Chapter 3 Part 9: The Home of Stars

It seemed he would have to come up with some kind of solution.

Carrying out a killer’s role through the Pierrot rehearsal method came with immense psychological strain.

Even with a shoot lasting only three days, he had to exert every ounce of strength to keep his mind from collapsing, so if he ever had to endure a long-term shoot, he felt like his head might truly break.

To be honest, he was so exhausted that he wanted to skip the drinking session altogether.

Yejun glanced sideways at Director Kim Minsu, who was examining him as if stripping him bare and dissecting him piece by piece.

‘A script.’

To study the Pierrot rehearsal properly, he needed scripts that hadn’t yet been released.

On a whim, he’d tried experimenting with already-published drama and film scripts from bookstores, but Pierrot merely twitched a finger and gave him a look that said, Why do you even need to do this?

‘There’s probably no one who reviews more scripts than a film director.’

Even one would be good—more would be better.
That was the calculation behind coming here: to see if he could get his hands on some of the scripts currently circulating in Chungmuro through this man.

‘First, get a grip on yourself.’

Ironically, it wasn’t sobriety but a certain level of drunkenness that allowed him to return to his usual self.

Knowing Yejun’s condition well, Young-ho poured him a drink and raised his glass.

“Before the food comes out, we should finish a bottle first, right?

Everyone, fill your glasses!”

Since it was the final wrap-up dinner, all the staff passed glasses around, toasted, and the drinking began.

After emptying one bottle rather hastily, he felt better.
The sensation of scraping the very bottom of darkness slowly began to ease.

Watching Yejun and Young-ho drink, Director Kim Minsu let out a small laugh.

“Ah, youth really is something.

Ten years ago, I used to drink like you guys too.
Ah—Actor Yejun?

May I speak casually?”

Yejun, forcing himself to shake off the lingering emotions of Go Youngcheol, lowered his head.

“Of course, Director. I’m much younger than you.”

“Haha, thanks.

You seem to hold your liquor pretty well.

What’s your tolerance?”

“I haven’t drunk much before, so I only figured it out recently, but I think I can manage about two bottles.”

Kim Minsu glanced at the now-empty soju bottle.

“Your limit’s two bottles, but you finish one before the meat even comes out?”

Minju, who had been practically glued to Yejun’s side, waiting for a chance to speak to Kim Minsu, jumped in immediately.

“Yejun sunbae tends to immerse himself too deeply into his roles. He needs to drink afterward to recover.”

Kim Minsu’s eyebrow twitched.
He narrowed his eyes at Yejun, then shot a glare at Young-ho.

“You knew about this?”

Young-ho straightened up.

“Yes, sunbae.”

Clicking his tongue as if scolding him, Kim Minsu said,

“You knew he was like this and just let it be?

Are you out of your mind?”

Young-ho pressed his lips together, looked at Yejun, and spoke.

“As a director, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t greedy for a good performance.
But as a human being before that, I was fully aware that I couldn’t just leave Actor Yejun like this.”

He was telling the truth.

For the past three days, he had explained repeatedly how dangerous extreme role immersion could be to mental health.

Unable to watch any longer, Yejun stepped in.

“This isn’t Director Jang’s fault.
At the time, there was no immediate solution, so we proceeded with filming.
Now that I’m aware of it myself, I was planning to look for a method gradually.”

Hearing that Young-ho hadn’t completely abandoned his humanity, Kim Minsu smacked his lips, took a drink, and said,

“Go to the hospital, you idiot.”

“…..”

“Even big-name actors go to the hospital after taking on roles like that.”

Would a hospital really solve it?

Honestly, Yejun didn’t yet think he was in that much danger.
It was hard, yes—but after drinking and sleeping, he felt fine.

As if reading his thoughts, Kim Minsu continued,

“There’s nothing in this world that can truly be solved with alcohol.”

Rummaging through his wallet, Kim Minsu handed him a business card.

“It’s a doctor I know. Say I sent you, and make sure you go.”

“Thank you, Director.”

“Acting is just a trick to make things look real.
There’s no need for you to become the character.
The difference between a method actor and a schizophrenic patient is just a sheet of paper.”

“…..”

“If that’s the only way you can give a good performance, then it means your training is insufficient, and your understanding of the role is shallow.”

“…..”

His words hurt—but they were also impossible to deny.

Yejun clenched his fist tightly.

‘Right. It’s because I’m still lacking.’

The reason he had to repeat the Pierrot rehearsal so many times was precisely because his acting wasn’t strong enough.

If he were a truly great actor, maybe three or four rehearsals would have sufficed.

Kim Minsu continued,

“Try thinking of three or four great method actors.”

“Yes.”

“Choi Munsik, Song Jeongho, Hwang Junghyun, Han Jeonggyu—those names should come to mind.”

Four names representing the pinnacle of Korean acting.
Just hearing them filled him with reverence.

“Yes, Director.”

“When you watch their performances, how do you feel?
You think, Wow, they really feel like the character in the movie, right?”

“Yes.”

That was the ultimate goal for any actor—to make the audience feel the character was real.

Resting his chin on his hand, Kim Minsu said,

“Now, think of just two different films Choi Munsik acted in—completely different characters.”

“Yes, I’ve got them.”

“The performances are different, of course.
But what about his speech patterns and expressions?”

“…..”

Huh?

Now that he thought about it, something felt off.

He’d always watched his seniors’ films thinking, Wow, it feels real. Amazing.
But when comparing performances across different films, why did they suddenly feel similar?

Was it their unique way of speaking?

Seeing the question in Yejun’s face, Kim Minsu smiled.

“Let’s take Han Jeonggyu as an example.
No matter what film you watch, Han Jeonggyu is still Han Jeonggyu.
Even comedians can impersonate him easily just from variety shows.
And yet, every time he releases a new work, people still feel like he’s the real character.
Why do you think that is?”

“…..”

What was it?

He didn’t know.

But the director was right.
No matter how many different films he recalled, all four actors carried a similar core.

“I honestly don’t know.”

Kim Minsu nodded, glancing around at the staff who had fallen silent to listen.

“There’s no need to become a real killer just to play one.
You know this without me saying it—immersion is important, but you must never lose yourself.
An actor who does that can’t last long.”

He grabbed four empty glasses and pointed to them one by one.

“Hwang Junghyun plays a prosecutor.
Hwang Junghyun plays a cult leader.
Hwang Junghyun plays a criminal.
Hwang Junghyun plays a man in heartbreaking love.
The actor’s name always comes before the role.
That’s because great actors portray characters without losing the unique appeal they already possess.”

Yejun’s eyes trembled.

‘Acting the character without losing myself.’
‘That’s it.’

Staring straight at him, Kim Minsu said,

“But there’s one problem you still need to solve.”

Another problem?

It sounded like a complete answer already.

Pointing at Yejun’s chest, Kim Minsu continued,

“You need to know what your own appeal is—the thing you must protect as an actor.”

Yejun’s gaze wavered again.

‘My own appeal.’

If someone asked what his appeal was, he could list plenty of things.
He was tall, reasonably good-looking, easygoing.

But if they asked what appeal he must preserve as an actor while portraying characters—that was much harder to answer.

Patting the back of the now-confused Yejun, Kim Minsu said,

“Knowing yourself is extremely difficult.
What you think is the right answer now often turns out to be wrong later.
Even the great actors you admire are constantly observing themselves and learning who they are.
Humans find it easy to judge others, but impossible to fully know themselves.”

Pouring soju into an empty glass, he continued,

“So don’t rush it.
You might not even find the answer before you die.
But there’s a huge difference between knowing and not knowing.
Just keep the thought—that you must seek that answer—somewhere in the corner of your mind.”

Wow.
He’d come here just hoping to snag a script or two.
If he hadn’t come, who knew what he would’ve missed.

Yejun straightened his posture and bowed deeply.

“Thank you, Director.”

“Alright, alright. Drink.”

He felt a sense of warmth toward Kim Minsu.
Not just as a senior in the industry or a commercial film director, but as someone he could trust on a human level.

Of course, first impressions weren’t everything—but the sly, opportunistic mindset he’d come with was gone.

Just then, Minju asked the question she’d always been curious about.

“Director, I keep failing auditions, so…
Could you tell me what you consider most important in an audition?”

He’d wondered the same.

No matter how early he woke up, how carefully he prepped his appearance, how thoroughly he memorized the sides—he always failed.

Smiling, Kim Minsu answered,

“I look at many things.
First of all, how you enter.
Most people come in bowing and scraping.
But you should know—an audition starts the moment you walk in.
Actors who show confidence without being rude naturally draw attention.”

Crossing his legs, Kim Minsu continued,

“There are two things that matter most.”

He folded down two fingers.

“Eyes and voice.”

Oh.
That made sense.

Raising his index finger, he explained,

“You’ve all felt it—actors’ eyes are different from ordinary people or singers.
Many have deep, expressive gazes.
With just their eyes, they’re already acting.
You’ve probably seen scenes without dialogue where a simple change in an actor’s eyes conveys emotion.
That’s how important eyes are.”

Extending another finger, he went on,

“Next is the voice.
Directors can create visuals, but not sound.
It’s not about whether a voice is high or low, good or bad—what matters is the emotion and resonance it carries.
An actor’s skill is judged by their voice.”

Tapping his own head, Kim Minsu said,

“Think about it.
The voices of great actors.
That resonance where you can recognize them instantly.”

Wow.
Coming here tonight had been the right decision.

Seeing Yejun nod vigorously, Kim Minsu smiled and leaned toward Young-ho, whispering,

“Who’s handling post-production?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you doing it alone? Editing, I mean.”

“Probably. We don’t have the manpower.”

Crossing his arms, Kim Minsu said,

“I’ll help.”

Young-ho’s eyes widened.

“You’re serious, sunbae?”

Watching Yejun, Kim Minsu murmured,

“I want to see it.
The finished result of an actor who managed to shock me with nothing but raw footage.”

📚 Also on NHV Novels

How can I, the Holy Son, marry someone?

BattleFemale ProtagonistMarriage

Read Now →
Not interested