Expansion (1)
At a production company in Tokyo, Japan, An Jihee’s name was suddenly brought up.
“She’s an actress who won Best New Actress in the short film category at the Busan International Film Festival in Korea. Her name is An Jihee.”
The moment her name was dropped, all dozen-odd Japanese people gathered there took a clear interest.
“An Jihee? If she won a rookie award, she must have had some work before that, but I’ve never heard of her.”
“Me neither.”
“The Busan International Film Festival in Korea is one of the three major Asian film festivals that even Hollywood keeps an eye on, right? If she won a rookie award there, that’s impressive.”
In response to the comments, the woman with glasses who had brought up An Jihee’s name added some explanation.
“It was a rookie award in the short film section, not the main competition.”
It wasn’t a perfect report, but she shared what she’d been able to dig up so far.
“If we look deeper, more information will probably turn up, but for now, as far as we’ve confirmed, there’s nothing showing up for An Jihee’s activities before the award. I think that’s because she debuted at the Busan International Film Festival.”
Her words made the Japanese faces around the table widen a little.
“She debuted at the Busan International Film Festival?”
“Yes. It looks like she made her debut with a film submitted there, without any prior filmography. That was her first appearance in front of the press and the public. The title was Gyeollo.”
“Then—she was completely unknown, debuted at Busan, and even won a rookie award? Huh. That’s a rather unusual path.”
Almost immediately, murmurs of admiration broke out among the Japanese staff.
“Isn’t that the kind of case you never see in Japan?”
“Not that I know of. At least, not as far as I’m aware.”
“If she debuted on such a big stage and won an award too... she must’ve made quite a splash.”
Nodding, the woman with glasses went on.
“Exactly. An Jihee seems to have become a hot topic all at once thanks to this year’s Busan International Film Festival. The film Gyeollo itself won the grand prize in the short film category, and with An Jihee included, it took home three awards in total.”
“Ooh—”
The woman with glasses, who had been listing the details she’d seen in Korean articles about Gyeollo, then changed the subject.
“This isn’t especially important, but it seems the manager was also a pretty big talking point.”
“The manager?”
“Apparently it was the manager who put together the whole plan of sending An Jihee to Busan International Film Festival with Gyeollo. In the end, it was thanks to that manager that Gyeollo managed to win three awards.”
“That’s impressive. Sounds like a manager with some serious talent.”
Nodding again, the woman with glasses passed around a photo of An Jihee to everyone. It wasn’t an official profile shot, but a full-body image taken at the festival. The moment they saw it, interest surged sharply through the Japanese staff.
“...I like her vibe.”
“Right? Rather than just being pretty—she’s got a Korean, distinctly East Asian beauty to her face.”
“There’s a kind of purity to her too... Isn’t this exactly the type of face we were looking for?”
Little by little, they began to want An Jihee. She fit the image they’d been after surprisingly well. Seeing that, the woman with glasses spoke again.
“We should still take another look at her acting, but if she won a rookie award at Busan International Film Festival, then she’s already been vetted to a certain degree. That award put her name on the map, but she’s still just a hot rookie right now—not exactly a destructive level of star power. In Japan, of course, her recognition is practically nonexistent. And as for her face, as you can see, it’s exactly the kind of mood we were searching for.”
The more they heard, the higher An Jihee’s value climbed. In the end, the woman who hadn’t even been on their casting list suddenly shot up to number one.
“She might already have something lined up.”
“We should send the request as soon as possible.”
The woman with glasses spoke calmly in Japanese.
“For now, I’ll look into An Jihee a little more. I’ll also send our project information and a casting request for her to her agency on the back end. And since I’m going to Korea soon anyway for research, I’ll meet An Jihee while I’m there.”
“That sounds best.”
By the time the rough outline of the discussion had been settled, the woman with glasses looked at An Jihee’s photo on her laptop. Then her thoughts shifted to the manager who had supposedly guided her toward success.
“I hope her manager takes an interest in us.”
The morning of August 11th, Korea. Netflix Korea.
From early in the morning, Netflix Korea was bustling. The reason was the people gathered in a large meeting room plastered with posters: writers. Some were newcomers, some established. There were six in total.
These were the writers selected for the One-Act Drama Project that Netflix Korea was pushing hard.
So among the writers...
Ugh— I’ve been to gatherings like this a hundred times, but sitting here as a writer feels completely different. This is awkward.
Oh Jongman was among them. Perhaps because he was nervous, his already rough face looked even harsher. Thanks to that, the other writers seated near him misunderstood him a little.
What’s with him? Is he in a bad mood?
Ah! He looked right at me.
In a way, Oh Jongman was the most eye-catching person in the room. His intimidating face certainly played a part, but more than that, he had once been a fairly prominent supporting actor. For a writer meeting, having actor Oh Jongman sitting there was bound to surprise everyone.
At first I thought he was one of the cast members. Never would’ve guessed he was actually a writer.
He’s really a writer?? That’s so unusual. Going from actor to writer?
The writers kept sneaking glances at him.
That’s so interesting! A fairly famous actor... turned writer!
Did he give up acting? I remember he used to appear in a lot of projects. Even if something happened, it feels a little wasteful to give up a filmography like that.
No one came right out and spoke to him, though.
Oh Jongman... a writer. Once the One-Act Drama Project opens, this might become a talking point. For better or worse.
Feeling the writers’ gazes inside the meeting room, Oh Jongman’s face hardened even more. He gave off a gangster-like aura, but inside he was sweating bullets.
Enough! Stop looking at me already, please.
Just then, several more people entered the meeting room. They were from Netflix Korea. At the head of the group was the bald General Director Heo Seongjin. After greeting the writers, including Oh Jongman, he said,
“Hello, I’m Heo Seongjin, General Director at Netflix Korea.”
He introduced several executive-level staff members. Then, at the end, he gestured toward the woman standing beside him.
“This is Director Baek Jeongha, who will be directing this One-Act Drama Project.”
The woman called Director Baek Jeongha gave the writers a slight nod. She was the director chosen by Netflix Korea—the one entrusted to handle this deliberately ambitious One-Act Drama Project.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Baek Jeongha.”
Her jaw was a little square, her skin rough and dry. Her tone was somewhat curt too. Looking at her, Oh Jongman was startled.
Director Baek Jeongha—huh, she’s the one directing the One-Act Drama Project?
The other writers all knew her well too. That was only natural. Baek Jeongha had a quite glamorous filmography and was a director with serious name recognition.
She was a bit of an unusual director.
Among her credits was a ten-million-ticket film, yet she’d also directed television dramas. And all of those dramas had been hits. In short, Baek Jeongha was the kind of director who moved effortlessly between film and drama.
So it was only natural that the writers would be a little bewildered to see such a heavyweight taking charge of the One-Act Drama Project.
No matter how determined Netflix is about this project—still, it’s one-act dramas, isn’t it??
Soon, as if Director Baek Jeongha understood the writers’ looks, she gave a rough little smile.
“If a project looks like it’ll be fun to direct, I’ll do it, whatever the medium.”
The One-Act Drama Project was six standalone episodes that one director had to carry. In the market, that was hardly a common format, and Baek Jeongha had taken an interest in it precisely because of that.
“Anyway, should we get started on the first production meeting?”
The moment Director Baek Jeongha cut the signal, the mood in the room turned serious in an instant. She first narrowed the scripts down to six one-act projects.
“There are six works in total. Even though they’re all one-acts, they’re still separate productions, so the cast for each will be different. That means we need a lot of actors, and during pre-production I plan to start with casting supply first.”
She emphasized this to the writers, who were listening intently.
“For reference, as I’m sure you all know, every matter related to the One-Act Drama Project is strictly confidential until the time comes. You absolutely must not disclose anything outside this room.”
Confidentiality. That was already written into the contract, of course. Then Director Baek Jeongha brushed at the rough skin of her cheek and picked up the script for Oh Jongman’s one-act.
“Writer Oh Jongman.”
“...Yes, Director.”
Director Baek Jeongha smiled faintly at him.
“I was surprised. And a little disappointed, too, I guess. Still, I’m rooting for you.”
“Thank you.”
She had already heard the story from Heo Seongjin, but Director Baek Jeongha kept quiet about the details of Oh Jongman’s past.
“For now, I’ve prepared preliminary casting boards for each project. Take a look.”
Starting with the actors to be cast, Director Baek Jeongha got to the point, and the writers—including Oh Jongman—fixed their eyes on the tablets in front of them. The casting boards contained a number of actors from across Korea. At that moment, Oh Jongman’s eyes widened.
Oh— there are quite a few familiar faces... ah.
Among the recognizable actors on the casting board were two actresses who had been especially hot lately.
Yoon Dayeon and An Jihee.
Just as Manager Kang said.
Since they were two actresses who had been all over the news recently, it wasn’t strange that they were included on the casting board. Kang Jaeha had even given advance notice. Soon, Director Baek Jeongha briefed them.
“We’re going to send notices to all the actors included on the casting board, and regardless of their public recognition, everyone will go through auditions. These auditions are meant less to test acting ability and more to check whether they fit the character image.”
That first production meeting went on for about an hour before a break was finally called. The writers all left for the restroom or out of the meeting room, but Oh Jongman stayed behind, and Director Baek Jeongha came up beside him.
“Jongman. No, I should probably call you Writer now. Anyway, I’d like to talk more in detail with you. I’ve heard the basics, but I want to know how you ended up becoming a writer, whether you plan to keep writing, things like that. But before that...”
She leaned in and whispered softly to him.
“How about taking part in this One-Act Drama Project as an actor too?”
That night, the MEG office.
There weren’t many of his subordinates at MEG today. Only Cha Chunghyun, yawning as usual, was there, and Kang Jaeha sat across from him. Lee Chanhoo and the others were absent because that had been Jaeha’s intention.
Right now, Cha Chunghyun, the treasurer, was reporting on the state of Kang Jaeha’s and MEG’s finances.
“Mm— the U.S. stocks you mentioned are all sorted out.”
“Good.”
“That much is easy for someone as smart as me.”
“Is your habit of bragging in the margins some kind of disease?”
Cha Chunghyun had quietly handled a great deal of work. None of his subordinates were unimportant, but in a way, the one who controlled the money was the most essential of all.
“The acquisition of MEG Entertainment and Film MEG is basically settled too, and also—”
Along with the money they’d spent, there was plenty they’d earned. Cha Chunghyun continued his report in his dull, languid way. Next came the taxes. Kang Jaeha gave him a faint smile.
You look half-dead, but you’re still getting everything done properly. If I only judge by your energy, you look like you’re enjoying this far more than you did in the mercenary corps.
Jaeha thought back to his days in the mercenary group. Cha Chunghyun reporting supplies and logistics. The picture was much the same as now. But his eyes had more life in them now than they had back then.
Then Cha Chunghyun changed the subject.
“And there’s Day Moon House.”
He handed the tablet to Kang Jaeha, the leader. On the screen were articles about Day Moon House, which was now entering its second week after release.
‘Day Moon House’ on the verge of 4 million in its second week, already the industry’s first-ever result for a domestic animated film!
[Movie Talk] 4 million admissions practically confirmed! ‘Day Moon House’ really caused a stir!
4 million viewers in its second week... Why the public fell in love with ‘Day Moon House’
Day Moon House had already blown past 3 million admissions and was heading toward 4 million. Kang Jaeha recalled the déjà vu he had seen for Day Moon House.
The 3 million mark I saw in the déjà vu was crossed a long time ago.
At this point, Day Moon House had set an unprecedented record as a domestic animated film and was in the middle of an explosive box-office run unlike anything the industry had seen before. Crossing 5 million admissions was no longer a dream. Of course, with time, it would keep breaking its own records.
Then Cha Chunghyun pointed at the tablet with one finger.
“Since MEG is the main investor in Day Moon House, let’s set the current audience count at around 4 million. I did the math roughly.”
As far as that estimate went, Cha Chunghyun muttered the amount that would fall into Kang Jaeha’s hands.
“Mm— I’d say it should be about ten billion won.”