Pretending Not to Understand
Three days had passed since Yeon-woo had visited Jin Yu-han's musical theater troupe to show his support.
Now he was back on set in earnest, filming Sketch.
"Today's scene, I'm going to leave completely free, so it's all on your shoulders. To capture that documentary feel, I'm not going to tell you a single thing. Just pretend the camera isn't there and go on a trip."
Yeon-woo nodded at Director Park Chan-hong's words.
In the script, Jay had returned from an indie music festival a few days earlier. Seeking inspiration for a new song, he boarded a bus out of the city alone, guitar in hand.
The only crew accompanying him were Director Park Chan-hong and a single camera operator.
"Good. Nobody recognizes him. We can shoot this for real."
They hadn't chartered a bus for the shoot. They simply boarded a regular intercity bus leaving Seoul's outskirts in the middle of the day. There were barely any passengers—mostly elderly folks—so no one recognized Yeon-woo.
The only thing that drew curious glances was the heavily bearded man climbing aboard with a camera.
Since the scenes needed nothing but pure visuals and no dialogue, Yeon-woo settled into a seat over the rear wheels, legs drawn up, gazing around with genuine curiosity at the scenery outside like a Korean-American seeing it all for the first time.
Ah, this is the place.
When the bus reached the pre-arranged small town on the outskirts, Yeon-woo pressed the stop button and got off. Director Park and the camera operator followed as if they were simply fellow travelers.
Yeon-woo wore a mask. Park and the cameraman trailed a short distance behind.
Scenic bike. Right here.
Moving exactly as if he were traveling alone, Yeon-woo followed the route Director Park had scouted in advance. There were no production staff controlling the location, no shops that had been prearranged for filming.
He bought a bicycle from a shabby shop run by an old man. From across the street, the camera quietly zoomed in, capturing Yeon-woo as he wheeled the bike out of the store.
Then, guitar slung across his back, Yeon-woo rode freely out of the town.
The camera tracked his figure as he pedaled away into the sunlight, growing naturally smaller in the frame.
Bzzzt—
His phone buzzed in his pocket. When he answered, Director Park's voice came through.
"Okay, cut. Come on back."
"Yes, Director."
Yeon-woo turned the handlebars and pedaled back toward Park Chan-hong, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Riding a bicycle alone and getting the okay sign over a smartphone—it was a truly unusual way to shoot a film.
If people knew that one of Korea's top commercial directors and its hottest young actor were filming on a rural country road with nothing but a single camera, in a style that wouldn't even pass for a college film club project, the number of reporters chasing them might well outnumber the entire population of the town—with a little exaggeration, of course.
Jay locked his bicycle in front of a hangover-soup restaurant sitting alone beside a remote two-lane national highway and went inside for a bowl.
Hangover soup was the Korean dish Mr. Jeong had introduced him to the morning after the indie festival wrap party, when Jay was suffering from a brutal hangover. After devouring it like a man possessed, it had become the number-one favorite food of Jay's life in Korea.
Still unfamiliar with Hangul, Jay would check the characters for "hangover soup" saved on his phone, walk into any place that matched, and say the only Korean phrase he knew: "Haejangguk, please."
This was the only part of today's shoot that had been prearranged and coordinated in advance.
Jay finished his delicious hangover soup and stepped back outside. Guitar over his shoulder, he walked toward the thin streetlamp where he'd locked the bike—then stopped dead.
Confusion flooded his face.
The camera operator captured that expression, then smoothly shifted the frame to the streetlamp where the bicycle had been tied.
"What the—"
Only the front wheel remained, locked forlornly to the gray lamppost. The frame and rear wheel had vanished.
Chirp-chirp—
A moment of silence stretched out, broken only by the plaintive cry of birds.
Jay stood frozen, staring at the solitary front wheel with a grave expression, while the peaceful chirping of birds and the green trees around him created an ironically hilarious contrast.
At last he pulled out his phone and dialed someone.
"Hey, Mr. Jeong."
"Oh, Jay. What's up?"
"Last time at the café you said Koreans don't steal anything, right? That they don't covet your laptop or bag—they just covet the seat you're sitting in."
Jay shrugged, looking utterly dumbfounded as the voice on the other end replied.
"That's right. We don't covet other people's things. Even packages get left right in front of the door."
"Then why is only the front wheel of my bike left? I was only inside eating for thirty minutes."
A brief silence followed. Then, after hearing something from Mr. Jeong, Jay tilted his head.
"Umbukdeong? What's that?"
"Ahem. There's a thing like that. I'll come pick you up. Where are you?"
"Well... I have no idea where this is. I was planning to just ride the bike back the way I came."
"If there's any shop nearby, take a picture and send it. I'll look it up and set the nav."
Yeon-woo glanced at the hangover-soup place in front of him and nodded.
"Okay. Thanks. Sorry for the trouble."
He hung up and raised his phone to photograph the shop—only for the battery to die instantly.
"...Ah, nothing's going right. This damn Korea."
Apparently, stopping the bike every time inspiration struck out here in the countryside, pulling out the guitar and recording on his phone, had drained the battery faster than expected.
"Okay, cut."
At the director's call, Yeon-woo walked over to Park Chan-hong.
The director began explaining the next scene.
"You'll walk up that hill along the shoulder. We'll shoot the wide shot from here. When the truck stops, get in. It probably won't go exactly as written."
"That scene. Did you find a suitable actor?"
When Yeon-woo asked, Park Chan-hong gave a meaningful smile.
"I did. Let's start shooting. This scene, I'm leaving entirely to your improvisation."
In a normal production they would have finished the table read before cameras rolled, and even if Yeon-woo had missed it, a supporting role this substantial would have meant he already knew who had been cast. But this film broke every conventional rule.
That's what makes it fun. That's why I'm looking forward to it. Because I never know what's going to happen next, and the story just flows improvisationally.
Of course there was still a broad framework, but every shoot could shift on the spot.
And that very quality seemed to pull him even deeper into the role of Jay, a man returning to the unfamiliar country of Korea.
Yeon-woo nodded, slung the guitar over his back, and trudged up the narrow hill road where cars rarely passed.
Standing quietly in place, the director filmed Yeon-woo walking alone up the hill against the setting sun.
By now he had grown distant enough to become a black silhouette against the sunset.
Then, from behind, a white 1.5-ton light truck slowly climbed the hill after him.
The bed was piled high with vegetables—clearly a vendor heading home after selling produce at the market.
The truck passed Yeon-woo, then stopped and slowly reversed.
The driver and Yeon-woo seemed to exchange a few words.
"Excuse me, could you give me a ride to the nearest bus station?"
Fully immersed in the role of Jay, who couldn't speak Korean, Yeon-woo addressed the person in front of him in steady English without a flicker of surprise.
The truck's driver tilted their head at him.
"Young fella talkin' all that twisted foreign talk—must be from overseas, eh?"
The driver was an old woman.
In the script it was definitely a young man selling vegetables...
Cameras mounted all over the truck confirmed this was the vehicle Director Park had mentioned.
So this is the actress he cast.
The supporting role had changed from a young man to a grandmother, but thinking about what came next, Yeon-woo decided it might actually work better. He nodded to himself.
Rather than panicking, he sank even deeper into the role of Jay and approached the truck.
"Could you give me a ride to the nearest station?"
Speaking English, he pointed to himself, then to the passenger seat.
The old woman behind the wheel nodded.
"Aigoo. Lost your way, did you? Hop in. Once the sun goes down it gets cold real quick."
Seeing her nod, Yeon-woo climbed into the passenger seat.
"How'd a young thing like you go and get lost? What's your name?"
"Sorry?"
"What's your name? Your name. Don't you even know your own name?"
"Are you asking my name? It's Jay. Jay."
Pretending not to understand his mother tongue was harder than he'd expected.
It required extreme method acting—identifying so completely with the character that the performance became hyper-realistic.
In his previous life he had never once had to act as if he didn't know Korean, but fortunately, during intelligence-extraction operations he had often understood every word of a foreign language while pretending not to hear a thing.
After all, people were far more willing to spill secrets in front of someone who supposedly couldn't understand them.
Hearing Yeon-woo's answer, the grandmother nodded.
"Name's Jae-hee? Same as the granddaughter of the old lady next door. Pretty face, and even the name sounds like a girl's."
"Yeah, Jay."
"Right. Jae-hee."
To keep up the pretense of not understanding, Yeon-woo deliberately filled his mind with other thoughts, intentionally letting the other actor's words wash past him.
Driving slowly down the country road at a leisurely pace, the grandmother spoke again.
"Young man, have you eaten?"
"Bab?"
"That's right. Have you eaten or not?"
Yeon-woo stroked his chin, thinking.
If I were Jay, the only word I would have caught in that conversation is 'bab'—rice. What would he say when he hears 'rice'?
He considered it from Jay's perspective, then opened his mouth.
"Haejangguk?"
"Aigoo. So you had a drink, did you. Come have a bowl of hangover soup. I'll give you a bowl of dried radish-leaf soup and rice at my place."
He hadn't understood a word, but hearing "hangover soup," Jay nodded.
And so the truck, loaded with vegetables and Yeon-woo, slowly headed toward the grandmother's house.
"Jae-hee. Grandma'll whip up some dried radish-leaf soup real quick."
She pointed a finger at an old wooden table and disappeared into the kitchen.
Jay wore an expression of pure bewilderment as he hesitantly followed a complete stranger of a grandmother into her home.
Director Park Chan-hong and the camera operator trailed in naturally behind them.
Her acting is no joke. She's doing genuine hyper-realistic performance that fits the documentary style perfectly.
It truly felt like a grandmother who had just happened to meet a lost foreigner on the road and brought him home for a meal.
The director and camera were clearly following right behind Yeon-woo, yet she never once glanced their way.
Matching her energy, Yeon-woo brainwashed himself into believing he was the American "Jay Miller" and looked around curiously at the ornamental stones displayed in the living-room cabinet.
Before long the grandmother emerged from the kitchen carrying bowls.
"Come here. It's ready, so eat up quick."
Jay sat down with hesitant steps.
"Thank you so much for your kindness."
"Keep yammerin' in that twisted foreign talk. Just eat already."
Jay tilted his head at the food placed in front of him.
"It looks different from every hangover soup I've seen so far."
Hearing his muttered words, the grandmother nodded.
"That's right. Hangover soup."
"Thank you for providing the meal."
After offering his thanks in English, Jay picked up a spoon, scooped up a spoonful of the dried radish-leaf soup with rice mixed in, and brought it to his mouth.
That was when Director Park Chan-hong called out from behind.
"Okay, cut."
At the director's signal, Yeon-woo finally returned from Jay to himself.
He set down the spoon and bowed politely to the grandmother.
"Hello, sunbaenim. I'm Ryu Yeon-woo."
"Aigoo, what sunbae? This old woman doesn't know if she did all right."
The rural dialect had vanished completely. The elderly actress before him answered with a gentle smile.
Then Director Park spoke from behind Yeon-woo.
"Yeon-woo. This is my mother."
"...Excuse me?"
"Until thirty years ago she worked as an Asian actress in Hollywood."
"My son gives this mother of his too much credit. It wasn't grand work—just bit parts."
Today, Yeon-woo had not been the only one acting as if he couldn't speak or understand his mother tongue.