The Film Business
On Sunday, January 28, 1962, the Pyeonghwa Theater Ki-jo had acquired changed its signboard to the Cheongsan Theater and opened its doors once more.
The restrooms had been made properly sanitary, the rows of seats spaced more generously, and every chair fitted with a pair of armrests, so that no one would have to wage a silent war with the stranger beside them over a single shared rail. Fresh paint brightened the house until simply walking in lifted the mood, and the old furniture and tired wooden ornament had been stripped away. In the waiting room a television and benches had been installed, so that even the time spent waiting for a picture would not drag.
The reopening drew a great crowd of contract players from Korea Entertainment Co., the firm Lim Hwa-soo had founded, along with actors who had lived under his sway. The brightest stars of the day came to lend the occasion their luster: Kim Seung-ho, Kim Jin-kyu, Yun Il-bong, Ju Seon-tae, Choi Mu-ryong, Dokgo Sung, Lee Ye-chun, Heo Jang-gang, Park No-sik, and others. They were the same actors Ki-jo had met in 1959, when Lim Hwa-soo arranged the introductions at the March First Movement ceremony held at Dongdaemun Stadium.
The moment Ki-jo stepped into the theater, Kim Hee-ra's father, Kim Seung-ho, was the first to hurry over and greet him.
"Aigoo—President, you've come?"
"Have you been well?"
"Of course. Thanks to you, I'm living with an easy mind. Ha ha ha."
Kim Seung-ho, thirteen years Ki-jo's senior, kept bowing as he spoke. In the fifties Lim Hwa-soo had dragged him from one political function to another and put him up as a speaker so often that he had nearly lost his life in the April Revolution. He had escaped with his neck, only to be driven into a half-forced retirement—until Ki-jo arranged for him to make a picture at Lee Hwa-ryong's Hwaseong Film, and he returned in triumph. That picture was The Coachman, the first Korean film ever to take a prize at a Western festival abroad. In 1961 it had won the Special Jury Silver Bear at the Berlin International Film Festival. On the heels of that triumph, the comedy Third-Class Section Chief, produced by Cheongsan Heung-eop, had also succeeded, and he was riding a second prime. He kept thanking Ki-jo.
"If it hadn't been for you, President, I'd have stayed a has-been. I'm truly grateful."
"Not at all. It's your acting that did it. Korea's finest actor is being far too modest."
"Finest actor? Me? The finest actor is this fellow right beside me. Ha ha ha."
Kim Seung-ho gave Kim Jin-kyu, standing at his side, a light clap on the shoulder. Kim Jin-kyu dipped his head to Ki-jo in greeting. He too had been riding the very top of the profession since the sixties began.
It sat uneasily with Ki-jo to have actors so much older than himself bowing their heads. He took Kim Jin-kyu's hand in both of his.
"You can greet me lightly. There's no need to stand on ceremony with me."
"What are you saying? A man ought to greet the head of his agency properly."
However Ki-jo tried to treat him as an elder brother, Kim Jin-kyu remained scrupulously correct. It seemed a habit learned in the fifties, under the grind of Lim Hwa-soo's thumb. He was the lead in Cheongsan Heung-eop's smash hits—The Aimless Bullet, The Houseguest and My Mother, and Seong Chunhyang—the most successful superstar of the moment, and still he was humble, and his manners were impeccable.
After exchanging greetings with the other actors, Ki-jo went looking for the directors. The Cheongsan Theater held not only players that day, but master filmmakers as well: Yu Hyun-mok, who had directed The Aimless Bullet, and Shin Sang-ok, who had directed The Houseguest and My Mother and Seong Chunhyang. Lee Man-hee was there too, still a newcomer, though in the years ahead he would make the masterpieces The Marines Who Never Returned and Late Autumn.
With Lee Man-hee, who was close to him in age, Ki-jo could greet him easily.
"Director Lee, is the new scenario coming along?"
"Yes. I'm planning a large-scale war picture with a marine as the hero. I'd like the military to support it, but I don't know whether that will come through."
Sure enough, in this history as in the other, Lee Man-hee was developing The Marines Who Never Returned. The early sixties would bring a boom in war films, and Lee Man-hee and Shin Sang-ok would each make one of the two great pillars of Korean war cinema: The Marines Who Never Returned and The Red Scarf.
"When the scenario is finished, send me a copy. I'll go to the Ministry of National Defense and ask them to cooperate on the production."
Military support for films had been commonplace even in the fifties. He was not asking them to beg him for some special favor.
After talking with Lee Man-hee, Ki-jo greeted Yu Hyun-mok, Shin Sang-ok, Kim Ki-young, and the other directors with proven box-office records. Director Yu, too, said he was planning a film about Yi Sun-sin, and hoped for the military's backing on that as well.
Looking over the actors and directors under exclusive contract to Cheongsan Heung-eop, and the film people with whom he stood on friendly terms, Ki-jo felt a solid reassurance. The legacy of Lim Hwa-soo's dissolved Korea Entertainment Co. had been absorbed into Cheongsan Heung-eop in great measure, and the lineup of players and directors was the finest that could be assembled. These were the people who would lead the growth of Korea's film industry for a decade and more. The Cheongsan Theater would be the exclusive first-run house for the fine pictures they made, and a bulwark for Korean cinema in its fight against foreign films.
The day after the opening went off well, a call came from the KCIA. They were to bring one working-level man from Cheongsan Heung-eop and two of the company's executives and report to the Agency. Ki-jo took Won Tae-sik, Lee Man-hee, and Director Yu Hyun-mok and headed for the KCIA on Namsan.
When they arrived and identified themselves, an officer came out and showed Ki-jo and his party in. He led them to the office of Seok Jeong-seon, assistant deputy director of the KCIA. Ki-jo greeted the Agency's second-in-command, a friend of Kim Jong-pil.
"Good to meet you. I've heard a great deal about you."
Seok Jeong-seon, who welcomed him as if they were already acquainted, was an easygoing-looking man. He wore a military field jacket, and with a face that put people at ease he shook hands warmly with Won Tae-sik, Shin Sang-ok, and Yu Hyun-mok, the men Ki-jo had brought. Ki-jo, though, took note of something else: this was a man seasoned to the bone in intelligence work. He was deeply versed in literature and philosophy as well, but Ki-jo did not believe he had summoned filmmakers to the KCIA merely to promote the arts.
Seated on the sofa, Seok lavished praise on Directors Lee Man-hee and Yu Hyun-mok. Lee Man-hee could take it in stride, but Yu Hyun-mok, who had made The Aimless Bullet, looked distinctly uncomfortable. In that film the hero's mother, a refugee whose mind was no longer sound, cried out, "Let's go home!" The KCIA had once halted the screenings, demanding to know whether she was not in fact crying, "Let's go to the North!" Director Yu himself had been hauled in and interrogated. Perhaps because of that memory, he could hardly meet Seok Jeong-seon's eyes.
"The reason I invited the four of you is to show you a film."
At Seok's word to his secretary, heavy blackout curtains were drawn across the office windows and a projector whirred to life. A picture flickered onto one wall—and to their astonishment, it was a North Korean film.
"Right after the revolution, we exchanged films with the North, one for one. We sent them Seong Chunhyang, which Cheongsan Heung-eop made, and they sent us a picture called Pyongyang in Bloom. This is that film."
What the North had sent was propaganda through and through. It lingered on a neat, advanced Pyongyang and on the people living out their days in a communist paradise. Won Tae-sik, Lee Man-hee, and Yu Hyun-mok wore bewildered looks, unable to fathom why the KCIA was showing them a North Korean picture. Ki-jo, though, thought he understood.
"The film we sent north is more entertaining, and better made, than theirs. I'd wager the kids up there enjoyed it."
Seok said it through a drift of cigarette smoke.
"But watch a North Korean film and the discomforts pile up. That Pyongyang, especially. Anyone can see it's more developed than Seoul, can't they?"
No one answered. None of them knew what might happen if, in front of a KCIA officer, they admitted that the North was ahead of the South. Ki-jo drew out a cigarette and lit it, buying time before he had to reply, and Won Tae-sik, Lee Man-hee, and Yu Hyun-mok hurriedly pulled out cigarettes of their own and set them between their lips. Seeing it, Seok laughed, big and open.
"Looks like plain speaking makes all of you uncomfortable. That's all right. That goddamn Pyongyang is a hell of a lot more developed than Seoul, isn't it?"
Still no one answered. They only smoked, hard and fast, and so he went on.
"Chairman Park saw this film and admitted it himself. 'We've got to develop Seoul past Pyongyang, and that's a tall order.' 'Honestly, I'm envious.' Those were his words."
At the news that Chairman Park had said such a thing, Won Tae-sik nodded. The sight of a North living better than the South was a shock, but the envy, and the thought that they had to surpass the North, was something all of them shared.
"South and North are locked in a fierce competition, and film has to beat the North as well. So…"
Seok ground his cigarette out in the ashtray.
"We'd like Cheongsan Heung-eop to make a picture showing a Republic of Korea building up its industry, and a war picture in which our armed forces win the Korean War."
Once they heard what he was after, Won Tae-sik and the two directors finally looked relieved, and nodded.
"President Lee, will you put your weight behind it?"
"Yes. Making good films is our work in any case."
When Ki-jo agreed, Seok broke into a wide smile.
"Open the curtains."
At the order, the aide switched off the projector and drew back the blackout drapes, then opened the windows and let out the cigarette smoke that had packed the office.
"The military will support the war picture on a grand scale. For the industrial picture, how about shooting it at a plant Cheongsan owns? A hand at the fertilizer factory falls for a country girl, they marry, they have a child, he looks after his parents and does his filial duty—that sort of direction would be good…"
Won Tae-sik took Seok's requirements down quickly in a notebook.
"I'd like the films out by late autumn this year at the latest. Can you manage that?"
Ki-jo could read the intent. This was not simply a request for pictures that would win a contest of systems with the North. With a general election set for the winter, they were ordering films that would shape public opinion in the government's favor. He turned to Tae-sik.
"Director Won, does it look possible?"
"Yes. It's possible."
Won Tae-sik sounded sure of himself. Ki-jo turned to Lee Man-hee, who was in the midst of writing the scenario for The Marines Who Never Returned.
"Director Lee, is the scenario nearly finished?"
"Yes. I can send it over."
"I'd be grateful for a copy each, for me and for Deputy Director Seok."
He asked Director Yu as well.
"Director Yu, has the scenario come in for The Great Hero, Yi Sun-sin, the one you're preparing?"
"Yes."
"I'd appreciate a copy."
At the word that an Yi Sun-sin film was in the works, Seok Jeong-seon brightened.
"The Great Hero, Yi Sun-sin—excellent. Does King Seonjo appear in it?"
"He does."
Yu Hyun-mok answered with a set face.
"And the casting?"
"We're thinking of Mr. Kim Seung-ho."
When he heard that the comedy actor Kim Seung-ho had been chosen for Seonjo, Seok welcomed it. He seemed to have caught the intention of holding the king up to ridicule.
"Good. Kim Seung-ho acts very well, doesn't he?"
Ki-jo thought he knew why Seok was glad of an Yi Sun-sin picture. Chairman Park made a habit of disparaging the five hundred years of the Joseon dynasty, insisting that the incompetence of its kings, the corruption of its officials, and its factional strife had carried down into the present, and that all of it had to be swept away. At the same time he revered Yi Sun-sin. A film that fit his politics was on the way, and of course he would welcome it.
"Then what about the industrial picture?"
"Cheongsan Heung-eop has plenty of directors who make fine romances."
"If possible, I'd like it entrusted to Director Shin Sang-ok. Hasn't he had one successful romance after another?"
"I'll ask Director Shin first."
"Please do."
Seok looked thoroughly satisfied, and he praised Cheongsan Heung-eop without stint, calling it the finest entertainment and film company in the Republic and promising support without reservation.
When the meeting broke and everyone rose to leave, Seok called Ki-jo back. He lowered his voice.
"The Director wanted to see you himself, President Lee, but he's been so busy lately he couldn't find the time. He asked me to pass along his apologies."
Ki-jo nodded, then said,
"Please tell Director Kim to look after his health."
"I will. You're as straightforward as the rumors say, President Lee. I'll be counting on you from here on, too."
Ki-jo shook Seok Jeong-seon's hand and left the KCIA.
He knew the years ahead would be bright for the film industry. At the same time, the thought that the government meant to intervene heavily in production darkened his mood. All he could hope was that they would not pick quarrels down to a single line of dialogue, a single look on an actor's face. If the censorship stayed within the bounds of common sense, he was prepared to accept the peculiar constraints of an age like the sixties.