Pioneering (5)
When the conversation turned to the Busan International Film Festival, the other directors started muttering among themselves, with the exception of CEO Han Taeseong and Director Kim Cheoljung.
“The Busan International Film Festival? Isn’t that a bit too big a stage?”
“It is. Looks like Director Kim is awfully confident.”
“Hah, going straight to the Busan International Film Festival, huh? If he gets cocky and stumbles, he could end up humiliated.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to lower the bar a little?”
Han Taeseong, quietly measuring the murmurs, addressed the executive seated beside him.
“Vice President Park, what do you think?”
The vice president, who had been scanning the other directors, cleared his throat.
“Ahem. The stage is certainly enormous, but if the goal is to raise Leon’s name value, I think it’s worth trying just for the attempt.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
With his arms folded, Han Taeseong murmured for everyone’s ears.
“Try. If you do nothing, nothing happens.”
His gaze was mild, yet vicious all the same. That was the force behind him. He had done nothing, and yet he still wrapped around everyone in the room. The directors immediately lowered their eyes, and among them only Director Kim Cheoljung, with his long chin, looked smug.
Idiots. They still haven’t figured out what kind of man the CEO is.
The Busan International Film Festival outing had been made with its own intentions and plans in mind. It was a contest held inside Leon Entertainment, and whether the scale was small or large, Leon’s money was being poured into it. In the end, that money was the same as money coming out of Han Taeseong’s pocket.
And Han Taeseong was a self-made man.
Better to toss it into deep water and let it fail there than dump it into some piddling puddle. That looks better to the CEO, and better from the outside, too.
The assumption was that if the project failed, as long as it looked good, the fallout would be cut in half. Director Kim Cheoljung’s calculations were, to a degree, correct, and Han Taeseong rested his chin on his hand before meeting Kim’s eyes.
“It’d be good if it made the competition section where awards are given. Even if it ends up in the non-competition section and doesn’t win anything, we still get our money’s worth.”
“Yes, CEO. The big names coming to the Busan International Film Festival will be watching a short film carrying Leon’s name.”
“If possible, it’d be better to get into the competition section or the non-competition section. Missing both would be less than ideal.”
“······”
It was pressure without words. A little attempt still had value, yes, but we’re not in the business of making money off this kind of lukewarm value, are we? That sort of thing. Han Taeseong gave Director Kim Cheoljung a faint smile.
“I’m looking forward to it, Director Kim.”
“Th-thank you.”
“Right. We absolutely have to go to this year’s Busan International Film Festival.”
Then he changed the subject immediately.
“How’s the publicity for this contest?”
Director Kim answered quickly.
“I’ve already talked to the marketing team. The articles are going out now. We’re also actively using social media and online communities.”
In fact, Leon Entertainment’s articles were easy enough to find at the moment.
Leon Entertainment Launches Short Film Contest, Industry Insider Says, “It’s to Revive a Harsh Niche Market”
Leon Entertainment Wraps Short Film Contest Held for Aspiring Directors / Photo
[Feature] What Is Han Taeseong’s True Intent Behind Leon’s Short Film Contest? / Photo
In other words, Leon Entertainment had already achieved the goal it had set for this short film contest. Even the top five entertainment companies in Korea spent billions on marketing without thinking twice. By that measure, Leon had gotten a lot of mileage out of a relatively small investment.
Satisfied, Han Taeseong nodded, and just then Director Kim Cheoljung, sensing the opening, spoke up.
“CEO, I’ve also been putting together a project for the next New Business Team initiative.”
Han Taeseong’s calm reply stopped him.
“Slowly. Director Kim, you need to move slowly.”
“···Pardon?”
“If you rush too much, you’ll trip.”
“Ah.”
“There’s already a lot of money going out these days. No need to hurry.”
“I understand··· sir.”
Director Kim Cheoljung clenched his jaw where no one could see.
A little later.
The executive meeting ended. Han Taeseong was the first to leave the conference room, and the vice president followed behind him. The other directors rose one by one as well. Only Director Kim Cheoljung, his eyes full of greed and longing, stayed seated and clicked his tongue.
“Tsk!”
The short director sitting beside him let out a snort of laughter.
“Handle the work in front of you first, man. A stage as big as the Busan International Film Festival doesn’t leave room for half-assed effort.”
Director Kim let out a small sigh and answered irritably.
“A New Business Team isn’t a New Business Team if it only runs one project. You have to keep firing shots nonstop before you can call it the New Business Team.”
The short director started to stand, then sat back down again.
“Well, there are a lot of places money can disappear right now, that’s true. It’s the start of the year, and the team budgets were only just set.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“At the very least, if one team got dissolved, that’d help a bit. For example, Management Team 4. If Team 4 disappeared, that’d free up some cash, wouldn’t it?”
“······I know that too.”
“Weird. For the CEO’s personality, Team 4 is the kind of thing he’d have cut out long ago, and yet he’s been watching them for quite a while. Strange, isn’t it?”
The short director stood, scratching his chin. Before long, only Director Kim Cheoljung remained in the conference room. He muttered softly.
“Damn it, Team 4.”
To be honest, Team 4 had annoyed him for a long time. It was bad enough that it was packed with washed-up has-beens and useless nobody’s, and as a Leon director, it was irritating enough to watch that. But on top of that, maintenance money was still flowing their way.
That worthless trash heap.
If Team 4 vanished, the money going there could be rerouted to the New Business Team. As the head of the New Business Team, Kim Cheoljung believed he should keep launching projects frequently. It was a way to prove the reach of his work, his own ability, and also—
The more often I do it, the more excuses I have to meet the money source.
There was also the hidden intention of fattening his own pocket.
More than anything, Team 4 has no reason to exist.
Whether it was a trash heap or the trash itself, burning it away was cleaner. If he was going to deal with it, now, at the beginning of the year, was the right time. Lately Han Taeseong had even been mentioning Team 4 with unusual emphasis.
He seemed to be preparing to tidy them up.
Soon Director Kim stroked his chin and muttered under his breath.
“No need to wait. If I push things a little, it’ll go faster.”
Meanwhile.
Kang Jaeha, who had recently been assigned to that Team 4, stood in the hallway and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He had just finished a call with Lee Chanhoo. To summarize the conversation briefly, they had met Director Kwon Seongmin and the investment had been approved.
And the destination for the short film Gyeollo was the Busan International Film Festival.
For now, the current has started to flow.
Kang Jaeha smiled lightly. Then he recalled the Déjà vu linked to Gyeollo.
“Gyeollo won the Grand Prize for that short film. That’s huge. When was the last time this festival even handed out a Grand Prize?
“It was a script that had come to us ages ago, but we tossed it aside. New Business Team is going to get ripped for that.”
Gyeollo, which would become a massive hit someday in the distant future. In the Déjà vu Jaeha had seen, it hadn’t said exactly where that breakout happened. Still, Kang Jaeha had his own guess.
Probably the Mise-en-scène Short Film Festival.
That was the place where Gyeollo won its Grand Prize. Well, it wasn’t one hundred percent certain until the day came, but just from the line, “When was the last time this festival even handed out a Grand Prize?” it felt right. The Mise-en-scène Short Film Festival, known as a gateway for rookie directors, was famous for not handing out a Grand Prize at all.
That alone showed how high the judges’ standards were.
Rather than give a Grand Prize to a middling work, they’d rather not give one at all.
In any case, if Gyeollo won the Grand Prize at the Mise-en-scène Short Film Festival, that would still be a major hit. A host of distinguished veterans served as judges, and with its reputation and visibility, the festival drew plenty of media attention as well.
It wasn’t called a launchpad for rising rookie directors for nothing.
Still, Kang Jaeha found it a little disappointing.
The Mise-en-scène Short Film Festival is good, but it lacks a bit of mass appeal.
It was, after all, a short film festival. Since it dealt only with short works, its scale was small compared to a full film festival.
If they were going to do it, then bigger and more international would be better, wouldn’t it?
That was how the Busan International Film Festival got selected by Kang Jaeha. Along with the Hong Kong and Tokyo International Film Festivals, the Busan International Film Festival was considered one of Asia’s three major film festivals. It had even been chosen by an American magazine as the “best film festival in Asia.” Thanks to that, it was packed with famous filmmakers from Korea and around the world.
It didn’t stay limited to Korea; it spread outward into the world.
So domestic and foreign reporters alike would swarm it, and the level of media coverage it received was on a different tier entirely. If Gyeollo won the Grand Prize there, the impact would be several times greater than at the Mise-en-scène Short Film Festival.
Gyeollo has more than enough of a chance.
The quality of Gyeollo itself had already been excellent, and if it was good enough to take the Grand Prize at the Mise-en-scène Short Film Festival, then the odds were high indeed.
Soon Jaeha entered the Team 4 office from the hallway and opened his laptop.
He already knew the information, but he wanted to confirm it again.
The Busan International Film Festival is held around June every year.
It had originally been held around October, but over the past few years it had shifted to somewhere between June and September. This year it was June. Which meant the Busan International Film Festival committee was already laying the groundwork for this year’s event. A quick look at a few actual articles showed that Jaeha’s guess was correct.
Roughly speaking, short films are submitted from March through April, results are announced in May, and the festival opens in June.
The festival’s award sections were varied. Among them, the section covering short films was called Wide Angle. The Wide Angle section was divided into competition and non-competition categories. Works invited to the competition section were screened and received a plaque, while the non-competition section only screened the film, with no plaque attached.
Of course, getting into the competition section was the real game.
Each section had prizes like the Grand Prize, Director’s Award, Acting Award, and so on.
The director submits the work directly, goes through preliminaries, and the final selection is made that way.
After sizing up the information, Kang Jaeha rested his chin in his hand. Then he imagined the day Gyeollo would be announced with confidence at the Busan International Film Festival. Those washed-up leftovers who would roam that festival, too. For example, Director Kwon Seongmin, who had failed Leon Entertainment’s contest, and a few others.
They were all part of Kang Jaeha’s design.
“Still, this is fun. Buying low and driving it high.”
He was starting to enjoy recycling the washed-up.
The next day, morning of the 26th, inside a moving van.
Kang Jaeha was in the middle of the road inside a van that was still cruising down the highway. He had come in as part of Yoon Dayeon’s team, and in the van with him were Team Leader Kim Daeyong and road manager Ryu Jinwoo, along with Yoon Dayeon herself.
“······”
“······”
The atmosphere was quiet. Yoon Dayeon, her long straight hair draped down over her shoulders, was reading her script, while Kang Jaeha sat with his chin propped on one hand and looked out the window. He seemed to have nothing on his mind, but in truth he was thinking of his first subordinate, Lee Chanhoo.
He must be making the rounds with production companies by now.
He wasn’t especially worried. The guy was sharp, so he’d handle it well enough. Just then, as if trying to break the stale mood, Team Leader Kim Daeyong spoke up.
“Fortunately, the mood on the The Last Man set has gotten a lot better lately, hasn’t it? That incident with Dayeon’s spit seems to have worked. Heh heh.”
Yoon Dayeon, who had been reading her script, snapped her head up.
“What spit incident? I’m not some thug. Say it like it was a complaint explosion! Make it sound better.”
“Why? I like ‘spit incident.’”
“Ah! That’s awful!”
“Heh heh, in any case, it’s thanks to you, Jaeha-ssi.”
Yoon Dayeon stole a glance at Kang Jaeha beside her. There was no real expression on his face.
I have no idea what he’s thinking. What a weirdo. He’s the number one oddball I’ve ever met.
Then she complained again, for no good reason.
“He just told me what to do. I’m the one who carried it out!”
“Yeah, yeah. Dayeon did everything, she did it all.”
As soon as Jaeha heard her line, he let out a faint snort of laughter. The need for recognition. Failure. It was the sort of line washed-up people often used. If he looked deeper, it was a hunger for people’s attention. She probably hadn’t started out like that. It was a feeling that had accumulated naturally over a long period of being a has-been, of being forgotten from people’s memories.
Yoon Dayeon grumbled on.
“It’s only a little more comfortable, but I’m still just waiting around all day, all day, all day, okay??”
“Well, that’s true enough.”
“I’m sick of it! Waiting around!”
The shout was laced with sincere feeling. No, it was emphasis. Kang Jaeha didn’t bother joining in, and Yoon Dayeon slapped her script shut and asked Kim Daeyong in a decidedly nasty tone.
“Then why haven’t I heard anything about auditions? Am I supposed to keep waiting?”
Kim Daeyong looked flustered.
“Huh? Ah... well, you see.”
“No scripts, no screenplays. No word about auditions. No meetings with a director or PD. No schedules being set. Am I just being abandoned?”
“We’re already searching for scripts and screenplays all the time, so just hang on a little longer.”
“Ah! It’s always ‘just wait’! How many years have I been hearing that? You’re going to leave me sitting here until the timing’s right and then just toss me away, aren’t you?! Team Leader Jang does it too, you know. Aren’t you all being way too hands-off?”
“D-Dayeon.”
The crazy nutcase was starting to go off the rails. But to Jaeha, her outburst sounded more like a desperate flail. It began with anxiety, fear, and worry, and then it all ended in a desire to feel relief.
She was probably reading the room at first.
But when the time spent being washed-up keeps repeating, and the repetition keeps going, you learn. You learn how hard you have to scream before the other side will still give you a look.
“Filming for The Last Man is almost done, too! Is it really right that I haven’t gotten a single audition in all that time?!”
She was sensitive. Like a stray cat. To erase her anxiety, Yoon Dayeon would keep screaming, keep thrashing. To other people, it looked like she was stiffening up the last scraps of her pride, but to Kang Jaeha it looked more like she was clutching her final lifeline.
She could only rattle on because she was empty inside.
That was why Yoon Dayeon kept raising her head. She kept looking upward, no matter what. She was begging to be saved. Waving her arms around. Because the moment she looked down, she’d realize it was the gutter below, no, an abyss even lower than the ground.
But Kang Jaeha had already made his decision.
First, I need to force her all the way down to the bottom.
He had decided to drag Yoon Dayeon into the abyss. Crying and screaming wouldn’t help. That was the first step.
He would throw her down onto the floor.
Unaware of any of that, Yoon Dayeon’s voice only grew sharper.
“This is the worst kind of neglect! And yet you’re perfectly happy handing auditions to our company’s rookies, huh? Huh?!”
“Dayeon, calm down.”
“Ah! That stupid ‘calm down’! You’re the one who should calm down.”
With his chin propped in one hand, Kang Jaeha cut across her words in a cold voice. The one acting crazy was far more serious than Jaeha ever was.
“You really are a pain in the ass.”
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