Chapter 42: First Time with Actors Who Can’t Act? (2)
“Of course we want to act well…”
The three actors replied, their expressions screaming,
‘What kind of obvious question is that?’
“Have you had any formal acting training?” Si-woo asked.
“Yes… I trained with a coach at my agency,” one said.
“I went to an academy recommended by my agency,” another added.
“Same here… agency-recommended academy,” the third echoed.
Si-woo felt his first wave of despair.
‘They’ve all had training…’
As his throat tightened, the café door chimed. A figure in a low-brimmed hat and sunglasses approached, stopping behind Si-woo. The actors’ jaws dropped, speechless, recognizing the newcomer despite the disguise.
It was Shim Ji-young, Si-woo’s ace in the hole to fix this mess.
“Hello,”
Ji-young greeted in a warm, honeyed tone.
“You’re here?” Si-woo turned.
“You’re the only one who’d make me teach acting for free,” she teased.
“We settled it with your dinner party attendance,” Si-woo shot back.
The actors, overhearing, were dazed. Was this a dream? Shim Ji-young, a top-tier actress at her peak, teaching them? It wasn’t just a golden opportunity—it was priceless. To learn from one of Korea’s best was beyond imagination.
“Anything else to discuss?” Ji-young asked.
“Nope, we can talk on the way,” Si-woo said.
“Let’s go then. I booked a practice room.”
“Alright. Everyone, get up. We’re heading to acting practice,” Si-woo announced.
The stunned actors followed Ji-young and Si-woo to Triple Actors’ practice studio, reserved exclusively for agency talent. Ji-young had secured it for 24 hours. Inside the spacious room, Si-woo set a serious tone.
“Today, we’re laying the groundwork. Focus.”
“Yes, sir!”
The actors replied, scrambling to compose themselves.
“First, I want to see your prepared scenes again. Kim Moon-sik, you’re up,”
Si-woo called, addressing the actor cast as Choi Sung-yong.
Moon-sik stepped forward, took a deep breath, and began.
“Th-that… it’s all… all because…”
“Stop,”
Ji-young interrupted as he stumbled.
“Kim Moon-sik-ssi?” she said sharply.
“Yes!” he answered, tense.
“Are you nervous?”
“S-sorry…” he stammered.
Ji-young’s demeanor shifted—gentle with Si-woo, but a predator with the rookies. Si-woo found it amusing, assuming she was playing the strict coach for effect. The actors, however, were doubly rattled by her intensity.
“Do you think you have time to be nervous?” Ji-young pressed.
“Huh?”
“How much did you practice after getting the casting notice?”
“I… worked hard,” Moon-sik mumbled.
“Hard? This is your hard work? Maybe you should quit acting. Any theater major from a nearby college could do better after an hour,” she said, shredding his confidence.
“If you can sleep with that level of skill, stick to filming YouTube with your friends.”
“Sorry…” Moon-sik wilted, retreating.
Si-woo watched silently, trusting Ji-young’s experience. She knew how to handle this better than he did.
“Think about how many staff depend on your performance. Next!” Ji-young barked.
Lee Hye-jin, cast as Oh Soo-ji, stepped up.
“This one might be better. Acting like you can’t act…” Ji-young mused.
“I’ll start,” Hye-jin said.
As she performed, Ji-young let out a dry laugh. It wasn’t acting like she couldn’t act—it was genuine inability. Ironically, she nailed the “bad acting” part.
“That part? Nothing to critique—you’re perfect at it,” Ji-young said sardonically.
For someone, acting poorly was the hardest challenge, but for Hye-jin, it was effortless. Unfortunately, her role required growth, culminating in a tearful scene.
“Hye-jin-ssi, can you handle the crying scene later in the script?” Ji-young asked.
“I’ll try,” Hye-jin said.
“When you say ‘try,’ you show it right away.”
“Understood. I’ll do it.”
Everyone waited as Hye-jin tried to summon tears. Ten seconds… twenty… a minute… three minutes… five…
Silence hung heavy, broken only by Ji-young’s voice after ten minutes.
“Hye-jin-ssi?”
“Stop, Hye-jin-ssi. Work on your emotions over there and come back when you’re ready,” Shim Ji-young said sharply.
“Yes… understood,”
Lee Hye-jin replied, slinking to the corner as deflated as Kim Moon-sik.
“Jeon Byeong-doo-ssi?” Ji-young called next.
Jeon Byeong-doo, playing Lee Cheol-min, portrayed a kind, all-around genius who excelled at everything but lacked dreams and ambition. His role demanded nuanced acting through subtle glances and atmosphere, not dialogue—a high-difficulty challenge. Unsurprisingly, Byeong-doo struggled, earning Ji-young’s sharp critique.
By 5 p.m., Hye-jin still couldn’t cry, Moon-sik kept stumbling over lines, and Byeong-doo’s bloodshot eyes betrayed his strain. Feeling sorry for their ordeal, Si-woo paused the session.
“Everyone, gather up.”
The actors rushed to him, their faces lighting up as if he were their savior.
“Let’s eat first. You’re all exhausted. Any food preferences?”
They exchanged hesitant glances, too polite to make demands of a blockbuster writer and top actress.
“No need to be shy. I’ll order then.”
Si-woo said, casually ordering eight franchise sandwiches via his phone.
“Si-woo, hold on.”
Ji-young said, pulling him into the hallway.
“Seriously, rethink this. It’s a total disaster. I’ve never seen trainees at our agency this bad.”
“No way. This is a challenge for me too.” Si-woo insisted.
“A challenge?”
“Yeah. I’m sick of hearing I’m just riding on actors’ talent.”
“What? Who said that?!”
Ji-young’s eyes blazed, ready to confront the culprit.
“It’s handled. Anyway, if their acting doesn’t improve, I’ll find workarounds.” Si-woo said.
Ji-young sighed.
“You’ve got a long road ahead.”
After eating the sandwiches and a one-hour break, the actors resumed under Ji-young’s relentless coaching.
“Again!”
She commanded—the day’s most-repeated word. After 100 takes of the same scene, the actors recited lines mechanically, and Moon-sik’s nervous stuttering lessened.
Exhausted, they collapsed when Ji-young wrapped up.
“I’ve got a schedule tomorrow, so I’m heading out. I asked someone else to step in, so don’t worry. 9:30 a.m. tomorrow, right?” she confirmed.
“Yes, noona. Thanks for everything,” Si-woo said.
“You better show up to that dinner,” she teased before leaving.
Si-woo approached the actors.
“You heard her—9:30 a.m. here tomorrow. If anyone wants to quit, tell your agency. I’ll cancel your contract.”
He knew they wouldn’t dare, unless they were ready to abandon acting altogether. Who’d pass up such a rare opportunity?
The actors left the Triple Actors building, reported to their agencies, and headed home. On the bus, Hye-jin, trying to summon emotions, suddenly teared up.
“Huh…?”
The tears she couldn’t produce earlier flowed freely post-session. Overjoyed at finally crying, she forgot Ji-young’s harsh words. Similarly, Moon-sik and Byeong-doo, feeling their acting improve in just a day, returned home elated.
***
The next morning at 9:30, Si-woo arrived at the practice studio to find the actors already there, rehearsing with scripts.
“You’re all early.” he noted.
“Good morning!”
They greeted in unison, bowing.
“Hey… morning.”
Si-woo replied, surprised. Expecting them to be demoralized from Ji-young’s grilling, he was relieved by their energy.
“We’ve got time before shooting, so let’s work hard.”
“Yes!” they responded.
While waiting for Ji-young’s substitute, Si-woo questioned them.
“How much have you read the script?”
“About 20 times,” Moon-sik answered first.
Si-woo snapped his fingers, an idea sparking.
“Great. Moon-sik-ssi, tell me about Choi Sung-yong.”
“Describe him?”
Moon-sik hesitated, then began.
“He’s tall, dreamed of being a soccer player, plays forward, got betrayed by his coach, fell into a slump, and now resents adults…”
It was a textbook rundown of the script’s details. Si-woo pressed further.
“So, what’s 19-year-old Choi Sung-yong’s least favorite food?”
“Huh? Um… fermented soybean paste?” Moon-sik guessed.
“Wrong. Homework: find out what Choi Sung-yong hates to eat,” Si-woo said.
“How do I…?” Moon-sik stammered.
“Figure it out. That’s your assignment.”
Si-woo gave Hye-jin and Byeong-doo their own tasks: why Oh Soo-ji wants to be an actor, and why Lee Cheol-min has no dreams. The actors, clueless about his intent, buried themselves in their scripts.
‘They’ll never find it just reading the script… How long will it take?’
Si-woo thought. His questions were deliberate, designed to push beyond the text. Frustrated by their fixation on the script, he resisted explaining, believing they needed to solve it themselves to grow.
As they pored over their scripts, the door opened. Ji-young’s replacements arrived—not one, but multiple people.
“Well, well, Writer Kim! Working hard, even coaching rookie actors now,”
Said the newcomers—supporting actors from ‘Don’t Forget’.