Kim Seung-hoon and Lee Jung-woo woke up in the same bed.
“Ugh… What the heck?”
Kim Seung-hoon groaned as he struggled to sit up, and immediately noticed Lee Jung-woo beside him.
Lee Jung-woo, who also seemed to have just woken up, let out a pained moan of his own.
“Ugh… What is this?”
“Looks like we’re in Director Gyeong’s room.”
“Ugh… I feel like I’m dying.”
They had agreed to speak casually (dropping honorifics) the night before, but neither had expected to wake up in this situation. They eyed each other warily.
“Uh, we did agree to be friends, right? Ha ha…”
Kim Seung-hoon mustered the courage to speak first. Lee Jung-woo responded with a similarly awkward laugh.
“Ha ha… Right.”
Knock, knock.
“Yes!”
“They want you to come eat. My mom made a special hangover soup.”
“Hangover soup?”
Both men looked at each other, clearly flustered.
“Your parents are here?”
“Because a certain ‘refined gentleman’ showed up yesterday with a gift of Captain Q, I haven’t even finished cleaning up yet. My back is on fire over here.”
It was impossible to miss the irritation in Gyeong Chanhyeon’s voice.
Lee Jung-woo let out a small chuckle, and Kim Seung-hoon turned to him.
“That was you?”
“No, well, after they came to my agency and messed with me, I figured I might as well… get a little revenge?”
“So you ended up screwing yourself, too?”
“How was I supposed to know we’d be drinking that much? I thought I’d just drop off the booze and go home.”
They both burst out laughing. Before Chan-hyun could yell at them again, they quickly tidied themselves up and headed out of the room.
“Ahhh, thank you so much, ma’am.”
Kim Seung-hoon roared in satisfaction as he drained the very last drop of soup.
“Do you want some more?”
His mother—seemingly delighted just to see the expression on Kim Seung-hoon’s face—offered with a bright smile.
“I’d be grateful for more, of course.”
He showed no hesitation in accepting. Still, it wasn’t off-putting at all.
Although there’s often an unspoken rule that politely refusing a second helping is a kind of courtesy, Kim Seung-hoon practically exuded courtesy in everything about him—even his appearance.
“How about you, Jung-woo? Want some more?”
“Oh, I’m fine…”
Watching Lee Jung-woo’s face, I started to notice subtle hints beneath that usually impassive expression.
Right now… it looked like he actually wanted more but felt too polite to say so.
“Go ahead, Jung-woo. Have another bowl. Jun-seong, you too, right?”
“Of course I will.”
“In that case, me too…”
I was right. Under his neutral exterior, there were small signs of how he really felt.
It’s quite different from his on-screen persona, which makes it tricky, but if you look closely, you can pick up faint cues about his feelings.
That kind of insight is invaluable during filming—actors often aren’t fully candid even with their managers.
“Ahh, that was great!” Jun-seong declared as he finished.
My stomach still churned a bit, but I looked around and saw that all four of our bowls were so clean they hardly needed washing.
The soup pot was scraped empty, and the rice cooker was completely bare.
Man, how much do these people work out to maintain those physiques after packing away so much food? Just as I was thinking that, Lee Jung-woo spoke up:
“Director Gyeong.”
“Yes?”
“I’m in. I’ll do Night.”
“Well, I figured as much.”
I noticed a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth—an almost imperceptible smile.
“It’s thanks to you, Director. You set this whole thing up so we could clear our misunderstandings.”
At his warm words, Kim Seung-hoon chimed in.
“Exactly. There’s no reason for us actors to be victims when it’s the agencies that have issues. Thank you.”
“Ah, it’s nothing.”
I scratched the back of my head, feeling embarrassed.
Then Lee Jung-woo asked: “But, how did you know we’d get along if we met like this? I mean…?”
I couldn’t exactly tell him I saw an interview from the future, so I just mumbled something vague.
“This guy has great instincts. It’s like the universe is on his side or something,” said Jun-seong, jumping in before I could speak.
“The universe?”
“I’m telling you, he’s got some sort of cosmic help. Check out his short film The Woman in the Secret Room sometime. He made it himself, and it’s great,” Jun-seong continued, hyping me up.
He was clearly executing a strategy to ensure they’d respect the director—since I hadn’t even made my feature debut yet, they might be concerned about who’s really in charge on set.
“Sir! Didn’t you still have The Woman in the Secret Room running?”
From where he sat watching TV, my dad turned and answered:
“No, I finally took it down. I couldn’t keep playing a short film for months on end, you know.”
“Could we show it to our actors? They should really see it.”
“Hm… well, sure. If you want to show them my son’s movie, please watch it, all right?”
Jun-seong’s breezy charm made it hard to refuse, so both Kim Seung-hoon and Lee Jung-woo nodded in agreement.
After the meal, the two actors headed back to their agencies to finalize their involvement in Night.
“Gosh, they’re both so handsome. With those two, every woman in the neighborhood will be lining up to see the movie,” my mom said wistfully, the moment they stepped out the door.
“Right? Great casting, don’t you think?”
“Sure is, son. Bet it was a lot of work for you and Jun-seong to pull off. But uh…”
“Yes?”
“Clean up these bottles! I can’t stand this mess!”
Smack!
She whacked me on the back—lovingly, yet firmly. I jumped to my feet to clean up the bottles. Meanwhile, I spotted Jun-seong trying to slip away.
“Where are you going, Lee Jun-seong?”
“Huh? Oh! I was just, uh, gonna help clean up, too!”
“Don’t even think of running off.”
“‘Running off’—what are you talking about?”
So the two of us got to work on the mountain of empty bottles—at least twenty soju bottles and two bottles of Captain Q.
I’d blacked out just from the soju, so what kind of iron livers do those guys have?
With the actors secured, Jun-seong and I set out once more, running all over the place to assemble our production crew.
In the Korean film industry, crews generally operate like apprentices: you start at third assistant, move up to second, then first assistant under a particular director, and eventually become a director or department head yourself—often a process of a decade or more.
But the people we targeted weren’t directors, but rather first assistants.
These were folks who had the ability to direct their own departments but lacked the connections to climb the ladder. Exactly the people we wanted—skilled, but overlooked.
That way, we could keep costs down and make a high-quality movie.
“Wait,” said Jun-seong, eyeing the crew list. “Shouldn’t we be focusing on veterans? This is basically a team of first assistants.”
“Trust me. These guys are veterans.”
“Uh, do you know what ‘veteran’ means? They’re all in their 30s. Most other productions hire people in their 40s or 50s.”
“If you want something fresh, it’s better to avoid the old guard and go with folks who are still ‘sponges.’”
“Why not just hire third assistants as department heads, then? You and your sponge talk…”
“Look, trust me. Haven’t you noticed? Everything’s been going our way. The universe is helping us, like you said.”
He nodded reluctantly.
“Yeah, maybe…”
“It’s cheaper, too. I’m trying to help out the producer by trimming the budget, you know?”
“That’s true…”
“And these are people I plan to keep around. The beginning of the ‘Gyeong Chan-hyeon crew.’”
“Ugh, I’ll just stop arguing. It sounds crazy, but every time, your plans end up working out anyway…”
With a wry grin, he looked at the budget plan.
“Hiring big names is definitely more expensive, so yeah, we’re saving a lot here.”
“Have faith, man.”
“You sound like a cult leader telling me to ‘have faith.’ Sheesh.”
We still had a huge challenge ahead: our bet with his father to draw 2.5 million viewers nationwide. Minimum.
Given that in 2000’s Korea there were only about a third the number of screens we’d have by 2022, 2.5 million was a monumental figure.
Maybe his father accepted the bet because he was so sure we’d fail. Then again, it was Jun-seong who insisted on that number.
But if we pull it off, it’ll be a lot easier to secure investments in Korea.
Then we’ll be able to tackle an even larger blockbuster-scale film—like Shiri with its 3.2 billion won budget.
Pull that off, and my name will be firmly etched in Korean film history. The money’s just a bonus.
“Why are you grinning like an idiot? You’re making me nervous,” asked Jun-seong, glancing up from his shooting schedule.
“Don’t you see the flower-strewn path before us?”
“First you hear voices, now you see visions? Are you on something?”
“I can see it, oh yes, I can see it clearly!”
“Dude, you should probably get that checked out.”
The art department had finished tailoring costumes for Kim Seung-hoon and Lee Jung-woo, and they’d also been working on the set pieces we needed to shoot. Everything seemed to be moving along nicely.
I tagged along when they called in the actors to do a fitting. I silently prayed they’d have that A Better Tomorrow vibe. Together with Jun-seong, I went to the art studio.
And the scene we saw was even more perfect than I’d imagined.
“Producer, Director—you’re here?”
With a welcoming grin, Kim Seung-hoon came over to greet us.
His long arms and legs were clad in a trench coat that dropped below his knees—no, ‘it fit him well’ would be an understatement. It looked like it was made for him.
He was the gangster role in a noir film: that mix of bold toughness and unwavering loyalty, exactly as I’d envisioned.
Next to me, Jun-seong gaped for a second before recovering himself.
“Wow. So it’s all about the coat hanger, huh? That’s amazing, Seung-hoon.”
“Thank you,” he said, adjusting the collar.
“To be honest, when I first heard about wearing a trench coat for a gangster role, I wasn’t sure. But now I see the director really is brilliant.”
“Right? I told you the universe is on our side,” said Jun-seong.
Off in the distance, I spotted Lee Jung-woo approaching in a police uniform. True to form, he wore the same neutral expression as always.
“You like it, Jung-woo?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s good. Seung-hoon’s outfit looks awesome, by the way.”
“Ah, you look great, too! If they ever do a magazine list of ‘men who look best in uniform,’ you’d be top,” teased Jun-seong.
“Thanks.”
It was hard to believe he was the same person who had been giggling drunk the other night. He seemed like a different man.
“By the way, Director,” said Kim Seung-hoon. “We watched The Woman in the Secret Room.”
His words made Jun-seong light up in anticipation.
“So, how was it?”
“It was really good. Honestly, I wished it were longer. And I think the actors in it are all going places, too.”
“Right? All those actors are part of Director Gyeong’s team.”
“Oh, so that means me and Jung-woo too…”
“Of course! The director specifically asked for both of you. That’s why we set all this up.”
Hearing that, Kim Seung-hoon smiled, obviously proud, and even the corners of Lee Jung-woo’s mouth twitched like he wanted to say something.
“I saw The Woman in the Secret Room too,” said Lee Jung-woo. “It was really good.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and about that Captain Q… sorry.”
He bowed apologetically. Whether it was because he’d seen my short film or for some other reason, it seemed that Jun-seong’s decision to show it to them had been a smart move.
“No worries, haha. As long as there wasn’t any permanent damage. I can’t remember much of it, anyway…”
Finally, we were nearly done with all the prep for filming.
Time to go for those 2.5 million tickets!
SHIRI (1999). South Korean agents Ryu and Lee are tracking a female assassin from North Korea who has mysteriously disappeared. With new killings and the theft of a deadly bomb, time is running out to catch her. According to IMDB, it had 13 wins & 9 nominations.
A Better Tomorrow (1986). A reforming ex-gangster tries to reconcile with his estranged policeman brother, but the ties to his former gang are difficult to break. According to IMDB, it had 6 wins & 14 nominations.
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