Note: Agape Theater -> Agape Cinema
A few days later, Dad and a KMD executive in charge of film met to discuss renovating Agape Cinema.
They even mentioned their plans for acquiring other theaters in the future, turning “Agape Cinema” into a KMD-owned chain.
And so, the main pillar of our household—Agape Cinema—began its renovation, supported by KMD.
Agape Cinema was no longer in my hands.
It didn’t really worry me, though; Dad was a stubborn man with the ability to shape a contract exactly how he wanted. There was no reason to lose sleep over it.
Now the key was my next project.
While scribbling down ideas at the office, thinking about what to do next, Jun-seong turned to me.
“Have you seen the synopsis for Kim Eun-ha’s new project?”
“Huh?”
“I need to talk to her about it later. You take a look too.”
The synopsis he handed me didn’t spark much interest from an investor’s standpoint.
“Hmm… The subject matter’s too heavy. The approach is also heavy.”
Just because a film claims to offer a harsh critique of society doesn’t mean it’ll automatically succeed. However, you also can’t treat serious issues too lightly—it might trivialize the movie’s core message.
Normally, Kim Eun-ha was good at striking a balance between heavy and light, but this script was nothing like that.
“Right? Doesn’t feel like anyone will care about working conditions in the film industry,” he said.
“Yeah, probably not.”
“Try convincing her, will you?”
“Why me?”
“She scares me. You do it.”
With that, he went back to his desk, leaving me to recall the works Kim Eun-ha had directed before my regression.
Most of her movies were based on true events that, frankly, hadn’t even happened yet in this timeline. So she couldn’t make those films now…
“Hmm… Oh! Wait!”
My sudden outburst made Jun-seong jump to his feet.
“What, what happened?”
“Hey, when’s Kim Eun-ha coming in?”
“She should be here soon.”
“Great!”
I grabbed a notebook where I’d jotted down synopses of various famous films right after regressing, using “tips from the God of Cinema” as a guide.
As I skimmed through what I’d written, Jun-seong scooted back over, rolling his chair.
“Come on, man. You broke my concentration—so you owe me. You think you can just do your own thing?”
“I’ve got a new idea for Kim Eun-ha.”
“Huh? What is it?”
“The Hwaseong serial killings.”
“…What?!”
He blinked in disbelief.
“That horrifying case? You said her subject matter was already too heavy, and this is even heavier—like ultra-heavyweight!”
“I plan to treat it more lightly. Make the characters a bit comedic.”
Shaking his head, he sighed.
“Unless you whip out a synopsis or script that blows my mind, I’m against it.”
“Just wait.”
I searched for Come See Me (날 보러와요).
First things first, I’d have to buy the rights…
Knock, knock.
Without waiting for a response, Kim Eun-ha came in wearing sweats.
“Greetings, guys!”
“Why’re you talking like some old geezer?”
“Who you calling geezer, you little—?”
“You sound all self-assured like some middle-aged man,” teased Jun-seong, who—just a moment ago—had been scared of her. Maybe mocking her was his way of numbing that fear.
“You gotta carry yourself with confidence! That’s my life rule #1,” she declared.
“A few months ago, you wouldn’t even leave your room—”
Smack!
“Guh!”
He ended up getting clobbered. Her punch didn’t hesitate.
“So, did you read my synopsis?” she asked, turning to me.
“Yeah.”
Meanwhile, Jun-seong nursed his bruise, giving me a nod as if to say, You handle this.
“What’d you think?”
“Not great.”
She pulled over a chair and sat down right in front of me.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“The subject’s too heavy. And the way you’re telling the story doesn’t sound promising, either.”
“How can you judge that from just a synopsis?”
“I can tell from the outline you gave. You want to expose the terrible state of the film industry, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
She looked anxious, as if she was worried about how I’d respond. I carefully filtered my thoughts, then spoke.
“Nobody cares about that topic. If your storytelling isn’t interesting, that’s basically an insult to filmmaking.”
“…”
“A movie has to be fun on its own merits. That’s my personal rule #1.”
I borrowed the phrase she’d used just moments ago. But her face didn’t brighten.
“I get what you want to say, but this isn’t the way.”
“Hmm…” She frowned, resting her chin on her hand. “So it’s really that bad…?”
“Yeah.”
She clenched her fist, her body trembling slightly. For a second, I worried she’d take a swing at me, given her pride and personality. But the shaking subsided. Her voice sounded small.
“Damn it. But you’re Korea’s first 2.5-million director, after all… Who am I to argue…”
She was about to say something like, My film flopped… when I cut her off.
“You’ll get it right this time. Seriously, it wasn’t your fault before.”
“…I appreciate the thought, at least.”
“You’re talented—don’t get timid about it. No need to lose your spirit. Do it up like a real ‘mad dog.’”
My “encouragement” didn’t exactly come off as sweet, but she gave a slight smile.
“So what do you suggest I do, then?”
“I’ve got a recommendation.”
Her eyes grew wide.
“You do?”
“Yup.”
“What is it?”
“The Hwaseong serial murders.”
“…Huh?”
“Here, read this synopsis I wrote. And check out the original stage play for Come See Me (날 보러와요).”
I tore a page from my notebook and handed it to her.
“Come See Me? You wrote this based on a play, even though you haven’t gotten the author’s permission?”
“Yep. I think it’d be perfect as a starting point. We’ll change the ending a bit.”
She quickly read through what I’d given her, the corners of her mouth curling upward with each line.
“Jeez, are you some kind of genius?”
“You’re just figuring that out now?”
“Hey, don’t praise Gyeong Chan-hyeon too much—his ego’ll blow through the roof,” warned Jun-seong.
“I know, but this is seriously good!”
“All right, if it goes well, give Seong-hyeon Productions your best. First, go see that play.”
“Got it!”
She gave a short, enthusiastic reply and dashed out the door.
Seeing her go, Jun-seong chuckled. “Man, she’s got insane drive.”
The idea I recommended was basically a summarized synopsis of Bong Joon-ho’s Memories of Murder, one of Korea’s best-known films. Of course it’s going to be good—it’s from Bong Joon-ho!
The next day.
As soon as I got to the office, I noticed Jun-seong giving me sidelong looks.
“What? You got something to say?”
“You haven’t read the papers lately?”
“Why?”
“Never mind.”
He looked shifty. Suspicious, I snatched the newspaper from his hands.
“Uh…”
[Night: When Commercial Priorities Overwhelm Art—A Threat to the Future of Film?]
A column near the top caught my eye. It was by a man named Noh Young-hoon.
He’s one of the Korean directors I respected—Vice Chair of the Korean Film Association and an “art film” director. He wasn’t famous among casual moviegoers because his films lacked mainstream appeal, but inside the industry, he was well-known.
I turned to the article.
The column was essentially a critique of Night, claiming:
- It had no directorial philosophy or personality, just simplistic characters and a commercial plot—a mere piece of entertainment.
- It didn’t challenge viewers to think, merely ended with what it showed.
- Its box-office success could deal a blow to Korea’s art film scene, potentially leading to the extinction of the country’s cinematic artistry.
“Huh…”
Noh Young-hoon wasn’t the type to engage in cheap stunts like Baek Jin-cheol’s smear campaigns. I sat there, stunned, while Jun-seong peered at me worriedly.
“You okay? Don’t make that face; it’s unsettling.”
He looked alarmed by my expression.
“Say something, dude. Don’t just sit there looking weird.”
“Wait.”
“….”
He fell silent, watching me carefully. I got up and headed to the rooftop.
A few staff members were smoking and greeted me. The pungent smell of tobacco drifted by, triggering memories. I’d quit after regressing, but today…
“No. I can’t.”
I’d come too far to lose to a stupid cigarette. I wanted a long, healthy life. I moved away from the smokers, to a corner where the smell wasn’t as strong, and racked my brain.
“Agh!”
No answers came. My mind was a mess.
I had assumed that if I just borrowed ideas from celebrated directors, everything would turn out fine. But this was an attack I hadn’t anticipated.
What bothered me most was that the old me would probably have agreed with his criticism. While making Night, I’d had a lot of inner conflicts. It was basically a money-making film, nothing more or less. As Noh Young-hoon said, it was just mindless fun.
And the artistic value I used to believe in so strongly? There was barely a trace of it in Night.
“Director… do you have a cigarette…?”
One of the employees, noticing me in the corner, offered me one.
“….”
That tempting little roll of tobacco…
Right now, it felt like it might solve all my problems.
“Phew…”
I let out a long sigh.
Seeing me hesitate, the staff member tilted his head.
“I quit,” I mumbled.
“Oh—sorry!” He bowed apologetically and walked away.
God… that was close.
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