Glory Film Company

Episode 49: Uninvited Guest (2)

“There’s no romance in theaters these days. None at all. Think back to the old days. Jongno 3-ga intersection—how magnificent and exciting it was back then. To the northwest, there was Piccadilly; to the northeast, Dansungsa; and to the southwest, Seoul Theater. Ah, young people from all over gathered there, didn’t they?”

“Haha. They did indeed.”

“On Saturdays, new movies would premiere, and the crowds would swarm in. At the subway station stairs, there’d be battles over flyers. You know why? It was the era of single-screen cinemas, so every theater screened a different movie. It was a bloodbath because everyone wanted their film to be number one. The theaters even did crazy things like deliberately selling tickets slowly.”

“Why would they do that?”

“So the line would grow longer, making people curious. ‘What kind of movie is playing here for the line to be this long?’ they’d think and join the queue. At Seoul Theater, the line stretched from the Jongno 3-ga intersection past the Choheung Bank and all the way to the snack shop. It was a spectacle, really. Quite the fun! Haha!”

Boring.

Stories about Chungmuro in the mid-80s and early 90s and its theaters could have been topics that Youngkwang, too, would reminisce about and enjoy discussing. But hearing them from Hong Ingi made it utterly dull and unbearable.

It seemed to fascinate Jeil Entertainment’s Park Sunghoon, who entered the film business in the early 2000s after Chungmuro’s renaissance, and Ahn Junseok, a relatively younger director.

“But how do you know so much about the mid-80s? Were you working in film back then? That would make you…”

Nice.

Yang Hyesoo, ever straightforward and unfiltered, didn’t hold back her question today either.

Youngkwang, who had been patiently tolerating minor irritations, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, felt a deep sense of satisfaction.

That’s right, Hyesoo, keep jabbing lightly. I’ll land the decisive blow.

“If you were in your early twenties in the mid-80s, that would make you, what, almost 60 now? PD-nim, you don’t look that old… or are you just youthful-looking?”

“Assistant Manager Yang, what’s this about? PD Hong, you’re in your mid-40s, right? That’s what I’ve always thought. Aren’t we all around the same age?”

Park Sunghoon, who was known to be just 40, attempted a grand unification by lumping himself with everyone from mid-30s Ahn Junseok to mid-40s Hong Ingi.

“Yes, haha. That’s right. And I did get into the film business pretty early. I was watching theater movies even in my teens. I was just describing the vibe of those times in Jongno.”

Hong Ingi brushed it off, though his face stiffened slightly.

“Pfft.”

Youngkwang couldn’t hold back and burst into laughter. All eyes turned to him.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just remembered a joke from a book I read earlier. Took me a while to get it.”

He made up an excuse, chuckling even more.

“What kind of book was it?”

Ahn Junseok asked.

“Oh, just a comedy book I was reviewing. Nothing special.”

As Youngkwang glossed over it, Hong Ingi smirked faintly.

“A book, huh? Seems like you’re part of the production team.”

“Yes, he’s one of our PDs. He joined us this summer,” Lee Deokjae introduced Youngkwang, prompting Hong Ingi to curl one corner of his mouth upward.

“Really? You look young, but you’re already a PD. My Way Pictures must have quite the youthful workforce.”

“That’s the driving force behind the growth of Korean cinema, don’t you think?”

Not backing down, Youngkwang retorted, meeting Hong Ingi’s gaze.

Hong Ingi’s sneering eyes and crooked smile seemed to say, “You think you can stand on equal footing with me as a PD?” The air of superiority, as if comparing My Way Pictures to Ahn Junseok’s Jeil Entertainment-back ed production company, was palpable.

Not that Youngkwang took it particularly sensitively.

“Oh, a contributor to the advancement of Korean cinema, I see. My apologies for not recognizing your greatness sooner. Haha!”

Hong Ingi spoke in a mocking tone, feigning composure.

Youngkwang laughed along.

A leopard doesn’t change its spots. That attitude hasn’t changed one bit in 19 years.

“Well, nothing compared to you, Senior. You seem deeply knowledgeable about the Chungmuro Renaissance. I’d love to hear more about those days sometime. I have so many questions.”

“Well, sure. Haha. Back then, being a PD was an entirely different job, with far more influence. Just hearing about it would be educational.”

Hong Ingi subtly dropped the honorifics, nodding smugly.

Give me a break.

Youngkwang smirked bitterly.

Hong Ingi’s so-called “achievements” during the Chungmuro Renaissance consisted of little more than a handful of third-rate films. Not a single one made it to the big screen; they were all straight-to-video releases.

Under the name Stay Film PD, Hong was infamous for shady contracts, skimming funds, and one scandal after another. Without those controversies, his name would have been utterly unknown. If it weren’t for his nepotistic connections, he’d have been ousted from the industry long ago—a hopeless case.

Youngkwang couldn’t fathom how someone like Hong had managed to position himself as a PD with a seemingly credible career.

“That’s right. Just hearing about it feels educational. I’ve heard so much, actually—like how a PD named Lee Youngkwang, who happened to have the same name as me, was an incredible talent back then. PD Hong, do you know of him?”

“…Huh? Who? Lee Youngkwang PD?”

It must have been an unexpected blow; for the first time, Hong Ingi’s pupils trembled. No matter how thick-skinned, it was a name he couldn’t have forgotten in 19 years.

Youngkwang stared at him coldly.

“Oh, it’s great to see senior and junior colleagues working together so well. I think the synergy between experience and fresh ideas is essential for making great films in the Korean industry moving forward. Haha.”

Sensing the tension, Ahn Junseok jumped in to diffuse the situation.

“By the way, our PD Lee here is quite remarkable—he’s already successfully launched two projects since starting his career. He even gave valuable advice for my film. PD Hong, this is the same Lee Youngkwang PD I’ve been talking about.”

“Ah, I see.”

Whether because of prior conversations or lingering thoughts about the name, Hong Ingi’s expression shifted slightly.

“I heard you’re preparing a film with Director Kwak Junghoon?”

Hong brought it up, feigning curiosity about the next project by the director famous for two consecutive ten-million-ticket hits.

“Yes,” Youngkwang replied curtly.

“And it’s a series?”

“It’s planned as a two-part production for now.”

“Hmm. Sounds like there could be room for mutual assistance. We’re working on a franchise film ourselves, and it’s quite a large-scale project.”

Hong’s tone softened as he stepped back slightly, his voice more conciliatory.

But Youngkwang responded with cold sarcasm.

“Do you really think there’s anything we could mutually assist each other with?”

“…What?”

The room chilled briefly.

“Well, if anything, it’d be one-sided. What could I possibly gain from you, Senior?”

“…What? Ha, haha!”

“Oh, and I heard you have experience with series productions too?”

Youngkwang pressed on, playing Hong like a fiddle.

“Well, yes. I worked on a project in the U.S. That’s how I got connected with CEO Ahn here. Haha.”

Was that really the case?

Youngkwang frowned. The whole story seemed suspicious.

To Youngkwang, who still remembered the events of 19 years ago vividly, Hong Ingi was a man with no real cinematic skills. He had only gotten into Chungmuro’s film scene thanks to his father, who ran a local theater. The idea of Hong participating in U.S.-based franchise productions seemed utterly absurd.

This stinks.

Youngkwang stared intently at Hong Ingi.

…I wonder if he’s still in touch with CEO Gu. They were quite the duo back then, weren’t they?

CEO Gu, who had tried to secure Ahn Junseok’s next project for Jeil Entertainment to score a big win, had been thwarted and forced to retreat. Though he still held a few major projects like Kwak Junghoon’s upcoming film Gate, he was likely still bitter about what he had lost.

It was as if Gu had prepared a feast, only to watch Ahn Junseok leave the table to dine elsewhere—at Jeil Entertainment’s invitation, no less. And those at My Way Pictures who had supported this betrayal likely earned Gu’s enduring resentment.

If Gu had intentionally planted Hong Ingi as a saboteur, was that too far-fetched?

It was hard to say for sure.

But the idea of Hong Ingi suddenly becoming a competent producer over 19 years seemed less plausible than the theory that he’d struck a deal with Gu and entered the project to disrupt it. That was Youngkwang’s gut feeling.

“Director, by the way, I brought the synopsis I worked on today.”

The flow of conversation paused for a moment. For the first time, Writer Na, who had been a background presence until now, spoke up. The slender figure who had entered alongside Hong Ingi earlier had kept to themselves, quietly eating snacks and sipping drinks while others exchanged sharp words. They’d seemed like the type to fade into the background and leave unobtrusively.

But the look on Writer Na’s face said otherwise—they had been waiting for their turn. The expression was clear: If you’re done, it’s my turn to address my matters now.

“Oh, you’re all done already?”

“Yes,” Writer Na replied.

“Well, it’s a bit chaotic here today. Just send it to me by email, and I’ll check it tomorrow,” said Ahn Junseok casually.

“Really?”

“What?”

“You always say you’ll check it and then go radio silent. If that happens again, I’ll be stuck waiting another week or two, unable to get anything done. Just look at it now.”

“What?”

Ahn Junseok’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Who is this character now?

Youngkwang turned to Writer Na with a curious gaze. They had seemed like just another writer with an unassuming demeanor, a bare face without makeup, and a gentle impression. But there was fire in them.

It was obvious that Writer Na was a rookie. But to call out someone as prominent as Ahn Junseok to his face for being lazy? They must have nerves of steel.

“Wow, Director, you’ve truly met your match here. Speaking of which, I’ve felt similarly frustrated before. Sure, it’s art and creativity, but it’s still a collaborative effort. You need to stick to a schedule,” chimed in Yang Hyesoo, jumping at the chance to pile on.

With Hyesoo, who had no concept of tact, joining the fray, the situation became an impromptu roast session.

“Whoa, what’s with everyone today? Am I just a punching bag now?” Ahn Junseok laughed nervously, clearly flustered.

“Just look at it already,” insisted Writer Na.

“Fine, fine. But have you talked about it with the PD yet?”

Cornered, Ahn Junseok turned to Hong Ingi for support. Hong shrugged nonchalantly.

“I reviewed what you sent a few days ago,” said Hong. “I noticed some issues and suggested revisions. Writer Na, did you bring the updated version? Either way, this isn’t the right setting for it. It’s too chaotic here for anyone to focus on the text.”

Hong’s calm, chastising tone carried an air of superiority.

But Writer Na, undeterred, widened their eyes and countered boldly.

“No, I thought about your feedback for a few more days, but I couldn’t understand it. The direction you suggested didn’t align at all with the planning I heard from the director or the feeling I got from the initial script. Did you two actually discuss the project properly? I hate getting mixed signals like this—it’s a waste of time. I came here today despite being short on writing time because it was a group meeting. So, Director, look at this now. I’m getting this resolved today, no matter what.”

Dong.

The moment hit like a hammer to the head.

“Pfft. Pffft. Hahahaha!”

Unable to hold it in, Youngkwang burst out laughing again.

The sheer audacity of this rookie writer’s outburst was astonishing. But what delighted him most was the thought that this brazen defiance might expose Hong Ingi’s true nature far sooner than expected.