Profits
When Yeon-woo and Min-su arrived at the set in Paju, they stepped inside the building.
"Wow, Actor. The scale is impressive."
"It really is. It looks even bigger than the special effects studio in Daejeon we visited while shooting Star Beyond the River."
Manager Kim Min-su had never been here in person either, and he couldn't help marveling at the sheer grandeur that hit them from the entrance alone.
They had heard from CEO Kim Ju-seong that he would throw his full support behind the project, but seeing it with their own eyes was something else entirely.
Click.
Just then the door to the interior studio opened, and the two directors and writer Kim Jin-ju came out.
"Oh my, Yeon-woo. When did you get here?"
"I came straight after class. Just arrived."
At that moment Director Hwang Min-gwon, eyes brimming with tears, rushed over and seized both of Yeon-woo's hands.
"Hic—Actor Ryu, thank you so much! Without you, how could I ever have turned my imagination into reality?"
Looking a little awkward, Yeon-woo gently freed his hands and scratched his cheek.
"It wasn't me. LN Media's CEO Kim Ju-seong made it happen."
"But he's only giving us this kind of full-scale support because you took the lead role!"
"That's true."
Behind them, CG Director Jeong Yo-han nodded in agreement.
Having no particular fondness for watching a grown man sniffling, Yeon-woo quickly changed the subject.
"Director Jeong, how does the chroma-key set look?"
"It's the best."
Jeong Yo-han gave a thumbs-up and a firm nod.
"Ah, what am I doing standing around? Come on, let me show you around. I'll guide you."
Speaking more like a tour guide than a director, Hwang Min-gwon politely indicated the way with both hands.
Yeon-woo let out a soft laugh at the sight and started walking.
When they opened the door and stepped inside, a vast chamber completely covered in green chroma-key walls held an earthen fortress of considerable grandeur.
It was, quite literally, a fortress wall built of packed earth.
"Wow, how did they make this?"
When Yeon-woo voiced his admiration, Director Hwang Min-gwon stuck close like an actual guide.
"It looks like real earth, but according to CEO Lee Ju-seok, they only coated the surface and fired it with torches. Same material they use for jjimjilbang saunas, apparently."
"CEO Lee Ju-seok—the same company that built the ship interiors for Master Plan."
"He told us not to worry about the budget, so we went with the best firm in the country. Haha."
Yeon-woo stepped closer and examined it carefully. Even the seams and every tiny detail looked exactly like a wall made of genuine earth.
Almost identical to the places where anti-government forces dig in across the Islamic world.
Yeon-woo nodded and moved on, glancing at writer Kim Jin-ju.
"So story-wise, this is the gateway into Cardiac?"
"Yes. The big battle scene will be shot here."
Cardiac was the medical term for the heart.
Before the protagonist and the red-blood-cell supporting cast entered the heart, they would fight a massive battle here against the pursuing white-blood-cell forces.
Yeon-woo looked past the earthen fortress at the wall covered in green chroma-key fabric and murmured to himself.
"Then behind that, the Carotid Artery will rise into the sky as a gigantic pillar of light."
"We've already started the CG work. It'll be rendered on a truly majestic scale."
The carotid artery was the fastest direct route from the heart to the brain.
In the story it would appear as an enormous pillar of light leading to another world.
Most place names and designations would be filled with medical terminology; the doctor protagonist staring at them in utter bewilderment was one of the work's quiet little comedy beats.
Who looks at a colossal pillar of light ripping through dimensions and thinks, "Ah, the carotid artery"?
Yeon-woo smiled faintly at Director Hwang Min-gwon, who had appointed himself guide.
And who would invest in a scenario like this? It's completely absurd.
The more Yeon-woo thought about it, the clearer it became that Hwang Min-gwon's obscurity had never been a matter of talent.
There simply had never been a production company large enough to contain his imagination, or an investor bold enough to make the call.
CEO Kim Ju-seong's generous investment is partly because he trusts the results I've delivered so far…
But fundamentally, he must have felt the same thing Yeon-woo had felt that day while reading the script in the CEO's office.
Around the corner they found a room carpeted with red pebbles.
Yeon-woo tilted his head at a mysterious stack of rubber piled in one corner.
"What are those?"
"Ah, those are exercise balls. We haven't inflated them yet, so they're just stacked like that."
Red pebbles and red exercise balls.
"So this is Cardiac, then?"
It was the critical location in the story—the "heart of the matter."
Not a figurative expression people casually used, but an actual heart.
"That's right. We'll mark each of those balls individually, capture the motion, and then process them all in CG. It might look weird, but it's a technique they use a lot in Hollywood."
If Director Jeong Yo-han said so, then it was so.
Yeon-woo had seen his filmography; he felt not the slightest doubt.
After that they toured the rest of the sets in order and finally came back out to the entrance.
"Hmm? Now that I think about it, there's no set for the latter half."
They had walked the entire circuit, yet there was no set that looked like the near-future SF world inside the brain.
Director Jeong Yo-han answered Yeon-woo's question.
"The latter half is almost ninety-nine percent CG, so once we finish shooting the earthen fortress, we'll tear that whole set down and fill it with full chroma-key for the rest of the shoot."
Yeon-woo nodded at the explanation.
The part that actually worried him was the chroma-key work itself.
His only previous experience with chroma-key had been a telecom commercial where he hung from wires and the classroom turned into outer space.
Even then he had only needed to hold a pose while lying down; it barely counted as acting.
"I've never done chroma-key shooting before. What's the most important thing? I'd like to prepare as best I can."
"Hmm, the most important thing?"
Jeong Yo-han thought for a moment, then nodded and spoke.
"Imagination, I'd say. You have to act as if something is flying at you when nothing is, as if bombs are exploding all around you when nothing is exploding."
"Imagination…"
As Yeon-woo nodded and sank into thought, writer Kim Jin-ju patted him on the back.
"Come on, Yeon-woo. Even if you haven't done it before, you'll be fine. And the desert gallop scene in Star Beyond the River was basically CG shooting too."
True enough—he had ridden a horse while imagining a fictional army far beyond the desert, so she had a point.
Yeon-woo smiled and answered.
"I'll prepare hard for the remaining time."
Watching him, Director Hwang Min-gwon spoke up.
"About the other roles… we're planning to hold auditions. Would you like to…?"
"No. Please choose them with your own eye and the writer's."
"Understood."
If Yeon-woo put his hand any deeper into production, he might end up restricting the director's discretion.
A work is ultimately the picture drawn by the director's imagination.
An actor only needed to prepare to become the finest brush possible.
The total production budget for Sketch had been 4.5 billion won; the break-even point for audience numbers sat at 1.3 million.
Yet it had crossed that line in only six days of release, and from then on the additional profits had been enormous.
Around the forty-day mark theaters began reducing the number of screens allotted to Sketch, and even though Director Park Chan-hong had already delivered multiple ten-million-viewer hits, the film closed its run at 6.71 million.
"Well, to be honest, even when I was stationed overseas I rarely went to the theater unless it was one of those 'American guy shows up and smashes everything' movies."
Lying on his bed and scrolling through articles about Sketch on his phone, Yeon-woo nodded to himself.
A human-documentary genre, and an independent film at that.
Even factoring in the Golden Bear win at the Berlin International Film Festival, the box-office numbers were staggering.
Just then his phone rang.
"Yes, Director."
"You pick up right away, do you?"
"I was just looking up articles about Sketch. It closed today, after all."
"So it did. That's why I called—not the actor, but the investor."
Aside from the director himself, the sole investor in the independent film Sketch.
That was Ryu Yeon-woo.
"The box-office revenue has been tallied, then."
"The distributor just called. It's still a provisional total, but the final figure won't be far off. Gross revenue is 56.3 billion won."
He had expected it, yet the sum was still enormous.
"It's a number that doesn't quite feel real."
"Of course, the net profit that comes back to you and me is far smaller."
A film's revenue had value-added tax, the film development fund, revenue sharing with theaters, distribution fees, and countless other costs subtracted from the gross.
Ten percent and three percent, then the theaters and the distributor…
Yeon-woo finished the rough calculation in his head.
"Roughly around 23 billion, then."
"Hmm? How did you know? The total dividend amount is 23.4 billion."
Factoring in the investment ratio Yeon-woo had put in, and excluding the share promised to LN Entertainment, the amount that would come directly to him was roughly 5.4 billion won.
"Of course taxes still have to come out, but it's still a huge sum."
"Congratulations."
"I should be the one saying that. Congratulations, Director."
Awards and commercial success—both rabbits caught at once.
And it wasn't over; there was still additional revenue to be earned from overseas rights and the domestic OTT market.
"If you agree, I'd like to give bonuses to the staff and actors who took part."
"Of course. I'll leave that entirely to you, Director."
"Understood. The profit dividends should be paid out by the end of this month at the latest."
After ending the call with Director Park Chan-hong, Yeon-woo sank into thought for a moment.
The money I've made from entertainment so far has piled up quite a bit.
It far exceeded the total salary he had accumulated over an entire previous lifetime of service to the nation.
I've been sending plenty to my family, and I've already prepared thoroughly for the tax side.
Yeon-woo looked around the officetel.
He had lived here since before graduating high school; nearly two years had passed.
It was company housing, but he had never felt any real need to move, so he had simply stayed.
Hmm. It would probably be better if I moved out.
Even if he continued living here it wouldn't cause any problems, but considering the other rookie actors the company had been bringing in lately, freeing up one more unit seemed the right thing to do.
And hadn't he sworn he wouldn't live as thriftily and foolishly as he had in his previous life?
"Money disappears when you die anyway. At least I managed to make some donations, so that's something."
Yeon-woo picked up his phone and roughly calculated the money he was about to receive plus his current assets.
Even after taxes, it'll be well over seven billion.
A large portion of that came from the Ihan Technology commercial and from Sketch.
Beyond that, starting with Summer's Closet he had stacked project after project in just two years, so it made sense.
Yeon-woo lifted his phone and pressed the call button.
When it comes to spending money, this guy's consulting is perfect.
The ringtone sounded a few times, then a familiar voice came through the receiver.
"Oh, Yeon-woo!"
"Hyung, are you busy?"
"Nah. Prisoner finished shooting and I'm just resting at home."
"I was thinking of moving."
A place with its own acting practice room, and more…
The luxury village where Son Jin-uk and various other celebrities lived had always looked appealing.
Might as well move while I'm at it.