Time had passed since the World Cup began, but Gyeong Chan-hyeon was so focused on his script that he never even brought it up. Seeing this, Lee Jun-seong shook his head in disbelief.
Ever since their serious talk, Gyeong Chan-hyeon was practically fused with his earphones—he was always listening to music. When asked why, he said he wanted to capture the sense of rhythm from music and incorporate it into his filmmaking or something along those lines.
Of all things, he was listening to old metal music that had gone out of style ages ago: screeching guitar riffs and breakneck-speed drumming. These days, dance tracks were all the rage, but apparently he had no clue. The guy was stuck in the past, basically a barbarian.
Flicking the earphone cord, Jun-seong tried talking to him.
“Hey! Did you watch the World Cup match yesterday?”
“No.”
“Man, that chest trap—whack! Then boom, shot, goal! Park Ji-sung was incredible, right? Hiddink’s seriously a top-notch coach. I feel bad for ever doubting him.”
“Mm.”
“Huh?”
That was all. No emotion, no excitement. Gyeong Chan-hyeon gave a short reply, then put his earphones back in and went right back to scribbling in his notebook.
“Dude, you can put off your movie stuff for a bit. The World Cup only comes once every four years. Live a little. The whole country’s in a party mood! Who knows when we’ll get to see this again?”
“I know.”
“C’mon… If Stanley Kubrick had been Korean, you think he wouldn’t be out there in a Red Devils headband, watching the game in Gwanghwamun right now? Snap out of it!”
“…”
“I’m telling you, we beat Portugal! Song Jong-guk shut down Figo!”
“Yeah.”
That dull response left Jun-seong scratching his head. This reaction was not what he expected. He thought Chan-hyeon would be more hyped than him, yet the guy couldn’t care less—still lost in his script.
At a loss, he went outside to find Kim Eun-ha.
“Kim Eun-ha, did you watch the game?”
“Of course I did. You think I’d miss that?”
Her voice was raspy, apparently from yelling so much during the match.
Hearing her scratchy tone, Jun-seong’s face lit up, and he reenacted Park Ji-sung’s goal against Portugal.
“Ah! Park Ji-sung! Chest trap—dribble—shoot! Gooaaaal!”
“Goal! Park Ji-sung scores!”
She burst out laughing at his goofy impression and cheered along.
“But that guy in there says he didn’t watch it. Isn’t he crazy? We may never beat Portugal again in our lifetime.”
“Seriously? He missed that match? It was practically cinematic.”
“That’s what I’m saying! With that kind of intensity, I guess he can do anything he puts his mind to, though.”
Looking into the office at Gyeong Chan-hyeon, earphones in, heavy dark circles under his eyes, hammering away at the keyboard, she shook her head in admiration.
“Crazy. Even King Sejong would have taken a break from compiling the Korean script to watch the World Cup in this atmosphere.”
She thought there wasn’t a single person in the country who wasn’t fired up about our first advance to the round of 16, but apparently she was wrong.
“So who’s our next opponent again?” Still fiddling with her pen, she asked.
“Italy, three days from now.”
“Should we go to Gwanghwamun for the crowd cheering? Just seeing all those people had my heart racing.”
“Yes! I’ve really been wanting to go!”
They both asked Gyeong Chan-hyeon to join them, but he only gave a curt reply:
“I can’t.”
“Dude, you maniac, come on! Our nation is making history here!”
“Right, and it’s not like you’re going to magically solve your script by staying glued to your seat. Go out, get some air—take a break!”
“No. You guys go. I’m busy.”
Hearing his blunt refusal, the two of them left the office, both heaving a sigh.
“He lives in his own little world,” said Jun-seong.
“Totally,” Kim Eun-ha agreed. “But seeing him like that… I dunno, maybe he’s really about to create something big. I’ve never seen him focus like this.”
Watching him inside through the office window, pen flying over the pages, Jun-seong mused:
“He wasn’t like that making Night?”
She asked, and he gave a half-laugh.
“When we shot Night, he kinda threw it together, like he already knew all the answers. If a problem came up, he had an immediate fix.”
“So this time, the fix isn’t coming so easily?”
“Looks like it. Ugh, guess it’s just you and me then.”
“…”
He noticed she wasn’t responding.
“Guess I’ll just finish up my script instead,” she said.
“What!? Didn’t you say we should go see the match?”
“You heard me—‘250k Director’ is buried in work; how can I go off to party by myself? I’d feel guilty.”
“But still…”
“Go by yourself, might meet someone special. I’ll stay out of your way—go on, Mr. Producer.”
She smirked, but it made him scowl.
“You’re both nuts. How can you pass on this? We’re living in history—why don’t you get it? Don’t come crying later.”
He fumed, exasperated.
“Wait, you’re not both secret Italy fans, are you? That’d make you traitors! Traitors to our nation!”
“What kinda logic is that?” she retorted.
A few days later.
I pulled several all-nighters and finished my script.
Meanwhile, after going to watch the Italy match in a massive street crowd, Jun-seong had hung a “Be the Reds” T-shirt in our office.
Now he was mimicking Ahn Jung-hwan’s ring-kiss celebration for me and Kim Eun-ha, boasting.
“I’m a winner here, you fools! You missed the biggest moment in history, you clueless ignoramuses!”
“Does history revolve around Gwanghwamun…?” grumbled Kim Eun-ha, sounding half-envious.
“It does, man! Do you know how many people turned out? Five hundred thousand for the street cheering! Five hundred thousand! Golden Ball—did you see the crowd’s roar when Ahn Jung-hwan scored? It was eardrum-shattering!”
“Right, sure…” she muttered.
“You didn’t go either, Kim Eun-ha?” I asked.
She looked at me, face downcast. “When the 2.5-million-view director is locked in the office writing a script, how could I run off to watch soccer? I felt weird about it.”
“Yet you have no problem calling me out about it, do you?”
She banged on the desk in frustration. “I already missed it, so who cares if I complain now, you jerk! Ugh! You’re the reason I missed it!”
Seeing her tear at her hair, I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“So let’s see how that Italy match you gave up turned into a script,” Jun-seong said, reaching for the pages.
Both he and she eyed the thick stack of paper like it was a delicious meal.
“All right, let’s have a look…”
His expression morphed in strange ways as he flipped through page after page.
Finally, finishing the last page, he grabbed the bottle of water on the desk and drained it.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He spoke first. “What the hell, did you commune with spirits these past few weeks? Did this really come out of your own head?”
He waved the script at me, and Kim Eun-ha, also done reading, stared at me.
“You’re sure the same director who made Night wrote this? Are you, like… multiple-personality or something?”
“Multiple-personality, my butt.”
“This is nuts. How do you go from gangster noir to an occult story and write it so well?”
She was clearly impressed. Meanwhile, Jun-seong nodded but looked concerned as he rechecked the script.
“Not that there aren’t any worries at all. The genre isn’t something Korean audiences are used to… The occult. Have we had any successful Korean occult films?”
She agreed.
“The only thing might be Legend of the Fox Sister? That’s a TV show, though…”
He tapped his fingers on the desk, calculating in his head.
“Since there’s never been a real occult movie in Korea, we have no way to guess how big it could get. The script’s great, but it’s tricky.”
I held my tongue, waiting for him to decide.
Eventually, he seemed to make up his mind and looked at me.
“Let’s offset the risk with star actors. You have anyone in mind? Just name them.”
While writing, I’d already decided on which actors to cast. I handed over the list, and he gave a satisfied grin.
“This lineup looks good. The faces, the voices—would fit the movie perfectly. They’re people the audience already loves.”
While he was smiling, I couldn’t relax.
“What’s with the face now?” he asked.
“They might turn us down. Gotta have a backup plan.”
“What? Hey, you’re the guy who made Night. Why would you need a backup? We’ve got money—there’s nothing money can’t fix.”
“Director Noh Young-hoon’s column might scare them off.”
He laughed.
“Bet you don’t grasp the power of money yet. You’ll see, man. Nobody’s turning us down over one column. Not when there’s cash on the table.”
A few days later, that confidence vanished from his face; he approached me, looking gloomy.
“Turns out that column’s pretty influential,” he admitted.
Just as I feared.
He handed me the casting list, now marked with X’s over every actor I wanted.
“Sigh…”
“Soon as they heard you had a new film in the works, they cut off contact. Some who were interested said they don’t like the occult genre, or they won’t get to stand out like in Night.”
He sighed, gazing out the window.
“I guess they just don’t want to give other directors ammunition. They’re worried about pushback from future projects.”
“Turning down the 2.5-million director—somebody’s feeling cocky,” I muttered.
“We can find other actors, right?”
“But star power really matters. We specifically wanted these names.”
With that, he chucked the list into the trash.
“Where else are we gonna find actors of this caliber? The lineup was perfect.”
The script was good, but the cast was the problem now.
“Nothing we can do,” I said.
“What…?”
Standing, I replied, “Let’s just hire stage actors.”
His face twisted as if I’d lost my mind.
“Are you insane? Didn’t we just talk about how star power matters?”
“We have no other options, do we?”
He slumped into a chair and shook his head.
“There’s no way. Stage actors? Absolutely not!”
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