The Genius Actor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 38

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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 38

Beneath the night sky, the two walked together.

“I’m getting a sense of how to build the inner life now. But it still feels like something’s missing.”
“No actor ever says they’re completely ready with their performance. There isn’t much time left, but if you move forward steadily without rushing, I think you’ll manage just fine.”
“How are you preparing for the role of Choi Yeo-woon?”
“It’s similar to what I told you earlier. My character is a singer, right? So I watched how she walks offstage, how she speaks, what expression she makes just before singing. I kept observing all of that.”

For Gijun, that subject had been Tae-hun.
He deliberately observed how Tae-hun, who was currently appearing on broadcast, behaved in his everyday life.
Observation was a powerful weapon for an actor.

“What about you?”
“Hmm?”
“Is there someone around you similar to Ha-ru?”

Lee Ha-eun’s footsteps halted, just for a moment.

“……There was.”
“Someone similar to the role you’re taking on now?”

Lee Ha-eun gazed up at the night sky for a moment.

“Yes. The way she spoke, her tastes—completely alike.”
“Then go see that person. Observe her.”
“That place is too far to visit, so I’ll have to rely on memory.”
“That works too. Observation is an important quality for an actor.”

Then, as if an idea about her performance had struck him, his eyes widened and a slight smile crossed his face.

“Thanks. I’ve got a better sense of how to play it now.”

* * *

The next day.
After classes ended at Daehan Arts University.

“You haven’t been practicing at school lately, have you?”

For some reason, Kim Su-ho addressed Gijun.
They had no reason to spend time together, having finished their group project early.
Despite being the same age, they hadn’t had enough time or opportunity to grow close enough to use informal speech with each other.
They’d worked on shoots together, but hadn’t talked much beyond that, and both were busy pursuing their own projects.

“I’ve had a lot on my plate lately.”

Gijun quickly gathered his bag and hurried out.
Kim Su-ho watched him leave and found himself thinking.

‘How could a performance like that come from an unknown actor?’

Kim Su-ho had started acting before he even entered elementary school.
Though he’d become an actor due to personal circumstances, that didn’t mean he’d been good from the beginning.

‘He practiced. And practiced again.’

And during this Short Film shoot, he was working on his own drama simultaneously.
I couldn’t call it an excuse, but the thought at least kept me from drowning completely in the sting of defeat.

‘Next time, I won’t lose.’

Kim Su-ho burned with determination in the Practice Room.

* * *

After meeting with Lee Ha-eun, I started calling her to a Practice Room near school as soon classes ended, and we’d train together.
There was far more to discuss than what I’d shown her the last time.

“You’ve analyzed quite a lot of material, haven’t you?”

In that short span of time, she’d crafted a version of Lee Ha-eun’s day that existed nowhere in the script itself—something only she could have imagined.
Even actors who’d spent decades honing their craft rarely plumbed character with this kind of depth.

“I decided to face it after what you said. Sadness, joy, memory—whatever came.”

She spoke with a weighted meaning I couldn’t quite grasp, then smiled softly.

“But just analyzing doesn’t make your acting better.”
“Of course not. You have to embody what you’ve analyzed through physical practice.”

I began teaching her, one piece at a time.

“Ha! Ha!”
“Again. Tighten your core!”

Starting with Vocal Training.

“Breathing is crucial for an actor. Twenty more squats!”
“Ugh, I can’t—I’m done.”
“Yes, you can.”

Building baseline stamina, or

“Your face looks too sad for this moment. The emotion needs to come from Choi Yeo-un, not from Haru. You need to hold the feeling more lightly.”

all the way through to performance technique.
I was applying my own method for training actors to Lee Ha-eun.

“You have to watch your scene partner. Emotion doesn’t come from an actor alone—it comes from your Reaction to the other performer. Some actors say they do no action, only reaction.”
“The pauses between your lines are too long right now; the rhythm feels off. We can edit it, but it’ll still look unnatural.”

And unexpectedly, there was also something I could learn from her.

“Your tone is genuinely good.”
“Thank you.”
“But your pitch keeps dropping mid-line. You’re falling behind on the rhythm too.”

Dialogue, unlike song, doesn’t require strict adherence to pitch and beat.
Perhaps because of that, when I tried to “sing while acting,” my pitch unconsciously slipped.

“Let me play the Piano again—want to try?”
“Yes.”

We spent every day glued to the Practice Room.
Sometimes we’d work until the sun set and rose again.

“Wow, the sun came up.”
“Already?”
“Yeah. You need to get to school early, right?”
“Yes, I should hurry. I have first period today.”
“I’ll drive you. Come on.”
“Oh, awesome.”

This kind of exchange repeated itself several times over.
I taught Lee Ha-eun about acting, and she taught me about music.
Since we were both leads, we had many overlapping scenes.
As a result, we ran the same scene dozens of times and exchanged the same lines hundreds of times, gradually filling in each other’s gaps.

* * *

The day before filming.

A long exhale escaped her.

Lee Ha-eun closed her eyes, a smile playing at her lips.
Thanks to Gijun, she’d finally found her footing with the role.
The pressure of having to prepare before the shoot weighed on her.
But at the same time, she couldn’t wait for filming to begin.
Conflicting emotions tugged at her, yet each session with Gijun only strengthened her anticipation.
Tonight, she thought, she’d have good dreams.
Then came the next day.
They’d rented a small theater near Hyehwa Station, Seoul for the shoot.
Director Hong Young-do and cinematographer Lee Jae-seok arrived early and took charge of the set.

“Hold on. Is this lighting setup actually finished? If we just turn on one par can, everything around it gets pitch dark.”

Director Hong Young-do reeked of alcohol and swayed as he gestured.
Yet his insistence on checking every single piece of equipment made cinematographer Lee Jae-seok grip the back of his neck in frustration.

“Should I lower it a bit?”
“No. A funnel or a bank would work better here….”

Hong Young-do had some experience and genuine talent, but the crew working with him was severely lacking.
Lee Jae-seok and Hong Young-do had to clean up the mess the crew left behind.

“Should we start camera rehearsal?”
“We’re not ready yet. We can’t until all the setup is done.”

The crew members squeezed their eyes shut.
They understood it was for the sake of a good production, but his standards were exhaustingly high.

“Let’s take a ten-minute break before we officially start filming.”

After being worn out by the entire prep phase, they needed the rest.
Once upstairs in the theater proper, the crew lit cigarettes out of Hong Young-do’s sight.

“Will we actually finish filming today?”
“Right? How many hours of checking is he going to do?”
“Director Hong reeked of alcohol today too. I’m not even sure he’s actually checking anything properly.”

Complaints about Hong Young-do were beginning to surface.
Initially, they’d thought he was competent because the productions he’d worked on as staff had been successful.
They’d genuinely believed they’d learn and gain much by following him.

“Why does Director Hong drink so much anyway?”
“How would I know? Either way, this will run late again.”
“Ugh, I have a blind date later.”
“Cancel it right now. We’re absolutely running over. There’s no way we finish this scene today.”
“Couldn’t we manage it if we hurry?”
“Absolutely not. The actors will keep getting feedback while we shoot, and given the director’s temperament, there’s no such thing as ‘good enough’—we’ll keep going until he’s satisfied.”
“But Gijun seemed to do well.”
“That one’s a different story entirely. Who would’ve thought there was an actor who could actually satisfy Hong Young-do?”

A crew member tapped ash from a tray and continued.

“The real problem is Lee Ha-eun. She’s the reason we went over last time too. We didn’t even eat dinner.”
“But why did Director Hong Young-do cast Lee Ha-eun in the first place? I would’ve thought his perfectionism would’ve made him pass.”
“Oh, you didn’t know? Apparently Lee Ha-eun and Director Hong Young-do knew each other before this.”
“It’s all about connections in this world. Blood ties, regional ties, school ties.”

It was at that moment, amid the gossiping, that—

“Let’s not talk like that.”

Lee Jae-seok, the cinematographer, had appeared behind them.

“Oh… did you hear all of that?”
“I’m… I’m so sorry. Please don’t tell Director Hong Young-do about this…!”

The cinematographer regarded them quietly, then sighed.

“At your age, you ought to know better than to gossip like this. Look, Hong Young-do’s got enough issues of his own that I’m willing to pretend I didn’t hear what you all just said. But come on—can’t you show some restraint? Badmouthing your director and the actors? You can do that elsewhere, maybe, but not when those people are right there on set. Don’t you think you owe them that much?”

The staff members fell silent at Lee Jae-seok’s words.
They were relieved it hadn’t reached Hong Young-do’s ears—for now.
But this was Lee Jae-seok, who’d known the director for nearly a decade.
He could easily mention it to Hong Young-do over drinks sometime.
And then there was the matter of how much Lee Ha-eun had invested in this film.

“We went too far. We’re sorry.”
“Leave it at that. And I’m not entirely unsympathetic to where you’re coming from.”

The cinematographer himself harbored plenty of frustration with Hong Young-do.
These days when he saw the director, it seemed like he drank every evening, and each time they met, Lee Jae-seok wanted nothing more than to hit him from behind.

“The director’s going through a rough patch. Just bear with him for now.”

With that, Lee Jae-seok headed back down into the theater where Hong Young-do was waiting.
After some time had passed and the crew member finished his cigarette before heading back inside, the rehearsal began in earnest.
Followed soon after by the actual shoot.

“Rolling. Standby, ready….”

Gijun closed his eyes, concentrating on his Character.

“Action!”

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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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