I Acted Once, and Now They Call Me a Genius - Chapter 227

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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 227
“You two seemed to have quite the long conversation earlier. What did he say?”
“Oh, that?”
Seo Tae-rok’s question made Jeong In-gi shrug.
“He told me my Method Acting wasn’t very good.”
“……He threw quite a difficult question at someone still so young.”
Seo Tae-rok smiled ruefully, then regarded Jeong In-gi as if he understood.
“It seems you’ve taken quite a liking to Kim Seon-woo.”
“Ahem. Well, you directors really do see through people’s hearts too well.”
Jeong In-gi cleared his throat awkwardly.
Then, in a curious tone, he opened his mouth.
“……I just thought—I’d like to die to Kim Seon-woo’s portrayal of Yi Bang-won, not just any Yi Bang-won.”
Why?
Seo Tae-rok didn’t ask such an obvious question. He already understood why that impulse had taken root.
He let out a soft laugh.
“Then I hope you meet such a death.”
Jeong In-gi’s expression grew strange.
“……Thank you?”
* * *
Don’t rely on Method Acting.
Jeong In-gi’s counsel left a deeper impression on Seon-woo than he’d anticipated.
It couldn’t be helped. This was his first time receiving advice from an actor of Jeong In-gi’s caliber, and it happened to be about Method Acting, no less.
‘……In a sense, I’m actually a Method actor myself.’
Compared to those who indulge in eccentric preparations for Method work, his everyday demeanor might appear normal. But Seon-woo’s acting style was closer to Method than anyone else’s.
He was the type to erase himself entirely, painting his own being in the colors of his character.
Even during One Room and Red Zone, Seon-woo had habitually burst Color Orbs throughout his daily life.
It was inevitable.
The Color Orb—this cheat-like ability that wrapped him in the character’s emotional essence in an instant—he couldn’t afford not to use it.
But the moment Jeong In-gi had told him “don’t rely so heavily on Method,” Seon-woo felt as though he’d been struck on the back of the head.
‘Was I not using the Color Orbs…… but rather being dragged along by them?’
Seon-woo lifted Yi Bang-won’s Color Orb onto his palm.
Then, instead of bursting it, he closed his eyes and began to slowly immerse himself in Yi Bang-won’s emotion.
And then—a color appeared, admittedly a bit crude, that resembled what had hovered above his palm before—the color began to seep into his body.
Spring. That was Yi Bang-won’s color.
……Compared to the hue the Color Orb held, it carried a slightly cooler tone, but the grain of the color was fundamentally similar.
The problem was that the speed and scope of the color’s spread had become dramatically reduced compared to when he burst the Color Orb.
Recently, Seon-woo had been able to emit enough color from bursting a Color Orb alone to tint the entire set. But now, without any warm-up, only his body barely took on the hue.
‘If I don’t burst the Color Orbs, the speed at which emotion builds up drops significantly.’
It was unavoidable in practical terms.
Actors didn’t emphasize taking time to ground their emotions for nothing. Rather, having been able to plunge into perfect immersion instantly without such a warm-up period until now had been the unrealistic part.
You could say he’d been getting by without putting in the work.
Of course, Seon-woo wasn’t actually thinking of giving up the Color Orbs.
That would be meaningless. If you have a weapon, you should think about how to use it. If Jeong In-gi had known about the Color Orbs, his advice to Seon-woo would probably have been different.
Use the Color Orbs, but don’t be dragged along by them.
Don’t stop at understanding and immersing yourself in the character—you need to be able to act it through your own style.
The problem was: what style was that?
‘……This is ridiculous.’
He’d become an actor without knowing what kind of actor he was.
What was the difference between him and a chef selling food without knowing what ingredients went into it?
Seon-woo admitted that he’d been negligent.
He’d thought that as an actor, studying the character was all he needed to do. He’d never gotten around to studying himself.
‘Nothing’s changed since One Room.’
Back then, Seon-woo had been quite shocked when he saw the “Kim Seon-woo” that Ryu had painted.
He’d never imagined himself to be such an ash-gray human being. ……Or rather, he’d thought things had improved by now.
And yet, Seon-woo remained perpetually ignorant of himself. Perhaps he was even somewhat indifferent to his own being.
Maybe Seon-woo still didn’t find himself particularly attractive. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to look deeper.
……But he had to look deeper.
He’d convinced himself that to act, you needed to know yourself.
Seon-woo pulled out a notebook.
Then he tried to organize everything he knew about himself.
What he liked, what he disliked, which parts were complexes, what he took pride in.
But,
“Cut.”
It seemed insufficient.
During the subsequent shoot in Gaegyeong—going from place to place, persuading people in scene after scene—Seon-woo fell back into the infinite cut nightmare.
The reason Seo Tae-rok kept calling cuts was simple.
“There’s not enough energy. This is a momentous instant, finally bringing down Goryeo. Give me that excitement, that helpless thrill you showed when meeting Jeong Do-jeon.”
Seo Tae-rok’s standards had risen considerably.
The energy and dimensionality Seon-woo had shown while working with Jeong In-gi had captivated him.
The problem was that for Seon-woo to display that same energy as before, he’d need to burst Color Orbs constantly, to the point of erasing himself entirely—just as he had then.
For Seon-woo, who’d just resolved not to depend on Color Orbs, this was troublesome.
So he tried his best. Maybe, he thought, this could be an opportunity. A chance to act properly without relying on Color Orbs.
But,
“Cut.”
“Cut.”
“Cut.”
Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut.
As an endless barrage of cuts rained down, Seon-woo’s aspirations crumbled inevitably. If this were a solo shoot, he’d endure a hundred times, a thousand times over, but as he watched fatigue settle inexorably across the faces of the staff members and his scene partner, he simply couldn’t bear it.
“……Wouldn’t doing so rather become an act of protecting the people?”
In the end, Seon-woo had no choice but to burst the Color Orbs.
To the extent of erasing himself entirely, profusely.
And,
“Cut. ……Good. Just a touch more like this.”
Seo Tae-rok, with an almost supernatural sense, caught that shift in Seon-woo and gave his approval.
Of course, this wasn’t entirely cause for celebration from Seon-woo’s perspective. It meant, ultimately, that he couldn’t act properly without the Color Orbs.
‘Am I being too ambitious?’
Perhaps so.
Jeong In-gi hadn’t told Seon-woo overnight to change his acting style. Maybe it was better to treat this not as an immediate problem to solve, but as a long-term challenge to ponder over time.
But here, Seon-woo grasped one more truth about himself.
#Notebook. Kim Seon-woo, once he fixates on something, rarely lets go.
Whatever the object may be. Sometimes it was studying, sometimes mere toys like spinning tops or yoyos.
The important thing was that Seon-woo always had to see things through to the end once he became obsessed.
Of course, there were things like basketball—he’d pursued it for years before finally giving up—but……he’d given his full effort for those years too, right up until he decided it was hindering his game.
The important thing was that Seon-woo had now become fixated on the concept of “Kim Seon-woo’s acting.”
He wanted an acting style that wasn’t consumed by the character, but something only he could do.
But it seemed that time wasn’t now.
So throughout the shooting of the persuasion scenes in Gaegyeong, Seon-woo had to keep demonstrating Semi-Method Acting through Color Orbs.
Otherwise, the atmosphere suggested the shoot would drag on for hours.
And thus, finally,
“It’s been a while, everyone.”
Lee Seong-gye had arrived in Gaegyeong.
More precisely, Gwon Seong-min had appeared on set. Now they were about to shoot the Battle of Gaegyeong—the final battle where Choi Young and Lee Seong-gye wager the very fate of Goryeo.
For Seon-woo, this was the first time he’d encountered Gwon Seong-min on set.
Until now, Lee Seong-gye had been shooting continuously at the Wihwado location.
‘……What kind of acting will he show?’
Of course, he’d seen Gwon Seong-min’s acting several times through video footage.
But video and a live set are entirely different experiences. Video allows you to glimpse the most heightened emotional arc within precise framing and lighting, whereas on set you see raw, unrefined emotion in its truest form.
Even Jeong In-gi, who had seemed infinitely imposing to Seon-woo, spoke of Gwon Seong-min’s acting as being in a completely different league.
He wanted to know what it would feel like to act alongside Gwon Seong-min.
What kind of painting did Gwon Seong-min create, how his world shone—he wanted to feel it.
And,
‘The senior said that if I watched Gwon Seong-min’s acting, I’d understand. Why he doesn’t recommend Method Acting.’
Gwon Seong-min wasn’t particularly known for Method Acting.
Rather, he belonged to the opposite camp. He was said to construct a character best suited to each film and scene. Seon-woo had once heard this described in some documentary about his acting.
Perhaps because of that.
In his usual demeanor, Gwon Seong-min didn’t particularly radiate the atmosphere of Lee Seong-gye from Yeokjeok. He didn’t seem to be preparing intense emotional immersion; rather, he was laughing casually as he conversed with Seo Tae-rok and others, looking nothing like someone about to film.
But soon he would deliver incredible acting.
Seon-woo felt suddenly tense.
The scene they were about to shoot was a secret meeting between Yi Bang-won and Lee Seong-gye upon the latter’s arrival in Gaegyeong.
Yi Bang-won speaks—informing him that all family members, including Mrs. Kang, are safe; that the people of Gaegyeong are already wavering; that in the end, they won’t hold out.
And as Yi Bang-won speaks, Lee Seong-gye responds coldly.
Don’t underestimate Goryeo.
A five-hundred-year-old tree, even if rotting, doesn’t topple easily.
To be honest, there was nothing to be especially nervous about in this scene. There was no sensitive dialogue between them, no heightened emotions.
Yet Seon-woo didn’t let his guard down.
He’d been burned more than once before, thinking “it’ll be fine” against veteran actors.
‘This time will be no exception.’
He wasn’t facing just anyone. It was Gwon Seong-min.
Seon-woo had no intention of dropping his guard against him. He wanted to give his absolute best and perform in such a way that later, he’d never think “I wish I’d acted differently back then.”
And to do that,
“Senior. Would you perhaps have a moment to spare regarding the next scene?”
“Oh, it’s Seon-woo.”
He had to steal time from the actor’s schedule.
Gwon Seong-min responded to Seon-woo’s approach with a plain nod.
“Sure, let’s get some chemistry going. How about we run through it once and then talk?”
“Ah, yes! That would be wonderful.”
Seon-woo’s face brightened.
It was the opposite reaction from Jeong In-gi. Jeong In-gi had actually said he didn’t want to rehearse separately before filming, but here Gwon Seong-min, before they’d even talked, was suggesting they establish their chemistry first.
For Seon-woo, that was actually preferable.
He’d been curious about what it would feel like to act alongside Gwon Seong-min anyway.
And then, moments later……
‘……What is this?’
Seon-woo was left utterly speechless.

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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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