Chapter 45
When Jeongjikhan made a dazed expression, Gwak Sang-hyeok explained why the film market was collapsing.
“To make a movie, you need production and investment lines. This is how you gather the production budget. You meet with local governments, negotiate with companies, or approach wealthy individuals.”
“Right. You need money to do anything in the end.”
“Even if that’s insufficient, directors or actors sometimes step in as producers themselves.”
“Do they reduce their appearance fees?”
“Yes. Some actors will lower their asking price if they’re drawn to the script or screenplay.”
This was new to Jeongjikhan.
A film someone would want to join even at the cost of reducing their value?
It felt diametrically opposed to his own life, where money had always been paramount.
Jeongjikhan nodded and asked,
“So does having certain actors make it easier to secure production funds from companies or local governments?”
“Of course. Investors gain confidence if a project involves famous actors or directors.”
Jeongjikhan’s eyes sparkled with interest as he listened to Gwak Sang-hyeok.
Gwak Sang-hyeok exhaled a sigh from the depths of his lungs.
“But… that system has completely collapsed now.”
“Why? If companies invest… they can use product placements or promote new releases, right? I don’t see why they’d avoid investing…”
“COVID played a huge role.”
“Ah.”
The pandemic that swept the globe.
The film industry now cleaves into pre- and post-COVID eras.
Gwak Sang-hyeok grimaced as if tasting something bitter before continuing.
“In the current climate, only those who can collaborate with OTT platforms will survive.”
“Why them?”
“When COVID hit, companies clamped down on spending. Long social distancing periods severed the flow of theatergoers. OTT platforms filled that void in people’s daily lives.”
“Does securing OTT investment change much?”
The question came from pure curiosity, not contention.
Recognizing this, Gwak Sang-hyeok answered calmly.
“The OTT market is fiercely competitive. To survive, they aggressively seek better content and invest heavily.”
“I see…”
“You’re aware of break-even points for films, yes?”
“Of course. You need a minimum audience to recoup costs and turn a profit, correct?”
When Jeongjikhan answered confidently, Gwak Sang-hyeok nodded.
“That’s why small-scale investments and budgets have become doctrine. The break-even threshold is far lower.”
“……”
“This is also why grand, world-building films have vanished. The math doesn’t work.”
“So that’s why romantic comedies and action-comedies dominate? They’re cheaper to make than other genres?”
“Exactly. This ties directly to Korea’s economic state.”
“The economy?”
Movies connected to national economics?
As Jeongjikhan tilted his head in confusion, Gwak Sang-hyeok gave a wry smile.
“How harsh and unrelenting is life these days?”
“……”
“When you visit cinemas or watch dramas to unwind, would you choose something convoluted?”
“Well… no.”
“Hence terms like ‘killing time’ or ‘brain-off viewing.’ People drowning in stress don’t want complexity. They crave lightness and laughter.”
“……”
“Companies cutting investments is inherently economic too.”
Jeongjikhan propped his chin on both hands, absorbing this.
Prices soared. Exports faltered. Corporate inventories piled up. Factories halted.
Interest rates climbed. Exchange rates skyrocketed. A strong dollar froze foreign capital inflows.
How many companies could act as film distributors or investors in such conditions?
With wars—big and small—fueling oil price hikes, economic stagnation became inevitable.
A past U.S. president’s words surfaced unbidden:
-It’s the economy, stupid!
That slogan had swayed a nation. Now a conversation about movies led to national economics.
Was this why people said cultural power transcends human imagination?
Gwak Sang-hyeok continued in an even tone.
“In the past… what we now consider main releases would’ve been filler films.”
“Filler films? Those exist?”
“Yes. Now such films easily surpass break-even points and stimulate spending, making them the new mainstream.”
“But… is that bad?”
“It skews the market. Like jazz being buried under rock and ballads, or literary fiction eclipsed by genre works.”
The truth struck instantly.
With no solutions forthcoming, Jeongjikhan scratched his head.
“Are there no other funding avenues? Collaborations with market-based companies or organizations?”
“Theaters already offer distribution subsidies. They take smaller profit shares to attract releases.”
“Still not enough?”
“Releasing a film costs money—marketing and more. Even with subsidies, recouping costs rarely happens. And…”
What remained unsaid?
As Jeongjikhan furrowed his brow, Gwak Sang-hyeok sipped his coffee and continued.
“The public knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That if they wait, films hit OTT platforms.”
Jeongjikhan flinched despite himself.
Though he neither visited theaters nor subscribed to OTT services, he’d heard the trends.
Gwak Sang-hyeok pressed on.
“For less than ₩20,000 a month, OTT lets you watch countless films, dramas, and animations.”
“……”
With the money it costs to watch one movie, you can buy a month’s worth of happiness. And that’s unlimited.
This statement really hit home.
Unlimited happiness to enjoy.
In the end, whether it’s platforms, producers, or consumers, everyone will prefer works that cater to popular tastes.
And that… directly leads to limited works.
Similar stories.
Similar content.
Similar emotions.
Of course, even within that, special works can emerge.
But within a fixed production budget, there can’t be absolute deviations.
Someday, viewers will start saying, “There’s nothing to watch,” or “It’s all the same,” and it will lead to a vicious cycle.
What remains at the end… is the explosion of the existing market and the birth of something new.
Like the evolution of social media.
Jeongjikhan swallowed his bitter feelings and spoke.
“Of course, it’s heartbreaking… but I probably wouldn’t go to the theater unless it’s a big-scale movie.”
“Yes, that’s why big-scale movies rarely show up in theaters these days. They just aren’t being produced.”
Kwak Sanghyuk tightened his lips as if washing his face with dry hands.
Was he thinking it was an unsolvable problem?
As Jeongjikhan also chose silence, Kwak Sanghyuk took a deep breath and spoke again.
“I feel so… sorry for our staff.”
“……”
“If staff members only work on one movie, they’ll go broke. So they take on side jobs here and there to make use of their strengths. To think that chasing dreams and goals leads to putting their lives on the line.”
If the price of chasing dreams is despair… who would dare to dream in Korea?
Kwak Sanghyuk continued speaking.
“Our staff… have become mayflies struggling just to survive.”
“……”
“In the end, they’ll start suffering from chronic illnesses like me and eventually pass away.”
I didn’t expect such heavy words.
As Kwak Sanghyuk had said earlier, there was no one to blame or resent.
The irreversible tide of time.
Jeongjikhan asked with a troubled expression.
“In any market… growth comes with pain.”
“Of course, OTT platforms have their own grievances.”
“Grievances?”
“There are many cases where they take 10 or 20 billion won but fail to deliver quality or box office success.”
“Then is that… the directors’ fault?”
“Who would want to fail on purpose? Meeting everyone’s demands—actors, investors, producers, screenwriters, staff—while continuing the work isn’t easy.”
Too many cooks spoil the broth.
Even with a director’s strong influence, they can’t ignore all demands.
Aren’t human relationships said to be life’s hardest challenge?
Jeongjikhan walked to the water dispenser and gulped cold water.
The more he listened, the drier his throat became.
A solution… refused to surface.
But the problem didn’t end there.
“There’s one thing that can replace movies.”
“A replacement?”
“Earlier, I said OTT platforms must survive competition. Where would they invest more?”
The OTT competition.
Victory required captivating works to retain viewers.
So then…
“Dramas?”
“Exactly. OTT’s core is dramas, not movies.”
“Ah.”
“Dramas engage users longer. If you were an OTT executive, where would you invest?”
An obvious conclusion.
Money flows where people gather; people gather where money flows.
As Jeongjikhan rubbed his forehead, Kwak Sanghyuk smiled bitterly.
“Theaters have already begun transforming. They no longer insist solely on films but offer diverse content.”
“……”
“Theaters are businesses. They crunch numbers hundreds of times daily.”
“Is that why ticket prices rose?”
“What did I say matters most?”
“Economics.”
Kwak nodded.
“Theaters have bled billions in deficits for years. Prices rose gradually—do you know their operating costs?”
“I imagine… astronomical.”
“Exactly. Electricity, gas, maintenance, labor, inflation—theaters feel these first.”
“……”
“They cut staff, eliminated ticket booths, made concessions handle ticketing. Replaced humans with machines.”
“Still insufficient?”
“Yes. Hence the shift to diverse content.”
“……”
“They already offer playrooms, cafes, concerts, idol shows, short videos. More will come.”
“Their essence… blurs.”
“Correct.”
Seeing Jeongjikhan’s bitter expression, Kwak sighed.
“Dating meant theaters before. Not anymore.”
“True.”
“Yet the Korean Film Industry Report claims: ‘Audiences decreased, but none complained of boredom.’”
“……”
“Pathetic self-delusion.”
For a brief moment, he spoke candidly about the industry he’d devoted his life to.
Having unburdened himself, his expression softened.
Now I understood Kwak’s earlier words:
—Movies will vanish.
—Just not today.
A movie ticket costs around ₩15,000—equivalent to galbitang or hangover soup.
Jeongjikhan believed this shift wasn’t unique to film.
Jazz, rock, and print books followed the same path.
Remember when books and albums cost a bowl of galbitang?
Now it’s theaters’ turn.
A market evolving with history’s flow.
No one can predict the future, but former glory won’t return.
When Jeongjikhan shared these thoughts, Kwak swallowed his coffee with a bitter smile.
“You’re right. I know better than anyone… but watching the industry I sacrificed my youth to enter its twilight—it’ll haunt me beyond death.”
“Frankly… few will understand your position.”
“……”
“But I think this:”
Kwak silently studied Jeongjikhan’s face.
Jeongjikhan crossed his arms, then met Kwak’s gaze.
“Your life was relentless. You faced impossible choices at every turn.”
“……”
“Without directors like you… Korean cinema wouldn’t have endured this long.”
