The Power of a Name
Names hold power.
If you casually give a name to that red mailbox you pass every day on your way to work, from that moment on it surprisingly starts catching your eye, and over time you even grow attached to it. If the postal service ever decides the box has outlived its usefulness and hauls it away, you might find yourself strangely depressed—even though it never had anything to do with your life.
If that is true of a meaningless object, how much more important is the name of a drama?
We can’t keep calling it “the untitled drama still in production.” It’s about time we settled on a name. Giving something a name carries real weight.
This time Yeon-woo was not acting as an actor but as Saebyeol’s largest investor, and it was time to get to work. He looked at Representative Jeong Hyeok and asked,
“Representative, our quarterly staff bonuses are paid next month, right?”
“Ah, yes, that’s correct. Bonuses will go out with next month’s salaries. The staff don’t know yet, of course.”
Yeon-woo stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“Hmm. Then I’d like to set aside part of those bonuses for a different budget.”
“Part of the staff bonuses?”
Jeong Hyeok tilted his head. The company was hardly short on capital, and skimming a portion of the bonuses would still be a drop in the bucket relative to their size. What could he possibly want it for? Yeon-woo was no ruthless tycoon who would rob employees to fund something else, so Jeong Hyeok simply waited in silence.
Yeon-woo smiled.
“A name. Let’s hold a company-wide naming contest across Saebyeol Entertainment and Saebyeol Media for our drama. Just entering gets you a share of the set-aside bonus money as a participation prize, and if your title is chosen, you get a separate cash award.”
“Ah—so we’re creating a pretext to hand out money that was going to be paid anyway.”
Yeon-woo nodded, though that was only half right.
The highest efficiency comes from creating new added value out of things that would have happened on their own.
The bonuses were already scheduled to be paid; left alone, either Writer Choi Mi-hyeon or Director Kim Han-su would eventually have named the drama. But if you could take events that would have occurred with zero extra value and generate entirely different effects from them—wasn’t that creative economics?
And people always care more, and pour more affection into something, when they’ve had a hand in it themselves.
As companies grew ever larger and more organized, the individual “I” had fewer and fewer chances to influence the “group.” When people started feeling like interchangeable parts that could be swapped out at any moment, they gradually slipped into a passive stance toward their own work—the so-called salary freeloader. This was a structural problem of modern society long before it was a question of personal diligence, and there was always the chance that Baeksol would exploit the same weakness inside Saebyeol the way they once had at LN.
As time goes on, Baeksol will try to plant spies inside Saebyeol or lure employees with all sorts of temptations. Better to strengthen belonging and camaraderie early and raise our cohesion.
No matter how airtight the external security, once rot started from within, everything was wasted. The agents on the fifth floor already kept thorough individual surveillance on company personnel, but continuously giving people psychological satisfaction so they would not fall for temptation was just as important. Even now, the actors and staff freely chatted and maintained a warm atmosphere in the third-floor café space. Beyond that, Yeon-woo’s plan was to use various activities going forward so that the employees themselves would feel a genuine sense of belonging to Saebyeol.
When the company’s largest shareholder made a suggestion to the representative, there was no reason to delay. The very day Yeon-woo voiced the idea, a naming contest for the new sports drama opened.
The reaction to the notice that went up on the company messenger was surprisingly heated.
“Hye-su, did you see the internal notice? The naming contest.”
“I’m already wracking my brains over it. Ahh, I hope mine gets picked.”
“Come on, even if it doesn’t, just entering gets you bonus money.”
At Gong Min-jeong’s words, Planning Team’s An Hye-su nodded.
“True. Seriously, our company is the best. Still, if I’m going to submit something, I’d rather win. If I get the prize money I’m signing up for flying yoga right away.”
“Hmm, if I win, what would I spend it on? Even if I don’t, the bonus is still coming in, so it’s nice either way…”
Each employee sank into happy daydreams about winning the contest. Not only the office staff but the managers and stylists who worked out in the field all entered as well. Manager Kim Min-su, sitting in the third-floor café, was no exception. He looked across the table at Yeon-woo.
“Actor, who’s judging the contest?”
Yeon-woo grinned.
“Min-su hyung, did you submit a title too?”
“Of course. There won’t be a single employee who didn’t enter.”
“Well, I’m not the one choosing, so no special favors. The executives, the director, and the writer will vote.”
Kim Min-su let out a sigh of relief.
“Whew, thank goodness. I was worried it might be you picking.”
“What? Wouldn’t it be better for you if I were the one choosing?”
“Ah, well… your naming sense is a little… different from mine, let’s say.”
“……”
Betrayed by the very axe he trusted, Yeon-woo wordlessly turned his head and sucked on the straw of his drink.
Two days of submissions closed and judging began. Just as Kim Min-su had said, every single employee had entered without exception. It was only a small event, yet having a shared topic of conversation seemed to put extra life into the company.
Yeon-woo knocked and entered the large conference room to find Executive Director Yoon Mi-yeon and Representative Jeong Hyeok already talking.
“Oh, you’re here? We just selected the winning entry.”
Yeon-woo nodded and stepped closer.
“I’m curious. What’s the name?”
“Parabola.”
Yeon-woo took the contest entry form Yoon Mi-yeon handed him. Parabola meant a parabolic curve.
Hmm, basketball as the subject, so a parabola… not bad.
He figured there had to be a reason it had been chosen and read the statement of purpose.
A basketball that flies in a straight line rarely goes through the rim.
The shortest path from a player’s hand to the hoop may be a straight line, but to score, the ball must travel the inefficient arc of a parabola.
I believe my own life is the same.
Even if the road is full of twists and turns, none of it is useless or inefficient; perhaps every detour is simply the long way around toward eventually scoring.
I felt the brief synopsis of the protagonist’s life might share something with my own, so I am submitting this title.
Hmm. Good.
Having finished the statement, Yeon-woo looked at the executives.
“Who wrote this? I like it too.”
“Someone from the management team… who was it again?”
Jeong Hyeok scanned the list on the desk and continued.
“Ah, Manager Im Jae-uk. The new manager assigned to Actor Jeong Cheol-min. I believe Yeon-woo recommended him.”
Yeon-woo recalled the manager who had bowed deeply to him in the meeting room last time.
“I see. He’s surprisingly good with words. Though now that I think about it, it suits him.”
“Then we’ll officially lock in the title of our drama as Parabola.”
At Yoon Mi-yeon’s words Yeon-woo nodded.
“Yes. Perfect. Parabola.”
TVM Drama Director Shin Jae-gwon had been relatively skeptical about the drama that was the talk of the industry and supposedly about to begin production. Of course it would be nice to bring it to their network, but the cast had never worked with TVM before, so he judged their chances lower than those of other stations.
“Son Jin-uk, Ryu Yeon-woo, Jin Yu-han… and the supporting cast are all pretty hot right now too.”
So what? It was pie in the sky. The new drama would most likely be snatched by a terrestrial network, and if someone offered outrageous terms even a general programming channel might have a shot. Cable’s momentum in the drama market had risen quite a bit lately, but that was only a temporary redistribution among many broadcasters while terrestrial ratings weakened under the rise of OTT.
Even so, it won’t be us.
The middle-aged and older viewers who still watched only terrestrial television were called the concrete viewership base. Even now, if you walked through a traditional market, nearly every shopkeeper’s TV was locked on KBC all day long. As long as they held firm, ratings trends would eventually settle back into place. The ratings that had temporarily risen amid the chaos would fail to sustain their climb and would collapse again—which was why the whole situation only gave him more headaches.
“It’s not even ratings I raised myself, yet when they drop it’ll still be my responsibility. Ugh.”
His stomach had been hurting since morning and his body itched for no clear reason.
“Did I develop an allergy? I didn’t eat anything weird. Ha, must be stress.”
He was idly scratching his back with a back-scratcher when the door to the director’s office burst open.
“Director!”
“Whoa—you startled me. Ever heard of knocking?”
“That’s not important right now. Saebyeol Media contacted us first asking for a meeting!”
Shin Jae-gwon tilted his head at the sudden news.
“What? Who?”
“Saebyeol Media. Ryu Yeon-woo, Son Jin—”
“Them?!”
Meanwhile, the moment word reached JNBC that TVM had been contacted, Drama Director Hwang Yeong-cheol’s heart began to race. He had assumed a terrestrial network would take it, but seeing them approach TVM made him feel there might still be a chance for his own station. And he could not forget the glorious past when Summer’s Closet and its follow-up variety show Summer’s Table had given him that sweet ratings high.
“Ah, no matter how I look at it, this is perfect. The director and writer are Kim and Choi, right?”
“Yes. Director Kim Han-su and Writer Choi Mi-hyeon.”
The director and writer of Summer’s Closet, which had aired on JNBC, plus its leads Son Jin-uk and Ryu Yeon-woo, were reuniting. Of course it should air on JNBC again for the synergy to shine. Other networks would dismiss it as nonsense—this was neither a sequel nor even remotely the same story—but that was how Hwang Yeong-cheol saw it.
“Ha, offer them the drama rights as a given, and if they’re planning a follow-up variety show, throw those rights in too. Float the deal.”
“Sir? Even the variety rights?”
“Think carefully. Immediate profit isn’t what matters. Didn’t you see the YouTube variety show Saebyeol just put out? They can produce it themselves and sell it anywhere whether we’re involved or not.”
The staffer who recalled the recent viral YouTube variety show nodded. Hwang Yeong-cheol continued.
“A follow-up variety like the last Table doesn’t cost much to make anyway. If we generously cover the costs, then once this drama hits, natural replacement demand appears. People will want to watch similar dramas and variety shows featuring those same actors.”
The staffer clapped his hands.
“Then we can re-run the already-milked Closet and Table one more time, and starting next year we can package both as a special on the sub-channel.”
Hwang Yeong-cheol nodded and pressed on.
“We have to lock it down while our ratings are still right on the heels of the terrestrials. This is the chance to hammer ‘Drama means JNBC’ into the viewers’ heads. What’s the drama called, by the way?”
“Parabola, they say.”
“Hmm. Get in touch right away. We have to tempt them with things the terrestrials can’t offer. Tell them if they have any special conditions, we’ll meet every single one as far as possible.”
Yeon-woo had already planned to choose a cable or general programming channel with freer scheduling, but the networks that did not know that began a bidding war of conditions, desperate not to lose the project to a terrestrial broadcaster.