The morning after our first day of shooting, Jun-seong and I got up at the crack of dawn to get back to work.
While he rechecked the shooting schedule and compared it to the budget, I reviewed the storyboard and went over various details.
“So, how’s it looking? It’d be great if things kept going this smoothly…”
Jun-seong looked at me with some concern. He had pored over the schedule and budget so many times that the papers were practically in tatters.
“Yeah. Let’s keep going exactly like this.”
“Right. Exactly like this—please, just like this.”
But in the movie business, whenever someone says “Let’s keep things going like this,” it usually doesn’t happen that way.
If you’re not shooting mostly indoors, bad weather can easily push back the schedule, and if anything else goes wrong, just one lost day can mean at least 3 million won spent on labor alone.
To get to the set location at Yangsu-ri, we hopped on a bus.
“But I do think we hired the right people. On the first shoot, they didn’t look any different from veterans.”
Saying this, Jun-seong chewed on a hard-boiled egg he’d bought in lieu of breakfast and glanced at me.
“Could you at least finish chewing before you talk? That’s disgusting.”
“Hey, the producer’s job is to feed the director with ideas, and the director’s job is to ‘swallow’ them. You’re the one turning it down?”
“Ugh, I guess this is where we part ways.”
“Can’t take a joke?”
Pretending to sulk, he pulled another egg from the bag.
“Want me to peel one for you, Director?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
All of a sudden—whack!
With an innocent grin, he cracked the egg on top of my head.
“You lunatic!”
“Oh, come on, I couldn’t use my own head to crack it. Stick to your script, Director.”
I just grinned and went back to double-checking the scenario details, thinking about how to make everything more visually striking.
When we arrived at the set, the crew was already there waiting. I had something to discuss with our cinematographer, Park Jin-soo—a man in his mid-thirties, sporting a scruffy beard, who would later become sought-after even for American TV shows.
“Mr. Park?”
“Yes, Director. You were looking for me?”
He looked at me, a cigarette in his mouth.
“Yes. I want to make a slight change to today’s shoot. I’ve already told the art team to bring in a full-length mirror.”
“A mirror?”
Mirrors are indeed a familiar cliché, but they’re excellent for symbolic storytelling in film, especially for showing separation or disconnection between characters.
“What do you need a mirror for?”
I handed him an updated storyboard for today’s scene. He exhaled a puff of smoke, frowning at it.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“What do you think? Isn’t it okay?”
“Hmm…”
He still hadn’t dropped his scowl.
“Will audiences even understand what you’re going for? I’ve never really come across this approach. I’m against it.”
Several other members of the camera department nodded in agreement, as though backing him up.
“I was under the impression that controlling the frame composition is my domain. Of course, your opinion matters too, Director, but changing it like this out of nowhere is a bit…”
While the head director (me) is responsible for everything, the cinematographer also has the final say on how things look on screen.
Park Jin-soo was probably worried that a misstep could damage his career—and in this industry, if you mess up, you can’t just sit and watch someone else suffer for it. You’ll also pay the price.
“Director, this is your first feature film, right? Usually, the more you try to show off, the more it backfires. Don’t you think we should just do it the way you originally planned?”
His tone was tinged with a slight sneer. It reminded me of a quote from Director Park Chan-wook’s autobiography:
“A film director must, if necessary, use force on set to assert their artistic vision. But because that didn’t really fit my personality, I struggled a lot in my thirties.”
I considered whether I should resort to “force,” but seeing how brawny he was—after ten years of hauling heavy equipment—I might be the one who ended up on the floor.
“So we’re good, right?”
“No.”
“What?”
He frowned at me. In 2000, Korea still had a rigid hierarchy and seniority culture. A young person challenging someone older could easily get a bad reputation. Even if you have a valid reason, it often doesn’t matter if you’re young.
So, what’s the best approach?
Intimidation.
“Mr. Park Jin-soo, let’s talk privately. This might be a sensitive topic for the rest of the team to hear.”
“…What?”
“Privately.”
He flicked away his half-burned cigarette and cracked his knuckles, as if to show me he wasn’t afraid. But to me, that was nothing compared to the threats I’d faced in my pre-reincarnation life.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
We moved away from everyone else until it was just the two of us.
“So what, do you want to fight?” he asked, tilting his head from side to side like he was warming up.
“We’re civilized people. Why fight physically? I just want to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“You see that producer over there?”
I pointed to Jun-seong in the distance, checking everything with a serious expression.
“Yes. Producer Lee Jun-seong, right?”
“Do you know who his father is?”
“Who cares?” he scoffed, looking bored.
“Well, you know he and I are close, right?”
“Sure, you two are co-representatives.”
“He’s the son of Chairman Lee Jung-ho of KMD Group. This movie is funded by that money.”
“So what? You think I’m gonna cower over that? If I quit here, I can just find work elsewhere.”
“You really think so?”
He froze, evidently not following what I was getting at.
“You have no clue how scary that guy is.”
“Huh?”
“He’s great as a friend, but if you become his enemy, he’s a psycho. He’ll throw his money around and destroy your life. And you think his father—who’s footing the bill—will let it slide that you wasted his money?”
“What are you even saying?”
“Don’t you think KMD capital spreads into the media? You want to see a headline like, ‘Cinematographer Park Jin-soo defies Director Gyeong Chan-hyun, abandons shoot, causing huge losses for KMD’? Think you’d still have a job after that?”
Park Jin-soo just stared, blinking.
“I’m really worried for you. If you cross him, it’s over. You think I’m playing games with you? I’m telling you this for your own good.”
“…”
He stood there deflated. I made it sound like I wasn’t using any “power moves,” but it was precisely that—a tactic to keep him in check by using Jun-seong’s influence. I learned long ago that becoming unemployed is scarier to most people than a physical fight.
“You understand, right? You can treat me however, but please, for your own sake, be careful around Jun-seong. I’m worried about you. You want to keep working in film, right?”
“Yeah… Thank you.”
When we went back to the set, Jun-seong approached us, frowning.
“Are you out of your mind? The schedule’s already tight, and you’re messing around? Don’t you see everyone’s waiting for you?”
“I—I’m sorry, Producer. My fault.”
Jun-seong looked startled at my uncharacteristically submissive tone.
His expression said, “What the heck? This isn’t like you.”
“No, Producer, it was my fault. I had something to discuss with Director Gyeong,” Park Jin-soo said, bowing as well.
“…”
I discreetly pinched Jun-seong’s thigh—a signal. He’s sharp enough to put two and two together.
“Ow! Hurry up and start filming, then. We’re short on time, remember? Whatever personal chit-chat you want to have, do it later, okay?”
“S-sorry.”
“No, it’s my fault, Producer.”
Park Jin-soo, now subdued, headed for the monitor while Jun-seong pulled me aside.
“What’s going on?”
“I used you as leverage.”
“What do you mean?”
“I basically ‘sold’ you.”
“Is it helping the film?”
“Big time.”
“Then that’s fine. Let’s go—we’re behind schedule.”
Satisfied, he led me along.
With that, I placed the mirror exactly where I wanted it and directed the scene between Kim Seung-hoon and Lee Jung-woo.
It was an indoor conversation. Originally, I’d planned to visually separate them via wallpaper colors, but decided to incorporate the mirror as well.
Kim Seung-hoon had his back to the camera, but we could see his face in the mirror’s reflection. Meanwhile, Lee Jung-woo faced the camera directly. It created a sense of distance and disconnection, even though they shared the same room—an approach reminiscent of how Ari Aster used mirrors in the occult film Midsommar to hint at relationship breakdowns.
Soon, the slate clacked and shooting began.
Park Jin-soo, though still looking a bit sullen, watched the monitor. Within moments, the sullenness vanished.
Though at first the actors were unsure about using the mirror, they quickly adapted, delivering a seamless performance.
“Cut! Okay!”
I shouted. Next to me, Park Jin-soo stood for a moment, mouth slightly open.
“Wh-what is that? I mean, what just happened?”
“I told you, this can have a real impact. Whether the audience fully understands it or not doesn’t matter as long as they feel the disconnection. It’s a form of foreshadowing. Not bad, right?”
“…Yes, it’s definitely good. I was ready to go with the original storyboard, but…”
Glancing at Jun-seong, he continued awkwardly,
“I was thinking, ‘Why do something new?’ But I never knew you had this in mind…”
“So you opposed Director Gyeong’s idea?” Jun-seong asked, raising an eyebrow.
Park Jin-soo went silent. I decided to intervene; after all, we’d be working with him for a while.
“No, we were just discussing it. Thank you for your efforts, Director Park.”
“Ah… yes, thank you.”
He stood up to go eat with the camera crew. Jun-seong still seemed puzzled.
“So, what exactly did you say about me? Did you tell him I was an ex-con or something?”
“Are you insane? That’s a step beyond what I had in mind.”
“Then why does he look so terrified around me?”
“I just told him that if he doesn’t want to end up unemployed, he’d better keep quiet. Called you a crazy psycho.”
“…If this movie fails, I’m taking your head first. Watch it.”
“Just don’t say that near Park Jin-soo. He might believe you’d really do it.”
“Puhaha! Let’s get some food. As long as the movie succeeds, it’s all good.”
“Absolutely!”
From that day on, Park Jin-soo practically treated me like a god.
He admitted that he’d initially dismissed me as a college grad with no real-world experience, whereas he’d spent eight years learning the craft through an apprentice system. But after seeing my ideas in action, he felt like I was on a whole different level.
And that’s how we recruited the second devotee of “Gyeong Chan-hyunism.”
The mirror scene from the movie was too creepy, so here’s the poster instead. Someone labeled it as the ‘WTF movie of 2019’.
Leave a Reply