Glory Film Company

Episode 47: Year’s End

The next time Youngkwang encountered Foley artist Do Junyoung outside work was on the second Saturday evening of December, in an alley near his apartment.

Clang. Clatter.

At the bend of a narrow alley lined with multifamily homes, there was a designated spot for residents to dispose of trash. Someone was crouched there, rummaging through the piles.

A homeless person?

Initially, Youngkwang didn’t give it much thought. But the person’s clean clothes caught his attention, and when he took a second glance, he recognized the familiar face.

“Oh? Junyoung? What are you doing here?”

“Ah, PD Lee,” Junyoung responded, looking up with dark circles under his eyes, likely from an all-nighter at the Foley booth.

“This happens often.”

“Pardon?”

“When I spot something that might make an interesting or unique sound, I pick it up. If it’s something that requires payment, I pay, but sometimes I find things like this on the street.”

The explanation made sense, but the sight of Junyoung crouched in front of a utility pole, digging through trash, was undeniably pitiful.

After a moment of watching him, Youngkwang made a suggestion.
“Do you have some time? Care to join me for dinner?”

“Are you paying?”

“Yes. I can expense it on the company card.”

It was just after 7 p.m. The winter sun had already set, casting the streets in darkness, and the streetlights gave the alley an oddly lonely air. The cold wind was sharp enough to sting.

“How about some warm sake?”

It was the perfect night for a hot drink. Moreover, Youngkwang had been wanting to chat with Junyoung, so this seemed like the perfect excuse.

Junyoung, whose schedule for the evening likely involved experimenting with and recording a few test sounds, seemed agreeable to a light meal and drink.

“Actually, I do have some time today. Let me take you to a place I know nearby—they serve great ramen and fish cake.”

With Junyoung leading the way, they headed to a small eatery.

****

“So, this movie was made that quickly?”

As curious as Youngkwang was about Junyoung, it seemed Junyoung had his own stockpile of questions about Ha Pilsung’s film and My Way Pictures.

Since Foley artists were the last crew members brought into a project, Junyoung was eager to understand the production process in a short amount of time.

“I first met Director Ha in August. I signed on immediately after reading the script. We made a few revisions to the script afterward, but the casting and pre-production moved very quickly.”

“Even if it moved quickly, production must have started mid-August at the earliest. Even with a three-month shoot, the film wouldn’t have wrapped until mid-November. How is the editing already done?”

“The shoot actually took two and a half months. Editing started midway through the shoot to streamline the process.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Also, this project operated a bit differently from the start. We began with a 20-minute edit, which guided the full production.”

Youngkwang went on to explain how the lead actors and key crew members had agreed to defer half of their fees until the film broke even, how the investment came together at the last moment, and how Ha Pilsung had efficiently managed time and budget.

He even mentioned that the movie was likely to be released in March of the following year.

“Wow. The production process sounds like a movie in itself—so fast-paced! I’ve heard plenty of stories about delays and setbacks due to the pandemic, but this is the first time I’ve heard about such an aggressively streamlined production.”

“Well, the rush gave us the chance to work with a Foley artist who only had four months of availability, didn’t it?”

“Haha, that’s true.”

Junyoung laughed lightly, but then hesitated, as if holding something back. Youngkwang seized the moment to press further.

“You and I first met at the end of last month, so your four months extend to March, right?”

“Yes, that’s correct. I have to vacate my place by the end of March.”

“…You mentioned you were planning to leave Korea. Is that true?”

Junyoung sighed and stared at the small cup of sake in front of him before downing it in one gulp.

“There’s no future for me here.”

It was a personal confession. For whatever reason, Junyoung seemed inclined to share his story.

“My father has been in the hospital for a long time. I’m supposed to be the breadwinner, but I can’t do that like this. My relatives are constantly pressuring me.”

“Why are your relatives pressuring you?”
“They’re telling me to get my act together before my mom collapses too. From their perspective, pursuing a career in film seems like a fantasy.”

Junyoung let out a self-deprecating laugh as he looked at Youngkwang.

“Plenty of people go years without finding a job. That’s no reason to say things like that. From what I’ve heard, it doesn’t sound like you’ve neglected your family,” Youngkwang replied, trying to defend him.

Junyoung smiled wryly. “Still, isn’t it a bit funny for us to be having this kind of conversation?”

Youngkwang couldn’t argue; his words sounded weak even to himself. After all, he was in no better position, sharing an apartment and splitting the rent. His support didn’t carry much weight.

Sigh.
Huff.

The two sat in silence for a moment, sipping their drinks.

Both knew all too well what life was like for those chasing their dreams in the film industry, and how society viewed them.

In Junyoung’s case, he was also burdened with the responsibility of supporting his family, including a sick parent. It was inevitable that he would wrestle with these thoughts about his future.

“It’s not just about my dad. When I tried to plan for the next 10 or 20 years, I couldn’t see a future,” Junyoung admitted.

“You’ve been building your career, though,” Youngkwang pointed out.

“Yeah, but the reality is bleak. When I worked for a company, my annual salary didn’t even reach 20 million won. Since becoming a freelancer, the project rates have improved, but securing consistent work is a struggle. Even if I gain experience, there’s no security. And honestly, wages in this industry have barely increased in the past decade.”

“…So, where are you planning to go?”

Youngkwang guessed Junyoung wasn’t planning to switch careers. If he were disillusioned with Foley work, he wouldn’t have been scouring trash piles for sound-making materials earlier.

“I’m thinking of trying Hollywood.”

“What?”

Even Youngkwang, who was usually unfazed, was taken aback by Junyoung’s bold statement.

“I know it’ll be tough, but the pay and recognition are far better over there.”

It was true that the scale of budgets and content volume in the U.S. market was incomparable to Korea’s. Foley artists in Hollywood were reportedly paid on par with actors.

But…

Is there no other way?

While he couldn’t question Junyoung’s personal decision, Youngkwang felt a pang of regret. Watching a talented young professional leave the Korean film industry felt like a significant loss. Over time, such departures could hinder the growth of Korean cinema.

“You’re not going blindly, right?”

Hiding his disappointment, Youngkwang asked about Junyoung’s plans.

“I do have a few leads, but the conditions still need to be worked out. There’s also the language barrier. Nothing’s set in stone yet, but I need to give it a shot.”

“I see.”

Their conversation, though brief, ran deep. After finishing their meal and drinks, the two parted ways.

*****

Meanwhile, post-production for 300 Days After We Break Up continued smoothly. Thanks to Yang Hyesoo’s advice, the censorship review board process was proceeding without major issues.

The marketing team, having set their promotional strategy, was busy preparing articles. Director Ha Pilsung organized several brainstorming sessions with the actors to plan for promotional video shoots.

Other films, ready to hit theaters well before 300 Days After We Break Up, were already vying for the winter holiday and year-end audience.

Superhero movies, animations, and 3D films were leading the charge, while dramas and documentaries sought to carve out niche markets. The theaters were abuzz with activity, a stark contrast to the quiet pandemic years.

“It’s been so long since we’ve had a proper holiday atmosphere.”
“Yeah, let’s hope this upward trend continues.”

At My Way Pictures, plans for an ambitious year-end party were in full swing.

Director Bae Youngho had recently opened a whiskey bar called The Narrow Gap in Hongdae and offered to reserve the entire venue for the gathering. It was a cozy and convenient space, with Bae, also an investor in the film, promising a generous discount.

“Merry Christmas!”

The date was set for Christmas Eve, though it held little significance for the group.

“Wow, it’s cold out.”
“The interior is amazing. When does this place officially open? Next week? I’ll have to come back.”
“Look at all the whiskey! The entire wall is stocked. Wait, is that the rare one I’ve been trying to find? Can I try a glass?”
“I’d be happy with soju and samgyeopsal, but whiskey? This is a treat.”
“Guys, the first round is soju and beer. Don’t get any ideas—it’s just the venue we’ve rented.”

“Oh, really? Is that true?”

The 300 Days After We Break Up team was the first to arrive, quickly claiming their seats.

“Director, you’re here?”
“Oh, Writer! No traffic on the way?”
“No, I live close by. The art director said they’ll be here after checking one last prop.”
“What about our actors?”
“They’re on their way.”

Not long after, Kwak Junghoon’s team, known for delivering blockbusters, arrived promptly.

“Should we take that spot over there?”
“Yeah, looks like we’re the smallest group here.”
“Wow, the food smells amazing.”

Next came the Youth team, led by the reserved and composed Lee Deokjae. They quietly claimed a corner spot, mirroring the director’s calm demeanor.

“This spot gives a nice view of the room.”
“I’ll go clockwise. PD Youngkwang, you go counterclockwise. Got it?”
“Yes, understood.”

Lee Deokjae, Choi Suhyeon, Jang Hyunmin, and cinematographer Joo Kanghyuk—who was practically Choi Suhyeon’s shadow—along with Youngkwang, gathered at a table near the bar.

“Welcome!”
“Wow, how did you manage to come here with your busy schedule?”
“No matter how busy I am, I can’t miss a farewell party for My Way Pictures. We’re practically family with Jeil Entertainment now.”
“Hello! I’m here too!”

Among the guests were Park Sunghoon, the head of Jeil Entertainment, who had been invited out of courtesy, and Yang Hyesoo, Youngkwang’s steadfast ally.

“Congratulations, Director—or should I say, President.”
“Haha, being called President still feels strange. Please continue to guide me—I’m following in the path you paved, after all.”

Director Ahn Junseok, who had launched his own production company with Youngkwang’s help, exchanged greetings with Lee Deokjae.

“Better stay sharp.”

Scanning the room from a short distance, Youngkwang mentally noted how many people needed his attention. He let out a small sigh.

There was encouragement to be given to Ha Pilsung’s team, who had worked tirelessly on their film all season.
There was support to offer Kwak Junghoon’s team, who were gathering their crew for pre-production.
There were deep, meaningful conversations to be had with Lee Deokjae’s team, who were working on a project that could become another masterpiece.

On top of that, Director Ahn Junseok looked eager to dive into a long discussion about the direction of his franchise films. Youngkwang would need to humor him appropriately.

Park Sunghoon of Jeil Entertainment, sharp and cunning, required constant monitoring.

“It used to be easier.”

Narrowing his eyes, Youngkwang surveyed the whiskey bar.

Back when he reigned as one of the top producers in Chungmuro, the endless nights of gatherings, big and small, were routine. Back then, all he needed to do was focus on the key players. The rest of the work was handled by people like Choi Suhyeon and other assistant producers.

But now?

“PD Youngkwang!”
“Over here! Have a drink!”
“Wow, looking sharp tonight!”
“Did we hear back from that location we scouted last time?”
“I’m talking to this actor about a future project—can you join us?”

From managing drinks and snacks to networking, discussing ongoing work, and planning future projects, the list of responsibilities felt endless.

But there was no avoiding it. As a rookie producer who had yet to complete even one film, this was his reality.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming!”

Plastering on a bright smile, Youngkwang sprang into action.

However, that smile didn’t last for long.