Glory Film Company

Chapter 3: The Passage of Time

The 011 service had been discontinued.
So had 017.
016, 018, and 019 were gone too.

Every phone number Youngkwang remembered was now useless.

No wonder he’d felt uneasy. While researching smartphone usage, he’d seen an article stating that smartphones had been around for over a decade, and it instinctively made him pause.

“Well, 19 years is a long time,” he muttered.

Still, Youngkwang wasn’t discouraged.

“I’ll just visit the film companies directly.”

There were plenty of ways to figure things out. It was only a matter of time. After all, this was Chungmuro, the heart of the Korean film industry, where he’d once reigned supreme.

But—

“…Closed down?”

The words hit him like a sledgehammer.

A quick internet search revealed that most of the production companies he knew had gone bankrupt, replaced by unfamiliar names.

What on earth had happened to the world?

“…There’s been a lot going on, hasn’t there?”

Youngkwang let out a bitter laugh.

If he’d spent 17 years in the film industry, another 19 years had now passed without him. Rushing headlong into things wouldn’t help.

‘Let’s calm down and come up with a plan.’

He decided to take a step back.

Growl.

The loud grumble from his stomach reminded him of a more immediate priority.

“Let’s eat first.”

Gathering the young Lee Youngkwang’s bankbook, card, and ID, he stepped outside.

“Wait!”

Youngkwang quickly caught the door before it slammed shut. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know the passcode.

Pressing his foot against the door to keep it open, he optimistically tried 0000, but the young Lee Youngkwang wasn’t that naïve.

“640315.”

He entered his own birthdate, March 15, 1964, setting it as the new passcode before closing the door.

That’s when he finally noticed his surroundings.

“It’s a rooftop apartment.”

A peculiar feeling washed over him.

The nearby buildings were crammed together in tight clusters, leaving only narrow gaps between them. Through one of those gaps, he caught a distant view of the Han River.

“Well, I guess it’s technically a Han River view,” he chuckled.

At 1 PM, under the blazing sun, Youngkwang had a meal at a local diner.
Afterward, he stopped by the community center to obtain a copy of his resident registration and a certificate of family relations. At the bank, he reset the PIN for his debit card and withdrew enough cash to get by for a while.

Though he once owned luxury goods, sports cars, and a high-rise apartment in Gangnam, he wasn’t worried. His experience with managing large sums of money and making profits would serve him well—it was just a matter of time before he rebuilt his wealth.

‘But what happened to my old assets? With no family or will, they probably reverted to the government… If that’s the case, there’s no getting them back.’

Quickly dismissing the thought, he refocused on the present. He was determined to see what ripple effects his past actions had caused and assess how far Korean cinema had progressed.

He headed to a nearby theater.

In the area around Hongdae Station alone, there were four multiplex cinemas.

Back in 1998, when the era of multiplex theaters had just begun, he’d predicted they would become a booming trend, but he hadn’t imagined it would go this far.

“By 2006, there were already 100 nationwide. And by 2017, 356 multiplexes in operation?”

The future he was now standing in had far exceeded even his boldest predictions.

‘The film industry has grown this much… Korean cinema has clearly continued its upward trajectory!’

His excitement grew as he wondered what kinds of films had been made in this thriving industry.

‘I’ll watch them all. I need to see for myself what modern films are like.’

With a racing heart, he made his way to the nearest theater.

Inside, the crowd was a mix of young people in groups and couples, as well as a sprinkling of middle-aged viewers. The decor and posters were sleek and sophisticated, creating a polished atmosphere.

Having seen the impressive setups of the first-generation multiplex theaters at Gangbyeon Station and COEX, Youngkwang took it all in calmly—except for one thing.

No matter how hard he looked, there was no box office.

‘How do they buy tickets and watch movies?’

He observed the people and noticed them lining up at machines to get their tickets.

‘So this is how it is… They said AI would replace human jobs in the future. Guess we’ve already reached that point.’

It reminded him of scenes from classic sci-fi films made by legendary directors.

Youngkwang, who remembered all of it, maintained a poker face and quietly got in line like an ordinary person.
‘…So, the machine responds when you place your hand on it. Hmm. Not as impressive as what they showed in Minority Report. At least there should have been some floating displays to touch.’

Still, it was a remarkably user-friendly machine: intuitive interface, large fonts. If you remained calm and read carefully, anyone could successfully issue a ticket… theoretically.
‘Why isn’t it registering my touch?’

Youngkwang had completed ticket purchase, movie selection, and time selection, but the seat selection screen wouldn’t budge. Why?

A bead of sweat rolled down Youngkwang’s back, though the heavily air-conditioned theater gave no reason for it.
‘Let’s just hit cancel and start over. Step by step, nice and slow.’

But no matter how many times he tried, the result was the same. By the fourth attempt, his hands were trembling. The students behind him sighed audibly, adding pressure.
“Ugh, seriously? Hurry up.”
“We don’t have all day.”

Youngkwang turned around calmly and said, “It seems like this machine might be broken.”
“Huh?”

The middle schoolers, wide-eyed, looked at him.
“It keeps freezing at the seat selection screen. See?”

Youngkwang stepped aside to show the unresponsive screen. One of the students suddenly asked,
“Are you here alone?”
“Yes.”

At his response, the student stepped forward and tapped the screen.
“This isn’t for seat selection. It’s for choosing the number of tickets. One adult.”

‘Damn it!’

Youngkwang’s face turned beet red.
“…Thank you.”

The student, as if suspicious of Youngkwang, closely monitored the next steps, including the card payment process.
‘Wait, 14,000 won? What the…’

The exorbitant ticket price nearly made him curse aloud, but he swallowed it down.

Beep.

At last, the machine spat out the ticket. Success.

Youngkwang raised the ticket triumphantly, nodding to the student in thanks. But the group had already crowded in front of the machine, busy printing their tickets. Feeling awkward, Youngkwang stepped aside, fiddling with the ticket in his hand.
“…Ha, this is crazy.”

Even after a second look, the price printed on the ticket was astonishing. Earlier, a simple roll of gimbap had cost 4,000 won at a nearby diner, which had been shocking enough. Now, even movie tickets were outrageously expensive.
‘Back in the ’90s, it was 5,000 or 6,000 won. Even by 2003, weekday tickets were 7,000, weekends 8,000, and early-bird tickets 4,000. But 14,000 won now? And early-bird tickets are 10,000? Insane. A bowl of black bean noodles used to be 2,500 won, and now one movie ticket is worth nearly six bowls?

Hold on. What’s the revenue for a ten-million-audience movie then?
Considering all the variables… around a hundred billion won? Wow. The distributors must be raking it in, and production companies would take at least 40%. That’s incredible.’

As he mentally calculated, Youngkwang clicked his tongue. Without the financial sensibilities of 2022, he couldn’t be entirely accurate, but it was clear that massive sums of money were at play.

The rise in ticket prices likely reflected movies being recognized as a valuable cultural commodity and a competitive industry. That was a good thing… but still, his chest felt like it was on a rollercoaster. Change brought both good and bad.

‘…Will my savings be enough?’

His total balance had gone from 3.27 million won to 3.248 million after food and the movie ticket. The number that had initially felt secure now filled him with unease.
‘I thought I could last about four months, even after rent, but maybe I need to find a job sooner. Where can I work right away? If I want to get back into the movie industry, where do I even start?

How long would it take to study the trends, analyze films, and connect with people?’
‘Can I really adapt to this world…?’

Each new concern piled on more challenges. As the stress mounted, he suddenly craved something sweet.
“One cola and one caramel popcorn, please,” he blurted to the concession stand staff.

When told to pay at the same machine as before, he quickly handed over cash.
His savings now stood at 3.241 million won.

Youngkwang shuffled into the theater.
“Ha…”

He felt drained. Forget the movie—he just wanted to sleep. Too much had happened in just a few hours. Constant overthinking had left him utterly exhausted.

-“Have you ever seen a burger this big?”
-“Five patties?”

However, as the commercials began to play on the screen, Youngkwang’s eyes, which had been dull and unfocused, sharpened instinctively.
Crunch.
He chomped on his popcorn with determined energy, as if gearing up for battle. His frail body clearly lacked efficiency. He resolved to include physical training in his routine for the time being.

After what felt like an endless stream of commercials, the screen dimmed to black. The lights went out completely…

Whirrrr.
The sound of the projector spinning reached his ears. That long-missed sound heralded the beginning of the movie.

*****

“That was amazing. Absolutely wild.”
“Sit down. There’s a post-credits scene.”
“Ah, damn. When’s the sequel coming out? How am I supposed to wait for this?”
“Wow. So, Amanda was the mastermind all along?”
“Idiot. What were you even watching? Jacob’s the final villain, and Amanda’s just brainwashed and lost her memory.”

Dim lights came back on as the ending credits rolled across the screen. The audience buzzed with excitement and shock.

Youngkwang, however, was shocked for an entirely different reason.
‘This? People find this entertaining?’

It was a superhero movie. A blockbuster that had drawn in a massive audience.
But Youngkwang couldn’t bring himself to enjoy it.
‘The story is no different from the old-school sentai shows.’

The famous actors, polished special effects, and grandiose score all screamed money. Every frame was lavishly crafted.
But the narrative itself felt overly simplistic and shallow.
‘So this is what dominates global box offices now.’

It wasn’t that Youngkwang looked down on superhero movies. He’d loved classics like Batman, Superman, and RoboCop.
‘Sure, the CGI, equipment, and image quality have improved. But it feels like something essential is missing. Even the humor and excitement hit differently. The problem is, none of it resonates with me at all…’

Still, he reined in his instincts, reasoning that there had to be a reason for its popularity. After all, it had captivated the masses.
‘If I think about it, movies from the 80s and 2000s also had completely different tones. Nearly twenty years have passed, so it’s natural for new trends, styles, and formulas to emerge. To figure out what those are… I’ll need more examples.’

Even after all his thoughts, the credits continued to scroll across the screen. More than 80% of the audience remained seated, waiting eagerly for the post-credits scene. It was a chaotic and bewildering sight.

‘I’ll try something else.’

Youngkwang stood up abruptly, gathering his empty cola cup and popcorn tub before heading back to the kiosk.
“Alright.”

Having practiced five rounds of mental preparation in the bathroom, he managed to press the ticket purchase button more naturally than before.
‘This time, I’ll pick a different genre—maybe romance, action, or a period piece.’

But his choices were limited.
‘Only two movies? In a multiplex?’

To his dismay, the only other option besides the superhero flick was an ominous-looking thriller.
Youngkwang’s face turned icy.
‘Should I check other theaters?’

He pulled out his now-familiar smartphone and searched the listings of nearby theaters.
“…Ha.”

A short sigh escaped his lips.
The result was the same. Among the four multiplexes near the station, three were showing only two films, and one was showing four.

It wasn’t a matter of screen availability. Each theater had plenty of screens, as expected of multiplexes.
The likely explanation was one of two scenarios:
Either one film was monopolizing the market, or it was a megahit.
Or both—monopolization creating a megahit.

“…Completely swept the board. Seems like there’s been some shady dealings in the distribution process.”

The excitement that had once made Youngkwang’s heart race with anticipation for the 19-year-evolved film industry instantly cooled.

Glaring at the movie schedules, he muttered to himself,
“Multiplex? My ass. This is audience exploitation.”

The movie industry had veered in a direction far removed from what Youngkwang had hoped.
But that realization was also a sign.

It meant there was work for him to do here.