Chapter 24: Ready to Soar (1)
‘They invaded my house not long ago, and now they’ve dragged me to a film set?’
‘Yanked out of bed at dawn for some “urgent matter”…’
Hours earlier, Kim Si-woo had been sleeping soundly when Shim Ji-young barged in, claiming urgency, and forced him into her car. Half-asleep, he dozed off during the ride, only to wake up at the Don’t Forget set. His only task now was sitting next to Director Park Woong-deok, answering occasional questions.
“Director, why am I here? You told me not to interfere with filming,” Kim Si-woo said.
Park Woong-deok ignored him, only speaking when he wanted input.
“What do you think? This part okay?”
“Yeah… sure,”
Kim Si-woo replied halfheartedly.
A large monitor in front of them displayed the camera feed, and Park consulted Kim Si-woo after each take.
“More emotion needed?”
“No, I think it’s better toned down for now.”
“Right? My skills haven’t rusted yet,”
Park said, grinning like a kid when Kim Si-woo agreed.
By 1 p.m., Park called a break. “Let’s eat, everyone.”
- Yes!
“Today’s food truck is courtesy of Ji-young’s fans, so thank her before you dig in,” Park announced.
“Thanks, Ji-young!”
“Well eat, sunbae!” the actors said.
Shim Ji-young’s face and name were plastered on the food truck. While everyone thanked her, Kim Si-woo grabbed his food and shoveled it down. Shim Ji-young noticed and gave him a playful smack on the head.
Whack!
“Ow! Why’d you hit me?!”
“You didn’t even say thanks to your noona before eating!”
“…”
Kim Si-woo glared, but she just cleared her throat and sat down.
“So, feel anything today?”
“Yeah, I was dragged here without breakfast, so I’m starving.”
“What?”
He ignored her and kept eating.
Bzzz.
His phone rang mid-bite. Checking it, he put down his chopsticks and answered.
“Yes… Okay, got it.”
Hanging up with a hint of disappointment, Shim Ji-young asked, “Who was that?”
Kim Si-woo explained that he’d pitched a cameo to Kim Ji-hyun’s agency, but she declined. He recalled rejecting her request for a role at the last gathering.
“It’s not because I turned her down, is it?”
Shim Ji-young replied confidently, “Oh, definitely. If she wanted a role, she should’ve auditioned.”
“Come on, you didn’t audition either,” Kim Si-woo teased.
“Hey! I asked you to write the script with me as the lead!”
“Kidding, kidding. Why so serious?”
Thwack.
Trying to lighten the mood, he got a fist instead. After lunch, filming resumed an hour later.
“Action!”
At Park’s command, the actors continued, while Kim Si-woo grew bored.
‘When will this end? If I had my laptop, I could at least write.’
He silently resented Shim Ji-young for not letting him bring it. Watching her act, he muttered,
“She really shines when she’s performing.”
It was his honest take. Off-set, she could seem reckless, but on camera, she was a true professional, full of passion and ambition. That was partly why he’d written the script for her.
“Director,” he said.
“What?”
“This film feels like it could be big. It’s a shame she doesn’t have a defining work yet, when she shines like that.”
Kim Si-woo’s sudden comment about the film’s significance to Shim Ji-young prompted a rare response from Park, who usually ignored him.
“No one knows. The audience decides. But I think it’ll do well… By the way, you’ve got a good eye.”
“My eyes? My vision’s 0.3 and 0.1.”
“And a bad head.”
Park muttered, shaking his head at Kim Si-woo’s literal response.
“Anyway, I took this job because I feel the same. I hope it succeeds.”
‘It’s time for her to spread her wings.’
Twenty years ago, when Shim Ji-young was a 19-year-old rookie actor, she first met Director Park Woong-deok while playing the younger version of a female lead. Portraying a dreamy girl, her youth, beauty, and talent shone brightly, perfectly suiting the role.
Watching her, the young Park Woong-deok was convinced she’d become a leading actress in Korean cinema. But the industry was harsher than he’d imagined. Despite her gifts, luck wasn’t on her side, and her talent faded without ever fully spreading its wings.
As Park became a renowned director, Shim Ji-young remained stuck as a “luxury supporting actress.” It was a career many would envy, but those who knew her potential—including herself—found it a pity she hadn’t landed a defining lead role.
Years earlier, Park had tried to help her by casting her as a lead, but interference from investors and producers changed the role and story overnight. Disgusted by such meddling, Park vowed to work only with those who allowed him full creative control—a condition few investors or producers accepted, and one many big-name actors, with their strong egos, resisted. As a result, he turned to independent films.
When Shim Ji-young approached him twenty years later to direct Don’t Forget, he felt gratitude. If he’d made a great film for her back then, or been a more influential director, she might not have spent years chasing a signature role. Guilt had kept him from proposing a project himself, so her request felt like a second chance to help her soar.
Today, Park saw another talent with great potential: Kim Si-woo. Unlike Park’s artistic focus, Kim Si-woo had a knack for commercial storytelling. As the saying goes, “Imitation is the mother of creation,” or as Picasso put it, “Good artists copy, great artists steal.” Kim Si-woo’s scripts felt like they borrowed elements from existing works but reimagined them into something richer and more engaging—a step beyond mere imitation.
On set, Kim Si-woo’s instincts were sharp and nuanced, driven by intuition and experience rather than theory. He seemed unaware of his own talent, but Park was certain: in three years, Kim Si-woo could be a force in the industry.
“Let’s wrap for today. Everyone, manage your condition. Shim, stay a moment,” Park said.
The crew packed up, and actors left with farewells.
“Director, something to say?” Shim Ji-young asked.
“Relax. If you’re this tense from the start, you’ll burn out by the end.”
“Is my acting—”
“Your acting’s great, as dazzling as ever. I’m talking about your behavior off-camera. You’re worrying too much about everything—equipment, variables, other actors. We know how much this film means to you, but focus on acting, not everything else.”
Park had noticed her fretting over every detail outside her performance.
“I’m just… anxious,” she admitted.
“Don’t be. That’s our job. Everyone here’s a pro—handpicked by you.”
“What about me? I’m not a pro,” Kim Si-woo interjected, breaking the emotional moment.
Shim Ji-young sighed as Park’s heartfelt advice was derailed.
“You’re a pro now. Haven’t you heard? Revenger passed 7 million viewers.”
“What? Already? It’s only been a month. How long do films run?” Kim Si-woo asked.
He knew Revenger was doing well but not this well. Shim Ji-young explained, “Popular films run about 45 days. Flops can be pulled in a week. Revenger’s set for 45, and at this rate, it might hit 10 million.”
The youngest writer of a 10-million-viewer film didn’t faze Kim Si-woo. He wasn’t the director, after all. As long as he got paid, he was content.
“Guess I’ll make bank, then. I’ve got a 5% profit share.”
“Probably over a billion won, maybe more. Revenger’s budget was low compared to others.”
“A billion…?”
Kim Si-woo’s mind raced. A house, a car, a better computer and laptop—his mood lifted despite being dragged to the set.
“Let’s go, Shim. You must be tired from stressing. I’m tired too,” he said.
“All you did was sit and eat,” she shot back.
“…”
Silenced, Kim Si-woo headed home and showered immediately.
“Ugh, I felt so grimy,”
He muttered. A neat freak, he showered at least once daily, sometimes three times in sweaty summers.
“Ahh, refreshing,” he said, lying on his bed, eyes closed.
Three seconds later, his phone buzzed.
“Who’s calling at this hour? I don’t have friends,” he grumbled, checking the screen.
[Kim Ji-hyun]
‘She’s mad at me, so why’s she calling?’
“Hello?”
- Yo, Kim Si-woo! Happy now? You happy?!
Her voice boomed through the phone.