A Poisoned Chalice
No, first things first. Let me calm down.
I downed a glass of cold water and steadied my nerves. It felt like receiving an enormous birthday present — except I hadn't torn off the wrapping paper yet. Which meant I had no idea what was inside. Worst case scenario, it might be impossible to produce right now.
I couldn't forget the crucial fact that this drama only aired four years from now.
"It could turn out to be a poisoned chalice."
And even producing and broadcasting it *now* would be a problem. Nobody could guarantee that a show destined to be a smash hit four years later would hit the same way today. The fact that steampunk Joseon was a more viable genre than producers and investors expected, and that overseas reactions were particularly enthusiastic, were both clear positives — but would that still hold true now? This industry is uniquely obsessed with trends. Steampunk plus Joseon was considered reasonably fresh even four years down the line, so what about right now?
It was already an accepted truth in this business that being ahead of your time was a shortcut to ruin.
Then there was the budget. Steampunk itself was an unfamiliar genre, but fundamentally this was a grand-scale drama. Even with purpose-built sets, a significant chunk of it would require CG, and if you wanted to do it properly, the production costs were frankly unimaginable. Could you really find an investor willing to pour that kind of money into a rookie writer?
Laying it all out like this, I could somewhat understand why the show took four years to finally get made.
"Hm, the cast has changed. So the role they want to give me is... Lee Myung? Who on earth is that?"
With all those concerns in mind, I opened the script again. This time I read through it more carefully, and as I went through it piece by piece, I discovered a decisive difference from the drama I remembered.
The cast had changed. A story that had once revolved around 'Nam Seokju' and 'Cheetah Choi' had become a story featuring Nam Seokju, Cheetah Choi — and Lee Myung. And this new character, Lee Myung, was the role the writer wanted to give me.
"An illegitimate son of Joseon's dying royal family. Joseon's last... Sword Master?"
Absurdly, Lee Myung was the last Sword Master of a steampunk Joseon overrun with firearms and gunpowder. A madman who butchered whole armies of enemies with a single blade.
Wait. A Sword Master in a steampunk setting? Did the writer take the wrong medication?
"Don't tell me..."
If a character who never existed was suddenly added to the story, and that character had been prepared specifically for me, then it was almost certainly because of that incident. After all, I could have just casually subdued a pack of bratty kids with an umbrella swing — but instead I went and took them down with Maehyangmanri, the flashiest, most preening technique in the Hwasan arsenal.
"So this is how it comes back around."
Honestly, the reason I'd put on that performance was to lighten the company's burden, even a little. By providing an interesting talking point that could pull public attention our way and make media management easier. Your typical entertainment agency would inevitably spin public opinion toward defending its actor somehow. And having something entertaining out there, rather than just grimly whacking people with an umbrella, was a good way to muddy the waters.
But our company was a little different from your typical agency. Instead of defending me, they'd chosen to grind the other party into dust. Which rather diminished the effect of my efforts. Sure, it produced one pretty entertaining clip, but I hadn't swallowed my pride and unleashed Maehyangmanri just for that.
And now that very technique had come back to me in this form. Truly, you never know which way life will turn.
"At this point he's practically the real protagonist. And it looks like the romance line is his, too."
The newly added character, Lee Myung, carried more weight than the original leads did. Structurally, three male leads carried the story, but if you pushed it, you could reasonably call Lee Myung the true protagonist.
Which meant this drama would likely turn out somewhat different from the 'Joseon Gold Rush' I knew. It had been such a successful show that I found myself doubting my own judgment, so I compared it against the old story to see how much had changed...
"...It's actually better? The plot is the same, but with one distinctive character added, the whole story feels richer."
They had somehow produced a work even more entertaining than the original. And the most compelling character among them was, without question, Lee Myung. At this point, I figured even if the chalice was poisoned, it was a Holy Grail I'd have to accept regardless.
"Is that the script you were telling me about?"
"Oh, sunbae."
While I was still deliberating what to do with it, Cheon Yua ambushed me, armed in nothing but light leggings. Her top was a comfortable t-shirt, but those black leggings alone packed a respectable amount of offensive power. Add in the fresh, fragrant scent of her body wafting over from behind, and it was an utterly devastating attack.
The reason for her ambush was obvious. A script had come in addressed specifically to me, so of course she'd come down to satisfy her curiosity. Scripts like this didn't land in a rookie's lap every day.
Which worked out nicely, actually. Why not get Cheon Yua's advice? Her experience aside, the woman was a perfect-ten hitter. Every project she touched succeeded, so her instincts were bound to be exceptional. How would our modern-day Heavenly Demon analyze a somewhat unfamiliar script like steampunk-plus-Joseon?
"It's unique."
"Right?"
"But this won't be easy."
"No, I can see that too."
"It's still fun, though. Done well, this could be genuinely good."
Even from Cheon Yua, the script drew praise. The unfamiliar character of Lee Myung had been added, yet the upgraded storyline seemed captivating enough to ensnare even her. My Heavenly Demon certainly had a discerning eye for scripts.
"But who would actually try to make this? This industry is more conservative than people think. It's fun to *my* eyes, but to investors it might look iffy. No — most investors probably can't even conceive of steampunk in the first place."
"That's the problem."
"If there's any real chance anywhere, it's OTT. But even there, steampunk isn't mainstream. Sci-fi is already a love-it-or-hate-it genre, and steampunk on top of that..."
"Exactly."
"And then there's the budget. Usually you can hold production costs in reserve if things look shaky, but this is no ordinary scale."
"You're telling me."
Every word she said was dead-on, so all I had to do was nod along. Dramas aren't made just because the script is good; these considerations deserve serious thought too.
Right — now that I'd confirmed all the problems, it was time to ask for solutions. The advice I wanted from Cheon Yua went beyond just identifying the obstacles. She was involved not only in acting but in running the company itself, so her perspective would differ from mine.
"What would it take to get this made, you ask?"
"Yes."
"The script first. Only four episodes have come in so far, right? We don't know how many episodes it runs, but there'd need to be some basis for trusting the quality holds to the end. They say this is the writer's first work? Then having the full script would be the bare minimum for this to have any chance, don't you think?"
"Because of the budget?"
"That would be it. Nobody hands a rookie writer a blockbuster. If it fails, it fails way too big."
That made sense. With no track record, there was no guarantee the writing quality would hold to the end. If this actually got made, it would cost at least twenty billion won — no matter how good the winning script was, investing on the strength of that alone would be nerve-wracking. But if a completed script existed, and it was satisfying enough, that would earn a certain degree of trust.
"And honestly, with this one, it's better to raise the stakes even further."
"Even more than this? As it stands it'll easily clear twenty billion won."
"So here's what I mean. Say *you're* the investor, Siwoo. A twenty-billion-won drama without Cheon Yua, or a thirty-billion-won drama *with* Cheon Yua. Which do you pick?"
"...Uh, that's..."
Now that I thought about it, she had a point. Twenty billion or thirty billion, either way it was terrifyingly expensive — but production costs always find their way back as long as the project succeeds. What ultimately mattered was success or failure, and even with an extra ten billion on the line, the drama *with* Cheon Yua looked far more likely to succeed.
I suddenly understood, viscerally, why production companies and PDs fought so hard to land her.
"Seeing you curious about all this... you've fallen for this script, haven't you, Siwoo?"
"Ah, well... honestly, a little. Not because it came in under my name or anything, but..."
"No need to explain yourself. If you want to do it, do it."
"Excuse me? Weren't you just saying it'd be hard to produce?"
"What I *said* was that a thirty-billion-won drama with Cheon Yua in it beats a twenty-billion-won one without her. So make it that way."
"So... you're saying you'll join this drama, sunbae?"
Truth be told, I had considered the idea myself. Any drama becomes far easier to fund the moment Cheon Yua signs on. The only reasons I hadn't raised it were that I was in no position to ask such a favor of her — and that this drama had no role suited for her. It had been a two-lead setup to begin with, and with Lee Myung added, it was now a full three-male-lead structure. There were certainly no shortage of prominent female characters, but asking Cheon Yua to play one of *those*?
"Sunbae, there's no role for you. What would you even come in as?"
"Why wouldn't there be? Right here. Wolhee."
"That's a supporting role."
"So what if it's supporting? As long as I like the project, I don't quibble about that. I'm long past the point where things like that decide my tier."
"Hmm..."
Well, there *was* one fairly substantial role. Wolhee, Lee Myung's counterpart. She'd been added to the story alongside Lee Myung, so I couldn't say exactly what her role entailed — especially since we'd only received the early episodes so far. But she had a romance with Lee Myung and a fairly complicated backstory, so it was clear she'd been built as at least a major supporting character. Short of a lead, it was admittedly a bit thin — but with Cheon Yua in that mindset, it was a role she could choose.
Except Cheon Yua had one fatal reason she couldn't take it...
"Sunbae, I don't think this one will work for you."
"No. Why not?"
"...Sunbae. You can't sing."
"...Who told you that? Me, unable to sing?"
"So you can, then?"
"...No."
Wolhee was a songstress. You could tell from the very scene where she and Lee Myung first meet: he sees her singing on the shore of a lake beneath the rising moon and falls for her at first sight. She sings in quite a few other scenes besides, so a decent singing voice seemed essential.
You might ask why an actress would need to actually sing on screen, but most of Wolhee's scenes were structured on the assumption of real vocal ability. In cases like this, the intent is to cast an actress who can sing from the start — partly to manufacture OST buzz off the actress's own recordings, among other things.
And as fate would have it, our Heavenly Demon sings abysmally. Of the rare things the near-omnipotent Heavenly Demon cannot do, singing is one of them. The Murim Heavenly Demon was the same, so this one here was surely no different. Her voice was beyond even the saving grace of studio technology, so she really ought to give up on this role.
But hitting her with the blunt fact would bruise her feelings. Better to craft a softer, more diplomatic excuse and console the Heavenly Demon properly.
"That's part of it, of course, but the character design is also a problem."
"What about the design?"
"This character is a Japanese spy posing as an overseas Chinese merchant, remember?"
"...That's true."
"Your features are Western, sunbae. No amount of dye would sell this role. Sure, it's alternate history where historical accuracy barely matters, but you still have to respect the basics."
"Well... I suppose that's why I don't do period dramas."
There was no reason a Japanese spy *couldn't* have Western features, but she seemed to accept the explanation well enough. It was a far more comfortable reason than "you can't sing." Her sulking eyebrows smoothed back into place, so I figured I was safe.
Phew. So this is what they call office politics. What kind of battles are my in-laws even fighting behind the scenes?
I really ought to give my father-in-law a call tonight.