Chapter 60
“Are you kidding me right now?”
Oh Youngguk frowned deeply as he reviewed the special drama proposal that Kang Juhwan had brought in.
He had asked for a New Year’s special drama.
But what Kang Juhwan had come up with was a story about three divorced sons returning to their childhood home and tormenting their elderly parents.
Who was supposed to enjoy watching a mother break down in tears while doing her sons’ laundry?
“Who’s going to watch this on New Year’s?”
Oh Youngguk, who rarely raised his voice, was visibly upset.
Kang Juhwan, however, simply blinked, looking like he had no idea what he had done wrong.
“But Chief, you said people don’t watch dramas that are too disconnected from reality. I checked the statistics, and South Korea’s divorce rate is significantly higher than the OECD average—”
“You think I don’t know that?”
Before he could even finish, Oh Youngguk clutched his chest in frustration.
“I’m divorced! Am I the only one? I know at least four divorced men just in the drama department!”
“So, I thought a drama that reflects reality would be…”
“I don’t want to see it!”
Just last year, a New Year’s special had a single 20-second scene where a character mentioned divorcing their cheating spouse.
The result?
The station’s phone lines were flooded with complaints, and the viewer message boards were plastered with curses.
No one wanted to hear about affairs and divorces during the holidays.
Yes, infidelity and divorce were rampant in reality.
But on holidays, people wanted to escape reality, not be reminded of it.
That was why, even if it was cliché, family-themed dramas were the safest bet for holiday specials.
And if there wasn’t a guaranteed audience, they were better off just airing foreign movies instead.
Taking a deep breath, Oh Youngguk calmed himself.
“Juhwan, I know you struggle with understanding other people’s emotions.”
Kang Juhwan had scored a perfect mark on the entrance exam, often called the “broadcasting bar exam.”
A memorization genius.
A calculation genius.
A statistics genius.
But a creative genius?
Not at all.
It was no wonder both of his single-episode dramas had been complete failures in ratings.
That was why he hadn’t been given a chance to work on a full-length drama yet.
The New Year’s special had been an opportunity to prove himself.
‘But he has no clue what to write.’
From Oh Youngguk’s perspective, Kang Juhwan had chosen the wrong career.
He should’ve become a professor or a researcher instead.
“Juhwan, what dramas have you been watching lately? What do you enjoy?”
“Uh… British dramas…”
And then, Kang Juhwan proceeded to list the entire lineage of British dramas.
Not stopping there, he went on to explain the trends in American TV shows in excruciating detail.
Once he finished listening patiently, Oh Youngguk asked,
“You don’t watch Japanese dramas?”
“Japan’s animations are much better than their dramas. I mean, you could say their entire entertainment industry started with—”
“Enough!”
Raising a hand to cut him off, Oh Youngguk sighed.
‘Why does this guy only watch foreign content when he lives in Korea?’
With a deep breath, he spoke calmly.
“British dramas, American dramas, Japanese anime—fine. But are you planning to make a drama in the UK, US, or Japan?”
“N-no, of course not.”
Kang Juhwan nervously clasped his hands together.
Since it was clear that he genuinely didn’t understand, Oh Youngguk softened his tone.
“Yes, the Korean market is small, and our dramas need to break into the global market. But if you can’t succeed here first, it’s all meaningless.”
“…That’s true.”
“Then why are you only watching Western shows? I’m not saying don’t watch them, but you need to set priorities.”
A Korean chef studying only American home-cooking recipes—
How was that any different?
Korean dramas focused heavily on interpersonal relationships.
Understanding that framework was crucial to creating a story that resonated with local viewers.
“Watch Korean dramas. Watch weekend dramas. Watch daily dramas. Even if you think they’re predictable, cliché, or melodramatic, watch them anyway.”
Even if they weren’t entertaining, watching them would at least give him a sense of what kind of dramas worked in Korea.
‘Juhwan, you’re good at studying. Now study Korean dramas.’
Giving him a firm pat on the back, Oh Youngguk ushered Kang Juhwan out of his office.
And he made sure to remind him—
“Go to a post-production company and watch how dramas are edited.”
***
That led Kang Juhwan to Cut Point, Han Jiseon’s editing company.
Recently, Cut Point had gained attention for its commercial editing,
and Juhwan had been visiting frequently since he learned they had invested in expensive editing equipment.
It was a rare chance to observe the commercial editing process firsthand.
As he opened the office door, a tall man with movie-star looks greeted him like he’d been expecting him.
“Hello, Director Kang Juhwan.”
“Huh? Uh… Who are you? I never forget a face, and I don’t recognize you at all. So, I don’t think we’ve met before.”
“I believe we have.”
The man smiled warmly and extended a hand.
“I’m Kim Doyun, a planning PD from H Productions.”
‘Who is this guy? I swear I’ve never met him before.’
—
Kang Juhwan
An extraordinary genius with an IQ over 150.
Some called him a “genius among geniuses.”
Others just called him a lunatic.
But everyone agreed—Kang Juhwan was an oddball.
Born into a poor family, he had entered an elite university as the top student with a full scholarship and graduated at the top of his class.
He had a photographic memory, recalling everything he saw instantly.
And yet, he struggled immensely with social interactions.
It was as if he saw the world through an entirely different lens from most people.
Like how a physicist and a poet could look at the same night sky and see two entirely different things.
After more than ten years bouncing around in the broadcasting industry, a new chief finally transferred him to Mun San Studio.
Mun San Studio was a small outdoor set built by MBS for historical dramas, complete with thatched-roof houses, tile-roofed houses, a market square, and a royal palace.
But since no historical dramas had been produced for years, Juhwan had nothing but time.
So, he started writing.
And eventually, he even began scripting his own drama.
That drama became the legendary Smile Doctor, which was later sold to Hollywood.
Thanks to his abundant free time, Juhwan had studied medicine while writing the script,
resulting in a drama that felt both like an American TV series and a British drama.
‘Of course, times had changed in the meantime.’
Regardless, the interesting part was that Kang Juhwan ended up leaving MBS and transferring to a general programming channel, where he directed the very drama he had written—turning it into a massive success.
‘After selling the rights to Hollywood, Kang Juhwan bought a luxurious mansion in LA with a swimming pool.’
Kim Doyun had first met him at a party in the United States when he was a CP at Mflix.
Since then, he had done a lot of work to ensure that Korean dramas could be broadcast worldwide.
‘This time, I’ll make that happen sooner.’
As Kang Juhwan examined the business card Doyun handed him, he tilted his head in confusion.
“Are you sure we’ve met before? I really don’t remember you.”
“I saw you passing by when I visited Chief Oh at the station recently.”
Knowing that Kang Juhwan was not the type to let things slide easily, Doyun smiled and improvised a reasonable explanation.
“Oh, I see. H Productions… That’s where Senior Jeong Woon-Young works, right? He’s terrifying.”
It seemed Jeong Woon-Young had been particularly harsh.
He must have thought he could treat Kang Juhwan however he pleased since Juhwan had neither money nor connections.
Feigning ignorance, Doyun replied casually,
“I’m honored that you remember our company. Director Lee Beom-un is currently on assignment with us.”
“Ah, Beom-un. That guy looks like he wants to tear me apart every time he sees me… Haha.”
Beom-un must have ignored Kang Juhwan despite him being four classes ahead of him.
Since Kang Juhwan had bombed two single-episode dramas and wasn’t given a shot at directing a mini-series, it was probably considered fair game to trample over him.
“I’m not exactly getting along with Director Lee either.”
“You shouldn’t make an enemy of him. If Beom-un decides to make things difficult for you, it’ll be a headache.”
Kang Juhwan, ever the one to avoid trouble, advised as if it were common sense.
‘He’s too soft-hearted.’
Kim Doyun needed Kang Juhwan to become invested in A Summer’s Cantabile.
So, he moistened his lips and spoke.
“I actually brought some footage for editing the making-of film for the drama I’m working on. If you have time, I’d love to get your thoughts, Director Kang.”
“Isn’t that something Beom-un should be doing?”
“Making-of films are handled by external teams.”
Ordinarily, making-of films were produced by an outsourced team with a dedicated camera director.
But since Jeong Woon-Young had been too stingy to spend money on it, Doyun had to shoot the footage himself.
“Hmm… In that case, let’s take a look.”
Fortunately, Kang Juhwan showed interest.
“Would you really? Thank you. Representative Ji Seonju?”
“Ah, yes!”
Ji Seonju poked her head out from an editing booth that looked like a coin karaoke room.
Cut Point had five editing booths, each equipped with the latest editing technology.
Despite the high-tech equipment, the booths themselves were incredibly small.
Inside, editors, directors, or assistant directors would watch the same footage over and over again, investing their time and energy into refining every scene.
In the process, their wrists, shoulders, backs—and even their minds—would slowly deteriorate.
It wasn’t uncommon for editors to literally work themselves to death due to overexertion.
Yet Ji Seonju had endured for quite some time.
She meticulously stitched together dozens of cuts for a single-minute video, crafting the perfect scene—even elevating poorly shot footage into works of art.
“Alright, let’s get started.”
Seated on either side of Ji Seonju, Doyun and Juhwan responded in unison.
“Let’s do it.”
“Let’s go.”
***
“How about zooming in on Yeonwoo’s close-up? It might enhance the emotional depth.”
At the start, Kang Juhwan had merely sat back with his arms crossed, observing passively.
But as the editing progressed, he became engrossed, focusing intently and giving precise directions.
“Stop there—now continue from this point.”
“You mean to frame it like this?”
Ji Seonju adjusted the screen to display a close-up shot of Seo Dongjin.
“Hold it for about three seconds, then transition to a reaction shot.”
“Alright, I’ll hold for three seconds and switch to Cut 14.”
“No, make it two seconds. And don’t use Cut 14—jump to 15 instead.”
“Like this?”
As Ji Seonju adjusted the footage, Kang Juhwan frowned in dissatisfaction.
“The transition feels too plain. Let’s try a smooth dissolve from Cut 3 to 5.”
“I’ll apply it now.”
With swift movements, Ji Seonju implemented the change.
“Still feels like something’s missing… What is it? Seonju, any thoughts?”
“The sequence flows smoothly.”
“But something’s off. Damn it, I can’t figure out what!”
Frustrated, Kang Juhwan ruffled his hair.
It wasn’t even his own project.
It was just a promotional making-of film outsourced for marketing.
And yet, he was completely invested—because he was genuinely passionate about it.
Despite not having read the full script, he had already grasped the characters perfectly.
‘As expected, Kang Juhwan is a genius who just hasn’t found what excites him yet.’
Once he did, he would become an extraordinary director.
That was something Doyun confirmed once again.
And so, a smooth smile formed on his lips.
“If we add the OST, the video will be perfect.”
“OST?”
“Yes. That scene needs background music.”
“Let’s try it.”
The moment Ji Seonju added the OST, Kang Juhwan’s eyes lit up.
“Wow! You’re right. PD Kim Doyun, you’ve got a great eye for this.”
Doyun smiled at him, speaking inwardly.
‘Then why not create a drama with me?’
—
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