Intermission (7)

After the scene of Yoo Tae-hyuk staring at the violin was shot, Yoon Jay and a few of the staff gathered for a modest wrap party.

"I knew you'd express it beautifully."

"That was a brutally hard assignment. You expected far too much from me."

The script for that scene had been blank except for a single line: 'Tae-hyuk resolves to let go of the violin.'

There was no telling how he would let it go, or what emotion would fill him at that moment. When Yoon Jay first received the pages, he'd assumed there had been a printing error.

It had been exasperating — but at the same time, it promised to be that much more interesting.

"Oh, come on, don't be modest. You were brilliant."

Shin Ji-won knew full well that if the lead had been anyone other than Yoon Jay, he never would have attempted the scene at all.

The investment money that Yoon Jay's involvement had attracted had vastly improved the shooting conditions, which had made him nervous — but Yoon Jay never pushed back, and he carried a genuine sense of responsibility for making the film together.

I hinted that he should smash it, and he played something entirely different instead.

What Yoon Jay had delivered was nothing like what the director had anticipated.

Now that the meal had wound down, the director got to the point. He'd been itching to ask this all evening.

"In that scene — why did you just stay still?"

"Because the violin looked expensive."

Yoon Jay said it with a smile dangling at the corner of his mouth.

"That's not how I read it at all. You're more timid than you seem."

"I am a bit sentimental, I'll admit."

"Well, it's an asset for an actor."

After months of shooting together, he and the director had grown close enough to trade jokes like this.

Extraordinary expressiveness.

The truth was that smashing the violin would have been the easier, more intuitive choice to play. But Yoon Jay had simply stared at it.

And it wasn't a vacant stare, either. With the faintest flutter of facial muscles, with his breathing subtly shifting as his feelings changed, Yoo Tae-hyuk's inner turmoil surfaced on its own for all to see.

"You mentioned before that you have things in common with Tae-hyuk. What did you mean by that?"

"Hmm..."

But what truly startled the director was what Yoon Jay said next.

"The past cannot be undone."

"..."

"As long as I remember it, I can't forget it. I can't smash it, and I can't erase it."

The family discord born of Yoon Jae-hee. The tragedy that the violin had visited upon a household. And yet, a self that could not let go.

Yoon Jay had circled all the way around and returned to acting, and Yoo Tae-hyuk, one way or another, was still making music. In that sense, they were alike — right down to the way they both clung to the past.

"And yet it keeps existing, doesn't it? With regret and lingering longing and joy all layered thick on top of it. Tae-hyuk wouldn't have known what to do with it at first, either."

Yoon Jay's words were delivered flatly, but with such quiet force that the staff at the neighboring tables forgot their own conversations and turned to listen. In an instant, the room went still.

"Honestly, I'm still like that even now. I keep wondering what to do with it — what I have to do so the ghosts of the past stop visiting me in my nightmares. So can I really say we're alike? ..."

"..."

"Anyway — that's why, at first, I only looked at it. Whatever's already gone, I have no power to change it."

Yoon Jay had faced the past trying to resolve it, grown exhausted, and ended up hiding it, burying it. Trauma that no army of specialists had managed to fix was hardly going to dissolve overnight.

But over these months of shooting Intermission, he had lived, for a while, inside Yoo Tae-hyuk's life. It was the particular pleasure of film — nothing like the breakneck, breathless pace of a drama.

"But... I think Tae-hyuk will be all right now. All that's changed is the instrument — he's still making joyful music. And Jeong Yi-hyun, the man who once stirred up his inferiority complex, turned out to be someone like him — so he stopped being a rival and became someone who understands his music instead."

The moment the camera rolled, he wasn't Yoon Jay. He was Yoo Tae-hyuk. Yoon Jay's own life didn't even enter his mind.

"Staring at that violin over and over is what finally sorted my thoughts out. Now that my heart's ready, I even considered smashing it, like you wanted. But then, all of a sudden..."

"It fell over sideways."

The violin slowly toppling on its own. An astonishing stroke of serendipity. Yoon Jay had been startled inwardly as well — but he hadn't let it break his immersion.

"It fell of its own accord, so it felt like I ought to just let it be."

"God... I still get chills thinking about that moment."

"So did I, watching the monitor. And the lighting director's reflexes were something else..."

"We made that scene together. Ha — that's the reason I can never escape the film world, right there."

Even now, the euphoria hadn't faded, and everyone chimed in with a remark of their own.

Yoon Jay's acting was acting, to be sure — but it was the veteran crew holding him up that made such a scene possible at all.

"Listening to you, though, Jay — it sounds like you still haven't found your answer."

"That's true."

"Then wait. Don't rush it."

"Is that advice from the director, or from a senior in life?"

"Yes."

Their circumstances were different, but the director had his own private struggles, and he had known both falling and rising.

"One day, out of nowhere, my head just went clear."

"Because time passed?"

"That's partly it. But the other part is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that all that time made me stronger."

Yoon Jay nodded slowly. He understood what the man meant.

But the thought ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that he might hurt someone close to him at any moment made him impatient. And time, after all, does not answer to anyone.

"By the way — if the script isn't finished yet, why not use that?"

"Use it how?"

Yoon Jay offered his suggestion carefully.

Some directors considered tampering with their direction a trespass. But they'd exchanged so many ideas back and forth over the course of this film that he had a feeling Shin Ji-won would receive it openly.

"Agitato's van — it's a run-down old bus that looks like it could die at any moment, right?"

The director listened, rubbing his chin. Was the man really gifted at direction as well, on top of being a phenomenal actor?

"I like that. I really do."

"Thank you."

"I mean it, sincerely. How about we officially credit you in the direction team, Jay?"

"I'd be honored."

"Still sulking?"

Dragging Jeong Yi-hyun back into the house hadn't settled everything. Min Joon-young and Yoo Tae-hyuk remained. They were best friends who fought constantly.

"What was all that posturing for, then?"

"It would've been embarrassing."

"What?"

Yoo Tae-hyuk spoke flatly. He was a man buried in the past, just as Yoon Jay had been.

He had hated to confirm it — to admit outright that his parents had been reduced to that because of him. Because as long as it stayed unspoken, he could pretend he wouldn't fall apart.

His declining skill had made him run away, but he wanted to believe — and to act as if — he was still a genius even playing a different instrument. Because then his parents' devotion wouldn't have gone to waste. And then Jeong Yi-hyun had shown up, and he had exploded.

"Still, you should have told us. We're your friends."

"I'm telling you now, aren't I?"

"No, seriously, this kid's driving me insane."

"Ugh, it just... happened. It's nothing, really."

"How is that nothing?"

"It's nothing now."

Min Joon-young's anger drained away, and he laughed. Yoo Tae-hyuk, too, wore a faint smile at the corner of his mouth and blew smoke up at the sky.

Behind the wall, Oh In-soo and Jeong Yi-hyun were quietly eavesdropping on the whole exchange.

And so Agitato, freshly reunited, soon found themselves embroiled in a scandal.

The reporter they had run into at the broadcasting station had since poured out a stream of malicious articles. He had taken Yoo Tae-hyuk's past and twisted it every which way.

Yoo Tae-hyuk and his mother were repackaged as villains who had bled his father dry. He became a good-for-nothing who, lacking the talent, stubbornly clung to the violin and ate his family into ruin.

"That son of a — I knew he'd pull something like this."

"Right? And why'd you have to smash his camera?"

"Because he pissed me off."

Min Joon-young ground his teeth, while Yoo Tae-hyuk — the one actually involved — was perfectly calm.

Watching the two of them, Jeong Yi-hyun felt their personalities had somehow traded places, and laughed. Even when they teased him for what he was cracking up about, he didn't care.

"What about this, then? I recorded it, just in case."

Oh In-soo held up his phone with a flourish. The moment the recording played, they all met each other's eyes and grinned.

The reporter's sneering tirade — the profanity, even the mockery of his hospitalized mother — they released it publicly, on Agitato's official channel. And then they turned it into a song. A comically, absurdly ridiculous one, of course.

Sitting at the center of one controversy after another, the four of them couldn't have cared less.

Their newly released album drew raves from the critics, sales climbed, and they swept the streaming charts. Music that had seized the public's heart rang out through the streets without pause.

"Somehow you didn't get dropped from the headliner slot."

"The organizers were blown away by our music, that's why."

"Guys, but what are we going to do about the van?"

A problem had appeared. They had a show to get to, and their van's battery was dead.

They'd earned money and moved into a spacious practice room, they'd squared their shoulders in front of their families and splurged on new instruments — but the van hadn't crossed their minds once.

"If I'd known this was coming, I'd have bought the van first."

"Train tickets are all sold out. There's standing room left — should we book that at least?"

"Let's do that for now. Wait, where's Yoo Tae-hyuk?"

As the three of them fidgeted and fretted, a brand-new van appeared in the distance and pulled up in front of them. Behind the wheel sat Yoo Tae-hyuk.

"Hey. Get in."

"What is this van? Did you rent it? The plates aren't rental plates."

"What else? It's our new van."

"Whoa..."

Under the demanding stares of the members, Yoo Tae-hyuk said, completely matter-of-fact:

"I sold the violin and bought it."

"What?"

This was the scene Yoon Jay had proposed. It also fit the backstory — that the violin had been bought with the money from Yoo Tae-hyuk's father selling their home for the sake of his son's dream.

"You're serious?"

"Are you allowed to do that?"

"I am."

The past cannot be erased. It simply remains where it passed. Yoo Tae-hyuk smiled, as if a weight had lifted off him.

"I don't need it anymore."

But it was because of everything in his past that he could turn toward the future.

Yoo Tae-hyuk's violin was never shattered — it went to a new owner, and was reborn as Agitato's new van gliding unimpeded down the open road.

A quiet promise that the road ahead of them, like the highway stretching straight and clear, would hold firm.

Intermission had proceeded without a hitch, and now the final shoot was drawing near.

"Director, what's the plan for the concert scene?"

"Well, about that. A rather radical decision came down."

They would build a full-scale stage in a region that actually hosted a live rock festival.

On top of that, they needed a massive crowd — the theater audience they'd recruited earlier through paid seats wasn't going to cut it. But opening recruitment wider meant accounting for the risk of footage leaking outside before release.

"So we've decided to just throw the doors wide open."

"Sorry?"

"We're not doing a separate livestream, but we won't stop fans fancams or anything like that."

There was one condition. Anything posted had to clearly credit Agitato — and wherever possible, tag the characters from the film rather than the actors' real names.

It was an experiment: manufacture the band as if it truly existed, spark a firestorm of buzz, and ride the publicity straight into the film's release.

"That's why the premiere schedule may get moved up, actually."

Instead, the director had become busy. His remaining task was to finish editing as quickly as possible.

Of course, a finished cut didn't automatically mean an earlier release. But the distributor had assured him: don't worry about that.

Come to think of it, wasn't there a slot opening up right about now?

One film that KE ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Entertainment had ambitiously prepared had just decided to postpone its release and go back into re-editing, after its subject matter collided with a socially sensitive controversy making the rounds.

Cho Youkyeong's hand had been heavy in that decision. She was eager, after so long, to see the results of Yoon Jay's first leading role in a film as soon as possible.

"Then how will you recruit the audience?"

"First priority goes to your fans. The rest will be chosen by lottery. Collecting entries on-site would get too chaotic, I think."

Since the decision had come together so suddenly, they planned to lay down green screens at various points and fill any gaps in the crowd with CGI.

"Want to bet on how many people show up?"

"Hmm... I'd say under ten thousand?"

"Ten thousand, hyung? That's a bit much, don't you think?"

"I'll say five thousand."

"Isn't five thousand already a lot?"

At that point, neither the actors nor the staff expected much. But the ripple effect turned out to be far stronger than any of them had imagined.

Word-of-mouth reviews from those who'd attended the first performance had already been stoking anticipation and impatience — and now, on top of that, came a massive, unplanned teaser drop. There'd been no bait to chew on before, and suddenly the mother lode had appeared.

A chance to appear in the audience of my bias's first leading film role? And I get to hear his playing and his vocals live, with my own eyes and ears?