Head Where You Can Score

The night was not late. It was not early, either.

Just outside Nine Entertainment, a pork-rind barbecue joint.

Pork skins hit the grill with a long, fat hiss, and someone pressed them flat with a tool that looked a lot like an iron. Watching that, Park Munsu opened his mouth.

"Sorry about earlier today. I rush things. I do. The situation didn't help any, and… thinking about it, I'm sorry I grabbed you, too."

"It's fine."

Park Munsu burst out laughing at that.

"Honestly. I've been in this business over ten years, and this is a first."

"Is that so?"

"Ah — I'm not trying to reopen what we already wrapped up. I just hoped you'd have some kind of impressive past. Of course… I pictured a creative-writing major, maybe. A baby screenwriter, something like that."

"So I'll take that to mean you're pleased I used to be an aide."

Park Munsu cracked the soju ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bottle at the light joke, poured into the glass in front of me, and answered as he did.

"Well… I don't know jack about that world. But it's not that different from what we do, is it? Aides. Managers. People who take care of someone. Is that too rude a way to put it?"

"It reminds me of someone, actually. It isn't rude. I think the same thing."

"Someone?"

Instead of answering, I glanced toward the empty stretch of table.

I picked up the soju bottle, filled Park Munsu's glass, then took out an empty one and filled that too. I slid it quietly toward the seat that was empty — or that, at least, would look empty to anyone else.

"What are you doing?"

"Just a habit. Don't mind it."

"…Right. Well. All kinds of people in this world."

The owner came by for a moment to slice the pork rinds.

I let the chilly joke — the kind only a half-ghost could make — go in one ear and out the other. Was this what they called black comedy?

Team Leader Park Munsu popped a cut piece of rind into his mouth and chewed as he talked.

"I'll call you Assistant Manager Lee. You don't look the part, and I doubt you think of me as Team Leader either. But it's easier that way."

"Yes."

"Let's take this in order. This."

Thud.

A treatment booklet landed on the table, rolled into a tight tube, as if he had been carrying it around all day. Park Munsu rolled it the other way to flatten it open.

On the cover, a working title.

"Start by explaining why you decided this was going to get made."

"Because the story itself has power. An impossibly kind cop wrestles at the border of good and evil to make his own justice real. The device that pulls the protagonist into the case is solid, too. Familiar, but a little different. That matters. Too familiar and it's stale. Too different and it feels awkward."

"Mm…"

"The fact that it's a genre piece is another reason I rated its chances high. Genre pieces have a harder time locking down huge ratings, sure — but being a genre piece also makes them easier to produce."

"That's true enough…"

My answer must have cleared whatever bar he had set, because Park Munsu nodded. I had not simply recited the Ghost's conclusions as if they were mine. The Ghost taught. I checked. Sometimes I evaluated first and the Ghost confirmed it the other way around. Of course, without the Ghost's help I could never have done any of this. I would admit that much.

The Ghost sat in the empty chair, smacking his lips over a drink he could not have, while Park Munsu hesitated a moment and then set another question on the table.

"Well. Genre pieces do move faster into production… they hit their average, at least. The ceiling on the audience is a bit low, but the floor is solid. But this is a rookie writer. Do you have any idea how many walls a rookie writer's work has to climb in this business before it ever becomes a picture? Or do you actually know that too?"

The answer to that one had been the Ghost's revision.

"You just have to write it well. And this is written well. In this business you don't really know until the scripts come in, which is why people prefer established writers with a portfolio. But if it's genuinely good, you can already see the back half. You can tell this writer isn't going to wobble in the later episodes. I figured there would be people who could see that far."

"Mm… that's fair. A rookie writer… I just dropped it there and walked away. Because it's a rookie writer, someone has to catch them if they wobble… so that's why you wrote that who attaches as director is what matters…"

He picked up the soju bottle again and filled my glass. Something about it felt like a grade. One answer down, so one drink was allowed.

"It'll only really succeed if you attach a director whose frames are still and whose mise-en-scène is outstanding. The whole time the story is running, the core is the cop's emotional shift. His sense of justice is fierce — so fierce he never stops interrogating what justice even is. Then he chooses. If you only chase a speedy plot, you will never show what this script is actually made of."

"Ah…!"

Something had landed. Park Munsu's already fierce eyes tightened further. This was the moment for a little praise that his read was right, too. When the other person was working this hard to meet you halfway, there was no profit in being stingy with it.

"The catching role you just mentioned is important, yes. That said, if the director starts interfering too heavily with the script, the whole thing can wander off into the hills."

At that, Park Munsu tapped the treatment lightly with the back of his hand.

"Sun & Pictures is in production talks on this."

I didn't need the new information from the Ghost, who had reacted first. Park Munsu kept going.

"You didn't know that part, did you? The CEO over there is Min Jang-seon. The name is the nickname — Min Jang-sen. True to the name, true to the nickname. The man is pathologically obsessed with mise-en-scène."

Park Munsu started fiddling with his phone, his face distinctly lit up. Of course. This man was in a hurry. The haste sat right there in his posture. The second something looked like it might work, his foot was already on the accelerator.

So I cut the current.

"Is that all? Shall we go?"

A type like this needed the reins pulled on a regular schedule.

"Ah… right. Actor Bong!"

"……"

"Why did you ask why Actor Bong Tae-soo needed this project? This is completely his wheelhouse. A genre piece, a role that shows off the acting — now that I've heard you out, I'm feeling it too."

"The production company would feel the same, wouldn't they?"

"Of course. Which is why it landed on Tae-soo's desk, as you already know, Assistant Manager Lee."

I picked up my soju glass again. And asked it like this.

"Did they offer him the lead?"

"The lea—"

Park Munsu started to answer, then his eyes flashed with that oh-crap look. He had seen, all at once, what he had missed. I said the thing he would have a hard time saying himself.

"I said genre pieces move into production more easily. I didn't say they were cheap. It won't devour a budget the way a tentpole drama does — but Actor Bong Tae-soo wants his next project to be a lead, no exceptions. He's desperate enough that even I know it, and I've only been here two months."

"…They won't take on lead-role risk on top of everything else…"

Exactly.

The big projects people make expecting them to define the year — the so-called tentpoles — run anywhere from thirty to fifty billion won. I had learned that steadily since starting this job, and a production budget sorts more things than you would think.

When that kind of money goes in, the attachments are top stars who have been verified and verified again. Their fees drive the budget up, yes, but it is more accurate to call it a loop. To recoup costs by selling overseas rights, or by granting an OTT exclusive, you have to use those actors. So-called ticket power. A proven box-office draw.

A genre piece costs much less than that, but it still sits between ten and twenty billion won. However much production costs have ballooned, that is never small money. It feels odd to lump it all under "genre," but cop procedurals, mysteries, thrillers — those shows do book A-list actors with recognized craft and draw, and they also tend to pour work into the sets. Blood for the crime scenes. Makeup. Chase sequences. Action. All of that is money.

In that sense, the budget decides an actor's tier. Because the budget is the expectation.

You are already walking in with a rookie-writer risk — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and then you put someone who is not a lead into the lead?

It doesn't hold water.

"What if we just push him for it? It's a perfect fit — and I'm not saying that because he's my actor. Like you said, Assistant Manager Lee, if the lead's acting doesn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hold this up, the whole thing is dead."

"You want to hang an actor on a maybe and torture him with hope?"

"…Ha."

Park Munsu, his small struggle put down without much effort, shook his head.

"I missed something that simple… I was happy when I heard your explanation and it was Sun & Pictures. That's not it. They're the ones who benefit. Not us."

"That's on Actor Bong Tae-soo. It isn't your mistake, Team Leader Park, and it isn't a failure on your part."

Park Munsu's fierce eyes went sharp. This, too, was the reflex of a man stabbed right where it already hurt. But if that was the correct answer, what else was there to do?

If an actor in the prime of his thirties, overflowing with recognized craft, still cannot land a drama lead, there is only one reason.

He isn't the right tier.

At the very least, that is still how the market has him filed.

So whether this project succeeds or not has nothing whatsoever to do with Actor Bong Tae-soo. They will not give him the lead. To be colder about it: if Bong Tae-soo had been less known to the public — if there had at least been a taste of something new — his odds would have been a little better. It is the same outside entertainment. Politics works exactly this way.

Once a district councilman, always a district councilman. When local elections come around and municipal chiefs are on the ballot, speakers and vice-speakers resign in a line to take a run at it, and it is still a camel through the eye of a needle. A general election for the National Assembly? Don't even start. They jam their heads at that same tiny needle-eye and it does not give. Meanwhile some face that rode in on a breeze from who-knows-where suddenly pins on a National Assembly badge, just for tasting new.

"It was barely a day off and I spent the whole of it on this nonsense… damn it. I should've just stayed home and slept."

It seemed a waste to send this suddenly deflated gamecock home as a sick chicken. So I put my alternative on the table.

"A romantic comedy under ten billion won. We look inside that range."

"Actor Bong… in a romantic comedy?"

"The smaller the budget, the better."

"?"

"Because then Actor Bong's odds of being cast go up."

Bong Tae-soo and Park Munsu had both pointed themselves the wrong way. Picking the way you usually pick a project — find something that looks like it will work, something that seems to fit, and then take the lead in it — that is our side thinking. First you have to climb to lead-level.

"A reversal of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the usual approach, then."

At my answer, Park Munsu tapped the treatment on the table with the back of his hand.

"This one's a shame. The way you tell it, Assistant Manager Lee, this feels like it would work. I listen and it tracks, so I buy it. I think this is going to work now too. But we have to let it go…? Damn it."

"No. This is ours as well. Why would we hand a project that's going to work to someone else? You take it before anyone else knows. This one goes to Actor Ki Seongchan."

At the alternative, light flared in the sick chicken's eyes—

"Gah, my eyes!"

Park Munsu scrubbed at his face. A car making a U-turn must have poured its headlights through the shop door, which had happened to be open.

Whatever it was, I saw it.

The eyes of a gamecock finding its fire again.