The Genius Actor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 35

I remembered him saying that in an interview after the Berlin Film Festival.

-“I don’t have the courage to pull out those emotions from that time in their entirety. It seems like something I’d struggle to face unless I go back to the past.”

“I found it a bit surprising. That Ki Jun would choose that project.”

Manager Park Do-hyun said from beside me.

“Why is that?”
“I thought you might lean more toward commercial films rather than independent films. Your skills are excellent, after all.”

There was one thing he didn’t know.
Among commercial films, there wasn’t a single successful one I could land right now.
It wasn’t that there weren’t films that would do well.
But the roles I could take on ranged from high school students to late twenties.
Within those character types, I had to choose supporting roles.
Among the films and dramas currently recruiting for auditions, there was nothing worth auditioning for.
And more than anything….

“This film is going to succeed.”

Even though it was a film that never even began the crank-in, I had absolute confidence it would succeed.
Because it’s director Hong Young-do.

* * *

The audition was scheduled for 5 p.m. at a dance studio near Seokgyesan Station.
Director Hong Young-do was asleep, slumped over a desk.
Cinematographer Lee Jae-seok, seeing this, gently shook him awake.

“Director Hong, Director Hong!”
“Huh…?”
“You need to wake up. The actor will be arriving soon.”

Hong Young-do, who had been asleep slumped over the desk, rubbed his sleepy eyes and sat up.

“Already…?”
“Good grief, how much did you run yesterday? I told you to drink in moderation, didn’t I?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep well last night….”

Lee Jae-seok and director Hong Young-do had worked together at the production company for a long time.
When director Hong Young-do, who’d stepped away from the industry, called him out of the blue, they’d ended up working together again.

“Director Hong, get your head in the game.”
“Yes, my apologies.”

Hong Young-do wiped his mouth absently and stood up.
After splashing his face with water, he read through the profiles of the actors coming in today.

“There are definitely a lot of singers among them.”
“Well, the acting has to be solid for us to cast them, but singing ability matters too.”

Lee Jae-seok had previously told Hong Young-do to go to the Super K-pop Star set and scout actors from there.
He’d managed to get access only by asking a favor from a PD he knew from his college days.
But seeing Hong Young-do reeking of alcohol made him wonder if he’d actually picked the right people.

“Young-do, you only brought one actor, and I’m not sure about them. Are they really suitable?”
“Trust me on this one, hyung.”

Hong Young-do handed over the profile.

“But the people you picked are all singers, aren’t they?”
“Come on. You think I don’t know that? I’m aware their acting needs work. But what can I do? Our protagonist, Choi Yeo-woon, is a singer in the story.”

Even if the actors from singing backgrounds fit the role, most of them hadn’t spent years honing their craft, and it showed in everyday scenes—awkward and rough around the edges.

“And when the acting is good, the singing falls short.”

Lee Jae-seok had also reached out to actors whose singing was just a hobby, inviting them to audition.
Naturally, none of them sang as well as professional musicians.

“Then why didn’t you cast someone? Instead of getting drunk?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Ugh, you’re hopeless.”

Lee Jae-seok, the cinematographer, felt like he might just smack Hong Young-do on the back of the head.

“Never mind. Let’s get something straight first. Does the actor absolutely have to sing?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Can’t we just do post-synchronization and dub in someone else’s voice?”
“The duet scene with Ha-ru and Choi Yeo-woon—the female and male leads—can’t be done any other way. When the actors sing it themselves, you get a presence you can only capture on set in that moment.”

Lee Jae-seok the cinematographer let out a sigh.
Damn.
He didn’t remember Hong Young-do being this rigid back in the day.
Knowing further conversation would only breed frustration, Lee Jae-seok turned his attention back to the profiles.

“Wait—who is this actor?”

Hong Young-do blinked and examined the file the assistant director had given him.

“Oh, this one. I met them when I went to that singing audition program last time—they were doing Musical Theater.”
“Musical Theater?”

An unusual person, indeed.
There’s no particular reason to do Musical Theater if we’re not doing song-based work.

“So is he aiming to be a Musical Theater actor?”
“I’m not entirely sure about that. The thing is, this actor never went through the audition process — he just came straight in.”

The more I heard, the stranger this actor seemed.

“He’s a newcomer who shot a short film and a commercial recently — how’s his acting?”
“From what I saw in the Musical Theater performance, it wasn’t bad. The only concern is that I’m unsure how he’ll handle dialogue.”

Lee Jae-seok’s cinematographer tilted his head in puzzlement.

‘Did you just bring him along on a whim after drinking…?’

Time passed.
The applicant that Lee Jae-seok and Hong Young-do had mentioned opened the door and entered.

“Hello.”
“Yes, hello.”

Hong Young-do and Director Lee Jae-seok, seated across a desk, greeted Ki Jun.
Even Hong Young-do, suffering from a hangover, forced his eyes wide open and tried to gather himself for this moment.

“Let’s start with an interview as an icebreaker to ease the tension. I see you’ve only had two shooting experiences. You must have started acting fairly recently?”
“No. I’ve been doing this for over fifteen years, but the preparation process took quite a while.”

Lee Jae-seok’s first thought upon hearing this was

‘Is he exaggerating?’

So Lee Jae-seok decided to press further.

“To be honest, from our perspective, your preparation period has been so long that we’re worried you might not adapt well to a film set without shooting experience.”
“I don’t think that’s something you need to worry about. I’ve prepared for a long time, and I believe this is exactly the moment to show the world what I’ve been working toward.”

Interesting.
For a newcomer, that’s quite a bold statement.
While newcomers tend to be experimental, that kind of unguarded confidence is actually a weapon on set.
Director Hong Young-do finally opened his mouth.

“We already know from the performance that you sing well. But we haven’t really seen your acting yet.”

Hong Young-do handed Ki Jun the script sides.

“As we mentioned in the synopsis we sent via message, the role we’re proposing for you is Choi Yeo-woon. He’s an unknown singer whose dream is to perform at the largest concert hall in the country.”

Director Lee Jae-seok recalled the screenplay as he listened to Hong Young-do.
Even now, it was such a unique scenario.
The film’s opening scene begins with Choi Yeo-woon watching Ha-ru, his girlfriend and a pianist, die, and falling into despair.
The subsequent scenes unfold gradually, from the moment the two first met to when they began dating.
Interspersed throughout are scenes of Choi Yeo-woon in the present, mourning the dead Ha-ru.

“Before falling in love, Choi Yeo-woon desperately wants to become a famous singer. But it’s just a dream out of reach.”

Then one day, the protagonist Choi Yeo-woon finds himself preparing for a small project-based performance as an unknown singer.
The pianist who came for this performance was none other than the female lead, Ha-ru.
Once Ki Jun finished analyzing the scene, Director Lee Jae-seok began reading Ha-ru’s lines.

“Um… the piano isn’t tuned.”
“Why are you telling me that?”

Lee Jae-seok’s eyes widened as he fed Ki Jun his next line.

‘His voice… it changed?’

Until moments ago, Ki Jun’s tone had been gentle and composed. This was something else entirely.
An indifference that dismissed the existence of others without a second thought.
The cold rejection that cut through in a single breath had left Lee Jae-seok momentarily speechless, but he shook himself back to awareness and hurried to pick up his cue.

“Really? Ah, that’s… I heard you’ve done several performances here before.”
“I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to ask the other staff.”

Choi Yeo-woon’s indifference etched itself clearly into the scene, and the dialogue flowed like water into the next beat.

“Your dream is quite unique. Performing at the largest concert venue in the country, no less.”
“Hm. Must be the alcohol talking. I suddenly feel like sharing things I wouldn’t normally say.”

Hong Young-do had harbored one lingering doubt even after inviting Ki Jun to audition.
If a twenty-two-year-old actor played Choi Yeo-woon—a man in his late twenties—it simply didn’t seem to fit.
At twenty-two, he reasoned, one couldn’t have truly known despair.
Yet that concern was proven unfounded by Ki Jun’s next line.

“When I told my father back then that I wanted to be a singer, he said something to me.”

Ki Jun drew in a deep breath.
In those eyes burned a regret that shattered the chest.

“If you’re going to waste your time on that nonsense, pack your things and get out of this house.”

Dark and dreary though the atmosphere was, it never tipped into melodrama.
That restraint—emotions pressed down and released with stark simplicity—created a chilling sense of reality.
In that breathless immersion, Hong Young-do felt the alcohol drain from his system entirely.
Hong Young-do swallowed hard.
The image of Choi Yeo-woon that had been faintly forming in his mind now stood before him, fully realized.

“Excellent. Thank you for your time.”

Hong Young-do’s decision crystallized.

“Let’s shoot together, shall we?”

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