The Genius Actor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 36
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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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Chapter 36
After the audition.
As I rode in the car Park Do-hyeon was driving, I felt pleased about landing the role, yet a nagging doubt about Hong Young-do had begun to take root.
The last time we met, I’d dismissed it as nothing more than “The director must have had too much to drink the night before.”
But on the day of the audition itself, the smell of alcohol hung thick in the air.
The Hong Young-do I knew was not that sort of person.
Well, people do mature with age, I suppose.
Besides, in theater circles, drinking sessions are as routine as breath itself—there was nothing unusual about a director enjoying alcohol.
At least his skill was beyond question.
But there was one thing that truly intrigued me.
Once we’d settled in the office, I asked Kim Hyeon-deok.
“Sir, I’m stepping into Director Hong Young-do’s production, as you know. Would it be possible to find out who my scene partner is?”
Background research was the Kim family’s specialty.
He would already know.
“I only heard it secondhand from someone in the industry, but from what I gather…”
As expected—he’d already done his homework thoroughly.
“Lee Ha-eun, I believe?”
“Lee Ha-eun?”
Lee Ha-eun.
I’d heard she’d dropped out of university despite majoring in piano, choosing the actor’s path instead.
With about five years between us in age, she’d be twenty-seven now.
Lee Ha-eun was an actress for whom recognition took an extraordinarily long time to come.
The reason was simple.
She couldn’t act.
Her acting would only truly blossom quite a while down the road.
Had she been cast simply because she was a pianist?
Hmm.
A feeling crept over me that filming wouldn’t run smoothly.
* * *
The Reading was to take place at Hong Young-do’s office.
Arriving early, I found no one else there yet.
Only the actors’ nameplates sat arranged on the table.
I found my own among them.
The larger the role, the closer to the director—my nameplate was positioned right beside Hong Young-do’s.
In “Shipwreck,” that was where the veteran lead actor Lee Hyeon-jin had sat.
Looking at it now, I couldn’t help but feel a tightness in my chest.
But then the reality of working with Lee Ha-eun settled over me, and my composure returned.
After a brief wait, Lee Ha-eun walked in.
“Hello, senior. My name is Yeon Gi-jun.”
I gave a slight bow in greeting, keeping my face neutral.
“Ah, the director mentioned you to me. He said your acting is quite strong…”
“Thank you.”
From our brief exchange, I noted that her pronunciation and vocal delivery weren’t poor, at least.
An actor must cultivate the habit of articulating clearly even in everyday speech.
On set, there’s no room to fuss over pronunciation.
In that sense, at least he seemed to be working earnestly.
“When did you make your debut?”
“About six months ago, I think. One commercial film, a short film I made with friends, and this is my third project.”
“Oh my, you’re just getting started then?”
Lee Ha-eun smiled as she spoke.
When had Lee Ha-eun debuted, anyway?
Her career didn’t seem particularly long either.
“Ah, you’re both here?”
Director Hong Young-do and cinematographer Lee Jae-seok entered carrying coffee.
Director Hong Young-do… smelled of alcohol again today.
Did this man lack discipline in his younger days?
“Ha-eun, your coffee.”
“Thank you… Director.”
It was painfully obvious that the two had known each other beforehand—Lee Ha-eun had started to speak casually before catching herself and switching to formal speech in front of me.
Had she been cast through personal connections?
As I pondered this, cinematographer Lee Jae-seok asked me a question.
“Actor Yeon, how have you been?”
“I’ve been well, working hard on physical training and practicing singing and acting, Director. How about you?”
“I’ve been busy myself, going out on location shoots and such.”
Had cinematographer Lee Jae-seok gone out on location shoots alone, or had he gone with Director Hong Young-do?
I found myself curious about Director Hong Young-do’s demeanor, but this wasn’t the time or place for me to ask.
“Shall we start the Reading?”
“Yes, let’s do that.”
* * *
Before the formal Reading began, we started with formal introductions in order.
“I’m Hong Young-do, handling both the screenplay and direction for . While I have substantial experience producing films and dramas, this is my first time working as an overall director, so I’m aware there may be many shortcomings. I’d be grateful for any feedback from the cast and crew as we work through the production.”
Then it was my turn.
“Hello, I’m Yeon Gi-jun, a newcomer actor. I’m grateful to have been cast in the lead role despite having only recently debuted. Since this is my first lead role, I’ll give it my full effort.”
Even as I said it myself, I felt a flutter of emotion.
Regardless of it being an independent film, it was a lead role.
Me, who couldn’t even land minor roles properly.
Clap-clap-clap-clap.
After the applause, it was Lee Ha-eun’s turn.
“Hello, I’m Lee Ha-eun. I look forward to working with you all.”
She bowed her head as she greeted us, then took her seat.
Her eyes were heavy with dark circles beneath them—she clearly hadn’t slept well.
centered on the female lead Ha-ru and male lead Choi Yeo-un, so there were very few supporting roles.
With only a handful of people in the Reading room, the introductions wrapped up quickly.
“It would be wonderful if the actors got close to each other quickly. The closer you are, the better the chemistry. I’d love for you both to discuss the material together.”
I looked at Lee Ha-eun with a smile and gave a small nod.
She raised her hand in kind, matching my gesture.
“Then… I’ll start from the opening scene. Gi-jun, set aside the future sequence for now — we’ll begin with the past. Ready, action.”
The first meeting between Choi Yeo-un and the session musicians who would perform together on this project.
“You’re a vocalist?”
“Yes.”
I tossed back Lee Ha-eun’s line bluntly, letting it fall across the table between us.
Still unfamiliar with the Reading’s rhythm, Lee Ha-eun kept her eyes fixed on the script, her voice wavering slightly as she delivered her next line.
“Ah… I’m a musician. Do you happen to know where we’re supposed to meet?”
“It’s written on the wall. The conference room down there.”
“…I’m sorry.”
“Geez, really. Can’t you see what’s right in front of you?”
I could see the tension knotted in her fingertips as she delivered her lines.
Fortunately, the early scenes aligned the character Ha-ru’s awkward first encounter with the actress Lee Ha-eun’s genuine discomfort so perfectly that the falseness never quite surfaced.
The real problem emerged in the later scenes, as the narrative deepened.
“That must have been difficult. Your father… you still don’t hear from him?”
“No, there’s nothing to contact him about. He passed away years ago.”
The emotional scene where Ha-ru in the script opens her heart and holds Choi Yeo-un’s painful past with tenderness.
The initial tension had to dissolve completely here.
“Shall I… lend you my shoulder?”
Clumsy, rigid delivery hung flat over words that needed to radiate warmth.
“Cut, cut! Hold on. Ha-eun, what’s wrong with your performance?”
Director Hong Young-do, who’d been watching, finally interrupted.
The sound of the script closing shut down the air in the room like a sudden cold snap.
Lee Ha-eun ran through the scene again and again, following Director Hong Young-do’s direction each time.
What struck me as odd was that Director Hong Young-do offered me no feedback whatsoever.
Sensing she alone kept racking up No Goods, Lee Ha-eun bit her lip harder, her words coming out sharper.
“Come on, stop! Doesn’t anyone else matter? How long are we supposed to keep adjusting everything for Yeo-un’s sake?”
Her voice strained with barely contained frustration.
“Cut, cut! Ha-eun, your anger’s too crude. I need to see a refined person finally snapping after holding it in—right now it looks like someone with no refinement at all.”
“I apologize. I’ll try again.”
The direction kept coming, relentless.
But the more she adjusted, the deeper she sank.
“No, that’s not it. Ha-eun, what I mean is….”
“Ha-eun, you need to flow through the line a bit more smoothly here….”
“Ha-eun, this is….”
As the Reading wore on, Lee Ha-eun’s face grew darker.
Staring blankly at her script with the glazed look of someone whose nerve had shattered, she seemed beyond recovery within the hour.
The Reading pressed on, repeatedly stopping to run just Lee Ha-eun’s lines again, until even Director Hong Young-do’s patience visibly frayed.
“Lee Ha-eun!”
Director Hong Young-do’s sharp rebuke cut through the air, freezing the entire Reading room.
In that instant, Kim Hyeon-deok, the cinematographer, slipped between them and began to mediate, opening his mouth to speak.
“All right, shall we take a short break?”
* * *
The day after the Reading.
Sitting in class, I found myself unable to concentrate on a word the professor was saying.
I’d encountered a variable I hadn’t anticipated.
The lead role of Ha-ru in *A Sweet Dream* belonged to Lee Ha-eun.
There was no doubt—Lee Ha-eun would be replaced.
After watching her performance, there were plenty of actresses who could take her place.
But a director like Hong Young-do, one who valued realism above all, would insist that his actors play the piano themselves.
That meant conflict was inevitable between Lee Jae-seok and Hong Young-do.
“Everyone, once you’re on set, you’ll face countless unexpected variables. Your scene partner might show up half-delirious after nights without sleep, or they might be sick, or suddenly flub their lines.”
Perhaps it was because the situation echoed so strangely with yesterday’s Reading.
Professor Ahn Chi-won’s voice cut through my thoughts with uncommon clarity.
“Actors who think ‘I just need to do my part well’ never last long.”
The words stung.
“When your partner wavers, catch them. Even if they stumble over a line, don’t nitpick—flow with it naturally, and that’s true skill. And if your partner can’t find their emotion, don’t blame them alone. Help them find it.”
I saw Lee Ha-eun again as she’d been yesterday, exhausted and barely holding on.
“A great actor is one who gives their partner an opportunity. Learn to shine together, not alone. In this group project, I want you to approach it with an attitude of caring for each other, not trying to stand out by yourself.”
I was not a good-natured pushover.
I moved only when there was something in it for me, or when staying still meant losing ground.
So I’d intended to help Lee Ha-eun only if it benefited me or erased a potential loss.
And yet I’d ended up with no choice but to help her.
Lee Ha-eun was one of the investors behind *A Sweet Dream*.
If she was cut from the production, we couldn’t film it at all.
But Hong Young-do wasn’t the type to worry about that sort of thing.
If he decided to cut her, he would. He wouldn’t keep her around for financial reasons.
And that would mean no filming either way.
I exhaled slowly. There was no getting around it.
After class ended, I unlocked my phone to message Lee Ha-eun.
But she’d beaten me to it.
-You free anytime soon? I need to talk to you about something.
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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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