Pen and Paper Translations

After finishing our meal, I came back to the living room with Jun-seong and his family. As soon as we sat down, Jun-seong’s father asked him,

“So, what’s this plan of yours?”

Caught off guard by the sudden question, Jun-seong took a moment to gather himself before replying.

“Would you please have a look at this?”

He handed over a bundle of papers that included both his business plan and my synopsis, all bound together.

“This is the movie I’m planning with Director Gyeong Chanhyeon here.”

“Night (<밤>)?”

“Yes. We’re working on a noir film, which is quite popular these days.”

“You mean one of those gangster flicks?”

Jun-seong’s father frowned. But that was something I had expected he might say.

“Yes, it’s primarily about gangsters, but it’s different from typical movies. You can see from the synopsis: the older brother is a gangster, the younger brother is a cop, and the older brother’s friend is also a gangster. These are the characters we’ve come up with.”

“Hmph…”

“This will be completely different from those mass-produced comedy noir films that have been all over lately.”

A brief silence followed as he read through the synopsis.

“How much do you anticipate the production costs will be?”

“Well, the more the better, but we’re estimating about 1 billion won (approximately 10억).”

“1 billion won?”

As expected, he reacted strongly.

I held my breath as I watched his father read the synopsis intently.

By the standards of the year 2000, 1 billion won is quite a large sum. After all, even Shiri (쉬리)—often called Korea’s first blockbuster—had a budget of 3.2 billion won.

“So you’re thinking of starting a company, too. It’s not likely an individual could handle that kind of money.”

“Yes. Even if I don’t get investment from you, I plan to set up a production company and look for funding from various places.”

“But you haven’t even made your debut yet. Who in their right mind would invest a billion won in rookies like you?”

“There will be people. I’m thinking if there’s anyone who invests as passionately in film as ‘JC,’ they might give it a shot.”

Jun-seong deliberately put emphasis on the name JC. His father immediately reacted.

“JC? I’ve heard rumors that they’re still taking big losses.”

“They’re probably in it for the long haul, just like you, Father.”

“What?”

“Didn’t KMD take losses during the IMF crisis to acquire other companies? JC is probably doing the same right now—lying low. They’re likely pouring money into the film industry, waiting for it to grow big.”

“Hmph…”

Sensing a slightly more positive response, Jun-seong pressed on.

“The multiplex business—putting theaters, leisure facilities, and shopping centers all in one building—do you still think that’s a reckless idea?”

“All right then, how much do you expect to earn from it?”

I had thought about this question countless times, but I knew I couldn’t give a precise answer.

By 2022, million-ticket films are fairly common, so you can guess the numbers. But in 2000, it was a different story.

Shiri had 6.93 million viewers nationwide. Before Shiri, the biggest hit was Director Im Kwon-taek’s Seopyeonje (서편제), with 1.03 million in Seoul and 2.9 million nationwide.

When Shiri came out, the production team even made bets on whether it could surpass Seopyeonje’s record. In 2000, the Korean film industry was turned upside down by the unprecedented audience numbers that Shiri achieved.

“I’m estimating 1.2 million in Seoul, and 2.5 million nationwide, if we can cast the actors I have in mind.”

“That’s your maximum?”

“No, that’s the minimum.”

Lee Jung-ho gave a little laugh at the word “minimum.”

“Do you really think that’s possible? Two and a half million nationwide, as the minimum?”

“Yes. It’s doable.”

“You must’ve picked up delusions in the last six years. Do you think I know nothing and you can just spout nonsense?”

All of a sudden, the atmosphere froze.

Neither his mother, Ye-ji, nor I could do anything but silently watch the father and son.

“No, I’m sure you know it all. You know that no film has ever reached such numbers, and that even those considered huge hits barely managed to get 800,000 viewers in Seoul.”

“But you’re telling me that this film you’re making with Director Gyeong will outperform those? On what grounds?”

For a moment, Jun-seong was at a loss for words. Though we had provided some information, emotional appeals alone wouldn’t beat the cool logic and business sense of a seasoned entrepreneur.

“Sir.”

“Go on. Do you have an answer?”

“The movie we’re making won’t be just any ordinary movie.”

“What do you mean, ‘just any ordinary movie’?”

This is during the IMF crisis. Our country hasn’t even fully repaid the bailout funds to the IMF yet.

People are exhausted, desperately needing an escape from their fatigue. And they’re finding that escape in various forms of entertainment.

In sports, it was Park Se-ri and Park Chan-ho. In gaming, it was StarCraft. In film, it was Shiri.

“When we invest 1 billion won (10억) in a film at a time when the entire country is struggling, how do you think the public will perceive it?”

“They’ll think you’re out of your mind—throwing money at cheap entertainment during a recession!”

“My view is a bit different.”

I noticed Jun-seong shooting me a startled look, but I pretended not to see and continued.

“For just 5,000 won, people get to see a movie that costs 1 billion won to make. Isn’t that pretty good value for the money? Especially since the economy’s bad, most people are hungry for any kind of entertainment—even if it’s ‘cheap,’ like you said.”

“So… you’re saying a higher production cost might actually work in your favor?”

“Yes. By the way, do you know how much a PC café charges per hour?”

His father looked momentarily taken aback, probably thrown off by the unexpected angle.

“How much is it?”

“1,000 won per hour.”

“And?”

“You can finish two rounds of a game in that time. Some people stay in PC cafés for hours. You know how crowded they are right now, right?”

“…”

Of course, the reason they’re so crowded is StarCraft, but his father doesn’t know that. He only knows that people need somewhere to go for fun.

“People don’t care how much it cost to develop a game. They just care if it’s fun. Movies, though, are different. If the production cost is high, people think paying 5,000 won is a bargain. We can advertise that it’s a ‘1 billion won production.’”

“Ha. That’s a funny idea.”

But it’s not funny at all. In 2022, slapping the budget on a movie poster or harping on its latest technology seems tacky, but that’s not the case in 2000. Back then, that kind of marketing still worked.

“And once we have everyone’s attention and the movie succeeds, you won’t be able to acquire me and Jun-seong’s talents for the same price you can right now.”

“So you plan to use people’s psychology to your advantage, just like any other business strategy.”

He broke into a hearty laugh. Catching his eye, I shared a look with Jun-seong. He nodded at me, subtly giving me a thumbs-up.

“But there’s a condition.”

“Huh?”

“You’d better stand by what you said. A man has to keep his word, doesn’t he?”

“You’re talking about the 2.5 million viewers nationwide, right?”

“Right. You said that was the minimum.”

Jun-seong gave an awkward smile.

“If you can’t reach that, you’ll pack this movie business up and go study in the U.S. immediately. Understood?”

“Yes, Father.”

At last, his mother smiled and looked at him.

“So, are you going to keep living at your friend’s place?”

“Yes. I think I’ll be even busier from now on. There are countless things I need to discuss with him. It’ll be like charging into battle with nothing but bare hands.”

“Do you two really have time to just chat here? Shouldn’t you get going?”

His father glared at us.

“Don’t disappoint your investor.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, we stepped outside together.

“Were you taking some special debate classes or something?”

“You should be thanking me for helping you out instead of trying to pry out my trade secrets, you punk.”

“Pwah, you’re nuts.”

I never used to be the best talker. Persuading someone could take me quite a while.

But in my previous life, I’d improved a lot. I learned how to push or even twist logic if it meant persuading someone.

“First off, let’s form the production company. I’ll finish polishing the script.”

“Once we start the production company and go into pre-production… my head’s gonna explode.”

The immediate priority was to set up the production company. Whether that meant renting a small office or whatever—it had to start somewhere.

“Isn’t there some spare room in the basement of KMD Group we could use?”

At my question, Jun-seong asked back in surprise,

“In the basement?”

“You want to run it from my house? Are we going to register a business at my place?”

“But the basement…?”

“Come on, it’s better than nothing.”

“All right, let’s do it. I’ll call my father and let him know.”

“Why not just go back in and ask now?”

“Shut up. If I see him again right now, I might throw up. I nearly died back there.”

“You’re such a tough guy.”

We walked through the alley talking about how we’d run the business.

We decided to name the production company ‘Seong-Hyeon Pictures (성현 제작사).’

Jun-seong wanted a cool English name, but I wanted something meaningful.

Seong-Hyeon is a combination of the last syllables of both our names (Seong from Jun-seong, Hyeon from my name), and also plays on the idea of “star (성, 星)” and “appear (현, 顯),” reflecting our hope to emerge like a comet in Korean cinema.

“What’s with that super old-fashioned name, Seong-Hyeon?”

“It’s not old-fashioned. It’s classic. Romantic, even.”

“Romance is dead. Seong-Hyeon, romantic?”

“Sure. Better that than something random like ‘Dream Productions.’”

“Tsk, well, as long as my name’s in it first, fine.”

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From the next day on, Jun-seong quit his part-time job, and together we set up our joint production company.

“Though your beginning is small, your latter days will be very great.”

When I said that, he asked,

“Aren’t you non-religious?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re still quoting that? Isn’t that blasphemy?”

“All teachings are the same at heart: love one another.”

“That’s true.”

Our first task was to clean the basement space where we’d hang our new office sign.

It looked like it hadn’t been used for years, with dust piled everywhere. We spent the whole day cleaning and were exhausted by the end.

“Couldn’t my father at least hire a cleaning crew if we’re renting an office here?”

Dripping with sweat in the now-clean basement, Jun-seong grumbled.

“Just be thankful he’s letting you use this place at a bargain. Stop acting like a freeloader.”

“Hey, it’s not freeloading between family. It’s just devotion, you know?”

I rolled my eyes at his shamelessness.

Then we both plopped down, looking over the space and mentally running through the steps ahead.

The biggest hurdles—funding and setting up the production company—had been cleared thanks to his father’s investment.

Sure, there were smaller details left, but those were mostly Jun-seong’s to deal with.

My job was to make sure the investment and the new production company wouldn’t be for nothing. I had to make a successful movie.

It was as if he read my thoughts, because he asked,

“Have you finished writing the script?”

“Of course.”

“How’d you finish it so fast?”

“It’s all in my head already.”

“Wow. Okay, so what’s next?”

“We cast actors.”

Since this would be a commercial film, not just a graduation project, securing the right cast was just as important as the script.

A strong cast can make or break a film’s success. A bad or unlucky casting could even end a production halfway.

“Are you still thinking of the same actors you mentioned before?”

“Yeah. Lee Jung-woo and Kim Seung-hoon. I want to go with that duo.”

To ensure success, we need the perfect actors to fit the movie. For Night (<밤>), no one fits better than Lee Jung-woo and Kim Seung-hoon.

Casting these two is the first critical step in making this film.

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