The Genius Actor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 28

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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 28

“You’ve already drafted the screenplay?”

In truth, Kim Suho’s surprise didn’t stem from anything positive.

‘If he wrote it this quickly, the quality’s bound to be poor.’

He didn’t want to get involved with that kind of project.

‘Still, looking at that confidence, he must have considerable on-set experience.’

The thought crossed his mind that this might be an actor he’d heard of while he was absorbed in his own work. He searched “Yeon Gijun” on the internet.
Nothing came up, as expected.

“Let’s look at it at School first and discuss it then.”

After hanging up, Kim Suho exhaled a long sigh, thinking of him.

“What exactly is he doing?”

* * *

After I hung up, I sat quietly for a moment, staring at Kim Suho’s contact information.
Working together with Kim Suho as an actor.
Memories from before my Regression surfaced—facing him as a distant lead and a nameless extra—and in that same instant, a scorching hunger flared up from deep in my chest.
I wanted to match Kim Suho’s acting without falling short.
I wanted to stand as his equal.
Because my acting had been going well all this time, it seemed I’d come to harbor this ambition as well.
Just then, someone opened the door and came in.

“Are you… all right?”

It was Choi Byungchul.
Go away, I thought.
Contrary to my wish, Choi Byungchul hesitated, then dragged over a chair and deliberately sat down across from me.

“I heard you coughing a few times earlier.”

He kept using the term for an older person.
I recalled how Lee Hyunjin had scolded me last time because Choi Byungchul hadn’t called me by that title.

“…I’m fine.”
“I watched you acting just now. I already knew you were good from the first shoot on set, but… that acting. I think I’ll never be able to forget it.”

Choi Byungchul set a hand warmer on top of me.
I wondered if my character analysis of Choi Byungchul had been off, but soon enough I understood why he was complimenting me and treating me well.
He must have decided there was value in using me—someone who’d earned the recognition of the senior Lee Hyunjin and held the reins on set.
Calculating, perhaps, but his instinct for reading the room was sharp.

“How’s your group project coming along?”
“We’ve hit some rough patches, but it’ll work out.”

I muttered it off carelessly.
In truth, calling it rough patches was generous—there were too many captains and the ship was headed for the mountains.
That’s why I’d resolved to take the reins of the planning myself.
There was no point in continuing to meet with teammates who couldn’t reach consensus; nothing would ever get decided that way.

* * *

Professor Ahn Chiwon’s class had been converted into a meeting time for students to work on their group projects, but today he lectured on theory first.

“The most important thing in acting isn’t emotion. Stanislavski never told actors to find their feelings.”

He wrote two words on the board.

Objective
Action

“Objective and action. Every character wants something. And they act to obtain it.”

He set down the chalk.

“What an actor must do isn’t express emotion—it’s act toward achieving their objective. For instance, say you have a line: ‘I’m sorry.’ Choi Byungchul, would you stand up?”

Knowing he’d been called out before, Choi Byungchul sprang to his feet immediately.

“Let’s say you were late to meet a friend. When your objective is to soothe your friend’s wounded feelings, how would you act it?”

He pondered for a moment, then his expression grew melancholy as he spoke.

“I… I’m sorry.”

It was the acting of someone remembering being scolded by Professor Ahn for arriving late to class before.

“Now Shin Dahye, your turn. If your objective is to break up with your partner, how would you say ‘I’m sorry’?”

Shin Dahye delivered the line with an expression both melancholy and irritated, practically shouting.

“Ugh, hey! I said I’m sorry, didn’t I? Huh? I said I’m sorry!! I’m sorryyyyyyy!”

Professor Ahn had several other students try as well.
Even a single line could be expressed differently depending on the circumstances and objective.

“With the line ‘I’m sorry,’ you could seek forgiveness. Or you could break up with someone. Even if the words are the same, when the objective changes, the acting transforms completely. I hope you’ll keep that in mind as you create this piece.”

After Professor Ahn’s lecture ended, each group dispersed to hold their meetings.
Han Seohyun, who had no friends, was already sitting beside me, and Kim Suho, who’d been sitting a little distance away, came over to us.
After waking Baek Arin, who’d been dozing behind the tall male student, I began speaking in earnest.

“First, I’ve compiled all the opinions we shared at our last meeting. The view that quality matters, and the view that we want to produce it as video. After thinking it over carefully, I realized there’s a perfect theme for us.”
“A web drama?”
“No. A web drama would be difficult to film over one semester. So what about… a short film?”

A brief silence.
Then Baek Arin stood up.

“Wow, that’s great!”

Maybe because she runs a YouTube channel, Baek Arin seems to love anything video-related unconditionally.
I was relieved she was on board.
I handed out the draft screenplay I’d written to my group members.

“Oh, you’ve already gotten this far?”

Perhaps thinking she could finally catch a break, Baek Arin was delighted.
She’d definitely mentioned getting an academic warning before.
I’d need to stay in touch and keep on top of her progress.

“First, let me give you a quick synopsis: it’s about a perfectionist director and the actor who suffers under his direction.”

A moment of silence fell over the group.
They seemed anxious at the mention of a ‘film set’ as the subject matter.
The group members cautiously turned to the first page of the screenplay and began to read.
Han Seohyun was the first to finish and react.

“I—I think it’s good.”

I was grateful for that.
My relief at Han Seohyun’s positive response was short-lived; the other two’s expressions were decidedly less bright.

“I don’t really understand this synopsis.”

Baek Arin set down the screenplay and shook her head.

“Even if an actor immerses themselves in their role, it doesn’t justify everything. How could someone actually kill another person? Wouldn’t that cross a moral line? It seems like there’s no good reason for the character’s emotions to be this extreme.”

Baek Arin had taken issue with plausibility and morality.
Kim Suho, who had read through to the final page with meticulous care, spoke up as well.

“The conceptual direction is certainly intriguing, but there are still quite a few shortcomings when you look at it as a screenplay.”

Kim Suho had zeroed in on quality once again.
He wasn’t wrong.
I’d spent a good stretch playing the lead in “Shipwreck” and read Kim Sukhyun’s screenplay any number of times.
Now, looking at the screenplay I’d written with my own hands, the rough limitations became painfully clear.
Writers have a saying.
Your eye level and your hand level are different.
The works you see all the time are masterpieces, so your eye is keen—but what you create with your own hands falls short of that standard.
I understood that saying well.
I hadn’t honestly expected this first draft alone to persuade both of them outright.
It was nothing more than a ‘first draft’ to lay the groundwork, after all.
I turned to Baek Arin and spoke matter-of-factly.

“If you only go for realism, then it’s not cinema. If you try to make everything realistic, it becomes a documentary.”
“Hmm, is that so?”

In the end, Baek Arin accepted it with an uncertain expression, leaving only Kim Suho as the one holding out.

“Let’s each draft the outline a bit further.”

We ended without deciding anything concrete until the third class.
I was an actor, not a writer.
I understood how to construct a synopsis through analysis, but I didn’t know how to flesh it out into actual dialogue.
I thought about heading to the Library to find materials on playwriting, read them, and study online.
But human ability isn’t something that grows simply and swiftly like in a web novel.
I couldn’t possibly produce quality work in just a few days.
More than that, improving this into a better screenplay wasn’t my job.
There was one person I could trust to do it.
I made my way to the School Cafeteria.
After ordering a meal, I sat down and set the screenplay draft in front of me, pretending to be lost in serious thought.
I deliberately scattered the pages across the table so that others’ eyes would be drawn in this direction.
Now I just had to wait.
How long would it take?
It wasn’t long at all.

“Seongsu, how was class?”

Kim Seongsu clapped me on the back from behind.
This bastard.

“Hey, what brings you here?”
“Class just ended. Thought I’d grab some food.”

We’d become friends on Eta, so I knew his schedule.
I’d figured he’d show up around this time to eat.

“Oh yeah? My treat.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Plus, I got that character analysis sheet from you last time. So.”

He’d ordered the most expensive item on the Cafeteria menu, which was a bit annoying, but this much was still worth doing for him.
Especially compared to what I’d be asking of him later.

“Are you writing a screenplay?”
“Yeah. Professor Ahn’s class — I have to create a work for it.”
“Can I take a look?”

Kim Seongsu had taken the bait.

“Of course.”

Kim Seongsu read through the screenplay draft with deliberate slowness.
His concentration was extraordinary.
Even after the food arrived and cooled, he didn’t glance away even once, his eyes fixed entirely on the draft.
After a long stretch, he finally set the pages down.

“Your synopsis is really solid, though?”

Good. Looks like this is working out.

“That said, the dialogue and specific details of the screenplay still feel pretty rough in places.”
“Yeah. I heard the same thing from the people on my group project last time, so I’m revising it.”
“Even so, it’s impressive. You must be busy with the Shipwreck shoot, but you’ve got talent. If you restructure the scenes like this….”

That’s probably why Kim Seongsu took so long — he was reinterpreting and synthesizing the scenes in his head.
He pulled a pen from his pocket.

“This scene resolves the conflict too quickly. If you stretch it out a bit, the tension would come alive much more.”

Scratch.

“The protagonist’s dialogue here is too explanatory too. Showing it through action would work better.”

Scratch.

“And the final scene… hmm.”

Before I knew it, my screenplay was covered in red marks.

“Seongsu.”
“Hmm?”
“I want this. Want to work on the screenplay with me?”

Mission accomplished.

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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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