I Acted Once, and Now They Call Me a Genius - Chapter 226

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 226
“Kids these days have no grit. No grit whatsoever!”
It was Jeong In-gi’s habitual refrain.
Jeong In-gi knew perfectly well that people branded him a dinosaur when he spoke this way. Yet he couldn’t help himself.
Too many actors working today genuinely lacked that desperate hunger.
More precisely, he meant those who’d already established themselves.
They probably wouldn’t agree with him, of course.
They’d insist they were doing their absolute best.
In some respects, that was true enough.
But in Jeong In-gi’s view, that “best” had been steadily downgraded compared to what it once was.
Inevitable, really.
It wasn’t the fault of the younger generation.
The world had changed.
Words like “human rights”—once poorly understood—had become ubiquitous obstacles to navigate. And actors had transformed from mere entertainers into artists admired by all.
Of course, that was a good thing.
Yet precisely because of it, Jeong In-gi often felt that today’s young actors had lost something crucial.
Killer instinct.
The ferocity to set aside image, pride, self-respect—and think only of the craft itself.
How many actors possessed such killer instinct anymore?
That was why Jeong In-gi rarely bothered with whoever was rising to fame these days.
Stars emerged all the time. The question was how long they could sustain it. Those seduced by mere sparkle inevitably faded.
Flying felt good, certainly.
It must be exhilarating.
But when strong winds buffeted them into submission—when they had no choice but to wade through mud—that was when their true nature was tested.
How far they’d go for the craft, how genuine their devotion, became impossible to hide.
Jeong In-gi had witnessed far too many actors buckle under such moments.
And he’d seen many who came to view acting as mere self-promotion to land commercials.
It all stemmed from actors having risen too high in social standing.
Now that no one dared demean them as mere entertainers, the more successful actors became, the more they avoided hardship and difficulty—drifting further from the essence of acting itself.
That said, Jeong In-gi hadn’t presumed Seon-woo would be one of those types.
He simply had no more hope left. He’d grown tired of hoping and then being disappointed.
And so,
‘He’s got it. This kid’s got the real thing.’
Upon watching Seon-woo act, Jeong In-gi found himself growing fond of him almost involuntarily.
More precisely, it was watching his process. Through nearly twenty cuts and repeated takes, Seon-woo showed not a trace of flagging resolve.
Most arrogant actors would’ve lost their nerve by then, or had their pride wounded. But Seon-woo seemed utterly indifferent to such concerns.
All that dwelt in his eyes was pure contemplation: ‘How should I act this?’
The most promising newcomer. A prodigy who’d debuted and shot straight to a lead role. He had every reason to be proud of his talent and star quality, yet Seon-woo still carried that thirst.
The thirst to act better.
That hunger only possible for those who believed themselves still far from complete.
In that moment, Jeong In-gi couldn’t help but like him.
He hadn’t seen a newcomer like this in ages.
Moreover,
—Minister, might I join you in that resolve?
Seon-woo learned fast.
Certainly, he must have been thrown off at first. Jeong In-gi’s Jeong Do-jeon carried far more tyrannical force than Seon-woo had anticipated. Figuring out how to counter that presence would have been no small feat.
And he’d expressed it beautifully—in his own way.
His mind raced through hundreds of calculations at once, yet his heart was stolen by Jeong Do-jeon’s vision—the nation of Joseon—consuming him entirely.
Amid the turbulent collision of reason and emotion, he embodied perfectly a young man struggling to control himself and find the wisest path forward.
Yi Bang-won was eclipsed by Jeong Do-jeon’s presence?
That wasn’t a flaw. Historically, Yi Bang-won at this stage was indeed a lighter figure than Jeong Do-jeon.
If anything, Yi Bang-won overpowering Jeong Do-jeon would have been unrealistic.
At this moment, Seon-woo achieved exactly the right portrayal.
Because of it,
“Excellent. Yes, let’s do one more take with that exact emotional arc.”
He’d secured what was essentially Seo Tae-rok’s approval.
Of course, despite those words, they’d shot the same scene four more times when the director sensed improvement, but Seon-woo went through each take without the slightest complaint.
And when filming finally wrapped, Seon-woo was…
‘How would the Minister judge me?’
…still unable to shake free from Yi Bang-won’s immersion.
He couldn’t help it. Just now, to push past his limits, he’d activated Method Acting more intensely than usual.
For the duration of that shoot, his entire world had been stained in nothing but the colors of Yi Bang-won and Jeong Do-jeon.
“…Seon-woo?”
The problem was that even after filming ended, those colors refused to fade.
“…Huh?”
He could barely remember what the world looked like without these hues. What color had he been originally? This spring-like quality wasn’t his usual shade. There’d been something else, something different. Not a color he particularly liked, but definitely something…
“Kim Seon-woo!”
“Oh, yes, yes. Senior.”
“You alright? Why are you spacing out?”
“I… I’m sorry.”
Seon-woo rushed to bow his head.
In that instant, he thought: if he told the truth, it might cause concern, so it’d be better to claim he was simply caught in the lingering emotional afterglow. But just as that thought formed—
“Method Acting?”
Jeong In-gi’s clear gaze pierced right through him.
There was certainly enough basis for such a guess, but Seon-woo hadn’t expected to be caught so quickly. His face tensed—should he admit it or deflect?
But after being read so thoroughly, there was no point denying it.
Seon-woo nodded.
“Yes.”
“Tsk. Be careful with that. It’s not good for your mental health.”
“…I suppose it might not be.”
Seon-woo had often sensed as much himself.
Wasn’t there a famous anecdote about an actor who’d immersed himself in a psychopath role through Method Acting, only to discover he’d begun thinking like a murderer?
But it wasn’t only such extreme roles that made Method Acting dangerous.
Immersing yourself so completely in a character that you lose yourself meant your sense of self grew dangerously blurred.
That couldn’t possibly be healthy.
“The real culprits are the reporters and broadcasters. Ever since they started treating Method Acting as the highest form of performance, kids have convinced themselves that you’re only a good actor if you use Method. You’re not falling into that trap too, are you?”
“No, not at all.”
Seon-woo hastily shook his head.
Method Acting was just one technique. You could use it and still deliver a terrible performance, or achieve brilliant work without it at all.
“After all, you don’t use Method Acting yourself, do you, Senior?”
“…Well, I’m hardly a great actor to begin with.”
Jeong In-gi offered the demurral.
But there was no real self-deprecation in his slightly furrowed gaze—only sincerity.
“Wait until you work with Seong-min soon. Then you’ll understand what good acting can be—without Method, or rather, what you can achieve when Method isn’t in the way.”
“…That’s definitely something to look forward to.”
Seon-woo’s eyes brightened.
Kwon Seong-min. Any actor in Korea would feel their heart race at the mention of his name. The living history of Korean cinema—though that sounded too much like ancient history, so perhaps the preeminent authority on acting in Korea would be more accurate?
He wasn’t sure.
No description seemed adequate to capture who Kwon Seong-min was. If Seon-woo had to put it in his own terms…
‘What if Do-young eventually became that?’
That was about the best he could manage.
The highest compliment he could give.
In any case, Seon-woo harbored great expectations for Kwon Seong-min. Even Min-hee and others had expressed envy at his working with Seong-min—he was an idol every actor dreamed of sharing scenes with.
“For now, though, you’ve got me to work with. So it won’t be ideal, but focus on me.”
“…Not ideal? Working with you is incredibly stimulating, Senior.”
“Stimulating… Heh, I like that phrasing. Anyway, I know I shouldn’t comment on another’s acting technique, but don’t rely too heavily on Method.”
“The reason being…it’s bad for mental health?”
“That too, but it’s about direction. You don’t need to become Yi Bang-won in that way. What people want to see isn’t just Yi Bang-won—it’s Kim Seon-woo’s Yi Bang-won. Perhaps even what makes it clearly Kim Seon-woo. But if you’re contemplating only the character and never yourself, then… well, I think you get the point.”
“…I think I’ll need some time to process that.”
His head throbbed.
He understood why Jeong In-gi was saying this.
In truth, Seon-woo had a tendency to treat Method Acting like a cure-all. The more you immerse yourself in a role, the better the performance, isn’t that how it works?—he’d harbored such thoughts.
Perhaps Method Acting had been the easy path for him.
Compared to typical Method actors, it was simple enough: all Seon-woo had to do was detonate his Color Orbs more frantically.
But to act as ‘Kim Seon-woo’… first, he had to grow. Develop further, understand more.
Who Kim Seon-woo was.
What kind of person he was, what kind of actor.
‘…Who am I?’
Seon-woo posed the question to himself.
And all he could do was laugh—hollow and helpless.
If someone asked “Who is Yi Bang-won?”, Seon-woo could talk endlessly. Given enough time, he could compose an entire thesis right then and there.
But this simple question—”Who is Kim Seon-woo?”—yielded… ironically, nothing.
Not a single word.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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