Note: The Woman in the Locked Room -> The Woman in the Secret Room
The short-film theater wasn’t only showing The Woman in the Secret Room; it ran several other films on rotation.
Thanks to that, a schedule was always posted out front. And people flocked to the theater at whatever time The Woman in the Secret Room was playing.
“Are we really getting that many customers?”
Looking at the revenue report, Gyeong Jae-soo—Chanhyeon’s father—couldn’t hide his stunned grin. He just couldn’t figure out how something like this had happened.
“Yes, boss. People are… just coming to watch The Woman in the Secret Room and then leaving.”
“Huh… So they’re basically buying a 2-hour ticket just to see The Woman in the Secret Room?”
“I’m not entirely sure why, but, you know Radiohead? The band?”
A young employee scratched the back of his head as he spoke.
“No idea. Who’s that?”
“They’re a famous British band. They did that big song ‘Creep.’”
“So?”
“Well, apparently at Radiohead concerts, once people got to hear ‘Creep,’ a lot of them would leave right afterwards.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I guess because if they heard the live version of ‘Creep,’ they felt like they’d seen everything they needed to see of Radiohead.”
Gyeong Jae-soo propped his chin on his hand and thought about what the employee had said. So people were taking a loss just to watch his son’s film?
“Which film is drawing the fewest viewers right now?”
“A movie called Striker.”
“All right, pull that one. Let’s devote one whole screen to The Woman in the Secret Room.”
“What about the price? Any changes?”
“Let’s set it at 1,000 won.”
The employee left the boss’s office. Gyeong Jae-soo lit a cigarette and then got up to look out the window. Comparing it to before, you could see a lot more people outside.
Knock, knock.
“Sir, you have visitors.”
“Who is it?”
“They say they’re from a film production company called ‘The Film H.’”
Hearing the phrase “film production company,” Gyeong Jae-soo quickly phoned Chanhyeon.
I got a sudden call from my dad and immediately stopped working on my script. I headed to the theater.
Right at the theater’s entrance, one of the staff gave me a sly smile.
“Looks like you’ve hit the big time, Chanhyeon.”
“Sorry?”
“They’re a production company. You should go straight up.”
Hearing “production company,” I practically ran to the boss’s office without taking a breath.
But when I got there, I saw a face I really never wanted to see again in this life.
“The Film H.”
It was the same outfit that had once slammed my life into the ground. They’d sent the same jerk as before I returned in time, a guy named Kim Cheol-ho.
“Oh, hello there! You must be Director Gyeong Chanhyeon, right?”
“Alright, I’ll leave you two to talk.”
My dad, clearly bursting with pride, left the office. The moment he did, Kim Cheol-ho turned to me, flashing an affable smile as he held out his hand for a handshake.
I waited until I was sure my dad was out of earshot, then ignored that hand and just sat down.
He looked slightly taken aback, but he still kept smiling.
“We really enjoyed that short film The Woman in the Secret Room. The direction and story—didn’t see any weaknesses at all. This is your first film, right?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, so much talent, then. It’s just a short, but seeing how many people come to watch it says a lot.”
They’re like bugs. Back then, they started off praising me just like this so they could rope me into a contract.
“‘The Film H,’ is that right?”
“Oh, so you’ve heard of us. We’re a pretty new production company, so people don’t usually know the name.”
“But you really are a production company, yeah?”
When I asked, he knitted his brow.
“Huh?”
“You never know. Some folks hide behind rookie directors so they can pull shady stunts in the background.”
“Ha ha… I’m not sure what you mean…”
“Oh, never mind, then.”
“Right… ha ha. Our company actually wanted to talk about turning The Woman in the Secret Room into a full-length feature…”
Looking back, the idea was totally insane. No background or track record, I had barely graduated, and they wanted to give me a debut project?
I remembered how gullible I was back then, how I got tricked and went around grinning like an idiot. It made me grind my teeth now.
“Wow, you want to produce my film? Seriously?”
“Yes. It’s such a solid piece.”
“What are the terms?”
“Well, that depends on various circumstances. I mean, how can a single piece of paper account for all changing situations?”
“Pfft…”
The situation was identical to before, like they were rattling off a pre-written script word for word.
“Haha, funny, right? That’s just how things go in the film biz.”
Seeing me laugh, he clenched his teeth a little, trying not to show his irritation.
“Oh, so that’s how the industry works? Older pros tell me it isn’t always like that.”
“Sure, I guess it’s not the same everywhere.”
“Anyway, is it okay if I take this and think about it for a bit?”
I said, holding the contract.
“Ah, yes, of course. Take your time.”
“Great. Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m telling you to go now.”
Looking confused, he grabbed his bag and walked out of the boss’s office. Not long after, my dad came back inside.
“You’re not planning to sign, huh? That guy didn’t look too happy.”
“Not in a million years.”
“Getting a full-length debut isn’t that easy, you know. If you pass on this, who knows when you’ll get another chance?”
“That contract looked way too sweet to be real.”
“But isn’t that a good thing?”
“It’s either a total scam or charity work—can’t see them as anything but scammers.”
“Well, if that’s what you think, then I guess that’s that.”
On my way home from the theater, I let out a deep sigh.
Filmmaking—this was shaping up to be even trickier than I’d imagined.
Movies are basically art made with other people’s money, so most of the time you have to tailor your film to fit an investor’s taste.
If tear-jerker dramas are in style, the investors will insist on jamming some tear-jerker element into the movie.
Comedy? Still has to have tearful scenes. Romance? Tearful scenes.
If you want to avoid that nonsense, you either need to become a hugely successful director or invest your own money with a big enough stake.
But my family doesn’t have that kind of cash lying around.
Then I found myself thinking about Quentin Tarantino, who sold the scripts for Natural Born Killers and True Romance (a.k.a. “Jackie Brown” in the original text, but presumably meaning “True Romance”) so he could finance Reservoir Dogs.
Lost in my thoughts, I was wandering around when I noticed someone waving at me from across the street.
“Hey! Director Gyeong!”
It was Jun-seong. He looked wiped out, probably done with his part-time job, but his smile was bright.
“How about a beer?”
Later on, he’d become a producer supported by his wealthy family. Meaning eventually his dad must have acknowledged him, right?
If I could make that happen a bit earlier…
“Nah, let’s do soju. I’m in the mood for soju tonight.”
“You hardly even drink.”
“I can still outdrink you.”
We headed to our usual bar. We immediately started with soju.
“Ahh, soju hits the spot. There’s nothing like a good drink after a day’s work, am I right?”
“Tastes that good, huh?”
“Of course, man.”
“How can that god-awful stuff be ‘tasty’?”
“That’s just because you’re a kid. You don’t appreciate the finer points of alcohol.”
We both drank to the point of getting a decent buzz. I figured I’d try to casually bring up the topic now.
Sure, it felt a bit slimy to use him, but in the end, since he’d eventually get acknowledged by his father and become a film producer, maybe we could help each other out.
“Aren’t your parents going to come watch the film? The theater’s pretty packed these days.”
“Watch it? My parents threatened to disown me just for going to film school.”
“Wow… they hated it that much? If their son really wants to do something, can’t they just let him do it?”
Jun-seong gave a wry smile.
“You don’t need to know, jerk.”
He hadn’t drunk enough yet. I stood up, grabbed another bottle of soju, and came back.
“People really love it, you know. If they saw it, maybe it’d change their minds?”
“We haven’t even spoken in six years.”
It’s hard to blame him. Is the pursuit of film worth giving up that much money and an easy life? Not many people would do that.
Before we knew it, we’d polished off another bottle.
“I’ve got a lot of secrets, man. You? You know nothing about me.”
“Another bottle?”
“Sure, dude. Wow, you’re really going for it tonight.”
I was also on the verge of passing out, but forced myself to stay alert.
The table in front of us was already full of empty soju bottles.
“Here, pour me a shot.”
“Bring it on!”
“So, what’s this big secret?”
“If I told you that easily, it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?”
He was also obviously fighting to keep his composure, eyes wide as could be.
“But your parents were that against you going to film school, so why’d you do it?”
At my question, he gave a faint smile.
“Cinema Paradiso.”
“What?”
“You know how it’s about that old projectionist, Alfredo?”
Cinema Paradiso is a movie about a successful film director who returns to his hometown and reflects on his past.
It focuses on the life of the main character, Toto, and his bond with Alfredo, an older projectionist—kind of an allegory of friendship that transcends age.
“I wanted to live like that, you know? Not specifically like the successful director Toto, but more like having enough inner peace that I can share warmth with other people.”
“But you said you wanted to be a producer.”
“Yeah, that’s because of you, jerk. No matter what I do, I can’t keep up with your talent.”
“Gotta admit, I’m pretty good.”
“Geez, way to kill the mood. Pffft, is that your idea of humor? Hic.”
We were almost there—he always started hiccuping around this point.
“So, what’s your secret?”
“My secret… Ah. Hey, promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“If I tell you, you still have to let me crash at your place until I start making money.”
“What is it? Why is it that big a deal?”
Acting as curious as I could, I listened as he spilled what I already knew from my previous life:
He was actually the eldest son of the president of a company called KMD, and apologized for keeping it hidden.
“Surprised? Do I look different to you now?”
“No, you still seem like the same crazy idiot.”
“…?”
“Poor Lee Jun-seong or rich Lee Jun-seong, either way, you’re still Lee Jun-seong. Just because a crazy guy’s loaded doesn’t mean he’s not crazy anymore, right?”
“Ugh.”
“Are you crying?”
He admitted that he’d always been scared people would treat him differently if they knew he was rich.
Even in my past life, it hadn’t really fazed me, which Jun-seong found unusual.
“Who’s crying, you asshole?”
“Oh, you’re totally crying, man.”
“That’s still better than bawling over your food, you crybaby.”
“That’s because I’m a foodie.”
We bantered back and forth with dumb jokes until I finally got around to my main point.
“You know, time’s gone by, so maybe you should try reaching out again.”
“To my parents?”
“Yeah. I can tell you envy the way I get along with my family. Jerk.”
“You noticed?”
“Maybe The Woman in the Secret Room could be the stepping stone that brings you back together with them.”
“Ugh, a stepping stone? You’re so dramatic.”
“Fine, how about Jamsil Bridge?”
“That’s not funny, dumbass.”
Even so, he seemed to be thinking about it. With a sigh, he downed the last glass.
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