a movie from 1999, one where Youngkwang had been the producer.

In the beginning, a production budget of 900 million won was invested, but it was raised to 2.1 billion won, resulting in a proper hit film. Three years later, the same director began planning and filming a spin-off-like movie, Awakening.

However, on the first day of filming, a major fire accident occurred, and the production was ultimately canceled.

“Director Bae Youngho, the one who made Clue? How does Producer Youngkwang know about that?”

Ha Pilsung, puzzled, asked again, his face reflecting disbelief that Youngkwang could know about the atmosphere on the Clue set, which was known only through industry rumors.

If the film was from 1999, it must have been planned and shot in the mid-90s. How could someone like Youngkwang, born in 1996, have witnessed it?

“…Oh, I didn’t see it myself… It’s just that I heard stories about it, as if I’d been there.”

Youngkwang deflected the question vaguely.

“Ah, maybe you heard it directly from him.”

After all, the investor in 300 Days After We Break Up was none other than Director Bae Youngho himself, who had transitioned from being a film director to becoming a master whiskey distiller.

Perhaps Youngkwang had heard about the incident while discussing various topics during the investment process.

Ha Pilsung simply guessed the source of Youngkwang’s information in a way that suited him.

“So, you’re saying I should focus on directing rather than obsessing over the storyboard?”

Ha Pilsung shrugged and candidly revealed his true thoughts.

“Director Bae Youngho was famous for shooting meticulously with a single camera, without a master setup. I’ve always wanted to try filming like that myself.”

Although Ha Pilsung worked in a different genre, as a true cinephile who explored films from various eras and countries, he was well-versed in Bae Youngho’s style.

“Even someone like him sometimes ignored storyboards and entrusted everything to the atmosphere on set? I didn’t know that. So, don’t get too attached to the storyboard, huh?”

Ha Pilsung grinned widely.

Perhaps if he trusted the staff to share the load, the resulting footage captured by the camera could surpass the image he had initially envisioned.

Thinking this, he felt noticeably more relaxed than before.

“I should head back in. I need to see how things are being coordinated.”

Ha Pilsung tapped the ash from his shortened cigarette and turned toward the set.

Youngkwang watched his retreating figure for a moment before breaking into a faint smile.

“For today, it’s fine if we only get the master shot. Let’s keep rolling until the actors’ performances feel genuinely convincing.”

Back on set, Ha Pilsung returned as a completely transformed presence, leading the atmosphere with newfound confidence.

“What if, instead of handheld, we use a small crane with a remote controller and lay down a track to follow the character’s movement?”

As Youngkwang had suggested, the staff had already started working out solutions to the technical issues.

“Is this distance comfortable for you, Actor?”

“Yes, it’s much better now.”

“When Yeonsu moves quickly, we’ll track her movement from Minwook’s perspective. At some point, their gazes might meet—what do you think? It could show their contrasting emotions.”

“Should I glance over while putting on the skirt?”

“Ah, that might fluster Minwook a bit.”

“Would it be better if Yeonsu didn’t reveal her emotions?”

“That sounds good. At this point, the audience shouldn’t understand Yeonsu’s psychology yet.”

“But Yeonsu already knows Minwook’s situation by now, right?”

“Why do you think so?”

“Well, it didn’t seem like she knew at first, but she might have found out last night or this morning. That’s why she’s come back so angrily, isn’t it?”

“Ah, that’s interesting, but here’s my original intention…”

As additional blocking was incorporated, the actors unfolded the subtext they had prepared, while the director refined the scene’s purpose and direction.

The atmosphere on set began to heat up.

The camera, lighting, makeup, and direction teams all wore excited smiles that came from creative adrenaline.

“Now we’re finally rolling.”

Youngkwang checked his watch.

If they wrapped up these takes properly, they could finish filming the sunset scene as planned by Ha Pilsung.

That thought allowed him to feel at ease.

Youngkwang quietly turned away from the set. He’d seen the crew operating as they should—now it was time for him to move on to his next task.

*****

“Ah, seriously.”

Kwak Junghoon scratched the center of his forehead with three fingers in frustration.

“Here, here. And here—please sign these.”

Ignoring Kwak Junghoon’s complicated feelings, Youngkwang handed over the contract.

“I can accept that an investor came on board, but for it to be Bae Youngho’s money, of all things… what a twist.”

Kwak Junghoon let out a hollow laugh, as if he still couldn’t believe it.

“You promised to sign the contract if Director Ha Pilsung’s film secured investment. What, was there some other condition I didn’t know about?”

The deal, which had been stalled with much reluctance, had solidified after Youngkwang accepted new terms. At this point, Kwak had no excuse—neither for appearances nor ethics—to refuse the contract.

What bothered him was the lingering discomfort.

“Let me ask you one thing.”

“You sure like asking questions, don’t you, Director? What is it this time?”

“How did you manage to rope in Director Bae?”

“Rope in? What do you mean?”

“That guy had a long, hungry stretch. No matter how much money he’s got, he doesn’t waste a single penny. He hasn’t so much as glanced at the film industry for years. And now, what? He’s investing 1.5 billion won? In a rookie director’s movie? Even from a packaging perspective, the risks are all over the place.”

“Wow. The way you put it really takes the wind out of my sails. You’re saying this so I can pass it on to Director Ha, right?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Hm.”

With a mischievous smile, Youngkwang pretended to consider his options. Should he tease him a bit more? Or should he just pull him in completely?

“There was competition.”

“Competition?”

Youngkwang chose the latter. It was time to lock down Kwak Junghoon’s wavering heart—this double-million director—once and for all.

“World Theater’s CEO, Park Mujin.”

“…What?”

“He promised to invest in my project.”

“Wait a second. Park Mujin? The Park Mujin I know? CEO of World Theater?”

“Yes. But since Director Ha Pilsung’s movie was relatively small in scale, I couldn’t bring in both Director Bae Youngho and CEO Park Mujin. So, Director Bae agreed to handle the initial investment for Director Ha’s movie.”

Youngkwang paused for a moment, and Kwak Junghoon swallowed hard, his gaze glued to Youngkwang’s lips, waiting for what would come next.

“CEO Park’s investment is reserved for the next project.”

“The next project?”

“Your film, Guardian. CEO Park Mujin has already decided to invest in My Way Pictures’ second production.”

Youngkwang’s words were precise and deliberate. His tone carried a hint of an extraordinary connection with Park Mujin. It also subtly underscored that this investment wasn’t merely riding on Kwak Junghoon’s fame as a double-million director. And if Kwak hesitated or delayed any further, the implication was clear: CEO Park’s investment might go to another rookie director at My Way Pictures instead.

Kwak Junghoon, quick-witted as ever, grasped the situation immediately.

“Here, here. And here, right?”

He stamped his seal decisively.

“When will the script be ready?”

“The writer sent it last week, but there were some misunderstandings about key elements, so it’s being revised. I get that blending genres is trendy these days, but we don’t need to follow that crowd. This is a Korean-style fantasy. We just need to nail that vibe.”

“Exactly. So when will it be ready?”

“Hmm. Maybe another week.”

“Then I’ll schedule the meeting for two weeks from now.”

“Meeting? What meeting?”

“A meeting with the investors, of course. CEO Park Mujin’s been eagerly waiting for the script. Should I give you more time?”

“No, no. That’s plenty. Where should we hold it? Should I look into it?”

Just two hours earlier, Kwak Junghoon had been trying hard to maintain his upper hand in the negotiation. But now, faced with Youngkwang, who had Park Mujin in his corner, he couldn’t help but back down.

The potential return of Park Mujin, a figure who could reshape the film industry landscape, was monumental.

And Kwak Junghoon, driven by a do-or-die passion, was ready to stake his entire filmography on this project.

Perhaps it was that burning fervor that ignited the buzz about My Way Pictures’ second project. Even before anything was officially announced, rumors were already spreading like wildfire throughout the film industry.

Eventually, those whispers reached Youngkwang’s nemesis, Gu, the former CEO of Stay Films.