Chapter 47
‘It’s been a while, Director.’
Kim Doyun bowed his head internally as he stood before Oh Youngguk.
Oh Youngguk, the head of MBS Drama Division.
A talented director with a flair for innovative storytelling and outstanding interpretative skills.
Incorporating genres and occupational backgrounds such as cooking, medicine, espionage, and investigation, he had opened a new chapter in Korean drama history.
‘The era when Oh Youngguk was director marked the golden age of MBS dramas.’
The younger audience solidified the impression that “MBS is synonymous with drama.”
Naturally, even average productions guaranteed decent ratings.
Given the circumstances, production companies vied for Oh Youngguk’s attention, hoping to secure a spot in MBS’s prime-time lineup.
‘For an ordinary producer, meeting Oh Youngguk was an impossible feat.’
Kim Doyun was no exception, being rejected repeatedly.
Still, his tenacious spirit led him to seek out Oh Youngguk eight times, leaving empty-handed but resolute to return the next day.
Perhaps his determination moved Oh Youngguk, or maybe it was just an open spot in the director’s schedule.
[“Do you drink?”]
Oh Youngguk had gestured for him to follow and led him to the Yeouido Securities Center area.
To one of those tent bars that appeared briefly at night and vanished by dawn.
The kind of places where stockbrokers unwind with cold soju after a grueling day.
Sitting on a plastic chair, Oh Youngguk poured soju and said,
[“The regulars here couldn’t care less about dramas.”]
Pointing to the brokers engrossed in discussions about Nasdaq, futures indexes, crude oil, and grains, he gave Doyun a look demanding he remember his words.
[“You must create dramas more captivating than making money. Only then can you survive in the global market. The Korean market is too small. I believe young producers like you can conquer the world stage.”]
At the time, Doyun was in his mid-thirties.
He couldn’t fathom what Oh Youngguk saw in him to say such things.
But one thing was certain—he instinctively knew not to show his drama proposal on the laptop.
‘What Oh Youngguk wanted from me wasn’t a potentially successful drama.’
Success was a given.
He sought a drama capable of penetrating the larger global market.
Oh Youngguk had tasked him with bringing forth such a drama.
‘I spent six months revising that proposal.’
And that’s how the drama Seven Loves was born.
A story about a woman with seven lives and a man who remembered a thousand years of love.
At a time when such a concept for a drama would have been deemed ludicrous.
A woman with seven lives? A thousand years of love? Come on, did Korea even have time for romance in its history?
If you didn’t cram nationalistic pride into a historical drama, you risked being labeled a traitor.
If he was so insistent, they told him to make it into a movie instead.
‘But the outcome was a massive success.’
Thanks to Oh Youngguk’s support, Doyun secured the coveted Wednesday-Thursday drama slot at MBS with just a three-page proposal.
That year, despite competing against veteran producers with Ivy League degrees and decades of experience, Doyun clinched the best production award.
Perhaps that was why?
After regressing, Doyun had been eager to meet Oh Youngguk again as soon as possible.
‘Although I didn’t expect it to happen this quickly.’
When he sent the Jeongdongjin Station photo and music program tickets to Oh Youngguk, he assumed it would be a futile effort.
At most, he expected a call acknowledging the broadcasting station’s apology for Beom-un’s detention by the military.
Beom-un, too, seemed unprepared for Oh Youngguk’s visit. Flustered, his face turned crimson as he stammered.
“D-Director, what brings you here without prior notice?”
“I came because of you. Why else? You caused trouble despite knowing night filming is prohibited on the East Coast?”
“I didn’t think the soldiers would be so diligent.”
“You call that an excuse?”
At Oh Youngguk’s sharp rebuke, Beom-un lowered his gaze and began kicking at the sand with his sneakers.
“I just wanted to do well.”
“Such overambition often leads to actors and staff getting hurt.”
“…Yes.”
After glaring at Beom-un for a while, Oh Youngguk softened his expression and voice.
“By the way, I heard you weren’t released without the station’s official apology. How did you get out?”
Beom-un shot a glance at Kim Doyun and gestured with his chin.
“…Producer Kim vouched for me. If he had stepped in earlier, I could’ve been released last night…”
“So you were released thanks to Producer Kim.”
As expected, sharp as ever.
Doyun clasped his hands behind his back and cast a sidelong glance at Beom-un.
“Yes? Well… that’s… true, but it feels like he delayed it on purpose…”
At Beom-un’s grumbling, Jeong Woonyoung snapped.
“This guy complains even after being released!”
“Senior,”
Oh Youngguk gently admonished, signaling him to calm down.
But Beom-un’s suspicion wasn’t entirely unfounded—Doyun had deliberately delayed his release.
‘Or rather, I could’ve prevented his detention altogether.’
What Beom-un failed to grasp was why he was released now of all times.
It could’ve happened last night or earlier this morning. Why did it take until the evening?
Of course, Beom-un wasn’t the type to ponder such complexities.
As Jeong Woonyoung aptly put it, even when released, he’d find something to complain about.
That was why Doyun had used his detention to lay the groundwork.
But with Oh Youngguk and Jeong Woonyoung arriving from Seoul, Doyun decided to adjust the stage he had set.
Now, Beom-un would unknowingly follow the new rails laid for him—straight off a cliff.
As expected, Lee Beom-un frowned deeply, pointing his finger at Kim Doyun and Assistant Director Min Kyungho.
“These guys went ahead and filmed while I wasn’t here! Damn it. Without the director’s approval! Who do they think they are? Acting all high and mighty! I swear, I feel like scrapping everything and heading back to Seoul.”
“What’s there to scrap now?”
Once again, Oh Youngguk calmly reprimanded him.
But Jeong Woonyoung, enraged by the suggestion of scrapping the shoot, turned to Doyun and yelled.
“Scrap it? Are you out of your mind?!”
“Would you let this slide, Senior? They filmed without the director’s approval!”
Beom-un flared up, his face turning red, and Woonyoung barked at Doyun.
“Who filmed without the director? Producer Kim, why didn’t you stop it? Are you in your right mind?”
All eyes turned to Doyun.
‘Finally, my turn to speak.’
In a calm voice, Doyun explained.
“We filmed a bridge scene.”
A bridge scene.
These are the connecting shots between locations—a wave-crashing shoreline, the front gate of Yeonwoo’s house, or perhaps a village landscape.
It could be the sky or the exterior of a building.
When you see a shift in time or location in a drama, the scenes of houses or cityscapes are all part of a bridge scene.
Typically, even bridge scenes are directed by the main director.
But all Beom-un had done since arriving at Jeongdongjin was mistreat Seo Dongjin and Eun Jihoon.
‘He hadn’t even thought about filming a bridge scene.’
Jeon Sera was arriving late tonight from Seoul.
After filming the outdoor scene where Seo Dongjin and Jeon Sera meet and fall for each other, the entire crew would have to head back to Seoul.
‘Without a bridge scene, we can’t just insert random village footage from a cultural program.’
In the previous timeline, the cinematographer had to travel separately to film the bridge scenes.
‘I was banking on that detail.’
Doyun calmly continued.
“We filmed it because it would have been impossible to do so otherwise.”
Beom-un bristled at his explanation.
“We could’ve shot it tomorrow morning!”
“The weather forecast says it’s going to rain tomorrow.”
“Oh, for crying out loud. Are you a meteorologist now?”
“… I was born and raised by the sea.”
“And what if it doesn’t rain tomorrow? Are you willing to bet your neck?”
Beom-un seemed intent on being as unreasonable as possible.
“Yes, I’ll bet it—if you’re willing to bet yours, Director.”
“What? You think we’re equals? Know your place, you…”
As Beom-un spiraled into a complete tantrum, Oh Youngguk stepped in to prevent him from making an even bigger mistake.
“That’s enough. Close your mouth.”
“But, Director!”
“I said close it.”
Oh Youngguk gestured with his eyes toward the crew. They were all glaring at Beom-un with distrust and resentment, their expressions tense.
Having deflated Beom-un’s bluster, Oh Youngguk turned to Doyun.
“Even if there was a forecast for rain, you should have sought the director’s approval.”
“It was a shot of the fishing boats coming into Daepo Port. With the maritime weather worsening tonight, fishing operations will be on hold for the foreseeable future. The crew also couldn’t adjust their schedules.”
In a low voice, Oh Youngguk asked,
“What about Team B?”
“They’re in Seoul.”
“Why weren’t they here for the first shoot?”
Doyun subtly shifted his gaze to Beom-un, passing the chance to answer.
“Director?”
Doyun raised an eyebrow at Beom-un.
‘Didn’t you say you’d handle everything yourself?’
Irritated, Beom-un scowled.
“Team B had to film supporting actors’ outdoor scenes and also needed to shoot bridge scenes in Seoul.”
But that excuse didn’t fly with Oh Youngguk.
“Team B isn’t here, and you were detained by the military. That means nothing is getting done. So Producer Kim hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“D-Director? Are you taking his side…?”
“You idiot, do you think this is the time to be yelling at people? Shouldn’t you be getting a single frame shot instead of enforcing discipline?”
“If we shoot outdoors now…”
“Outdoors? Do you want to get detained by the military again?”
The reason Beom-un was released near sunset was simple: to ensure that even after being released, he would be in no position to accomplish anything.
If they lit up the beach for night filming, he’d be detained again.
While they could continue shooting away from the coast, there was a catch.
‘Beom-un insists on night filming at the beach.’
As a result, before coming to Jeongdongjin, Doyun had to send multiple pointless requests to the county office and the military, knowing they’d be denied.
He’d done it because Beom-un demanded they keep trying until they succeeded.
But Beom-un’s biggest flaw wasn’t his stubbornness—it was his utter lack of skill.
‘I didn’t want to go this far, but his incompetence left me no choice.’
The more Doyun witnessed Beom-un’s lack of aptitude and sensibility, the more repulsed he felt.
Terrible skills, an authoritarian attitude, no concern for the crew, and a penchant for abusing actors—where did his misplaced confidence come from?
Doyun could no longer tolerate Beom-un’s involvement in his drama, even at the tip of his toe.
‘Alright, it’s time to begin.’
—
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