A Healing Film and a Hello from Happy

‘One day, they woke up to find their bodies swapped!’

The body swap — two people exchanging bodies — has been a staple of the film industry for a very long time.

A girl and a boy, a woman and a man, a mother and daughter, a father and son. Bodies could be swapped between any number of relationships, and countless movies and dramas had been built on this premise.

Usually, these stories followed a familiar pattern:

1. They were almost always classified as comedies.

2. A goofy BGM played.

3. The two swapped parties were, without fail, locked in some deep conflict.

4. In the final act, with very high probability, a scene would appear engineered to wring out forced sentiment.

Living in each other's bodies, the protagonists would gradually begin to understand one another. And once they finally achieved "true love" or "true family," their bodies would return to normal at some arbitrary moment.

Why the swap happened, how they got back into their original bodies — the mechanics never really mattered. They'd be explained away with a line like "he got struck by lightning" or "she got tangled up in some strange Eastern curse."

Truthfully, audiences didn't expect any more than that, so the logic was bound to be thin.

And here — there was one particular screenwriter.

A few days ago, he had finished a script about a boy and a dog whose bodies got swapped. The story's utter lack of logic had been surprising enough, but the most shocking fact lay elsewhere.

Specifically: this movie's genre was not comedy. It was healing.

"Haah."

The screenwriter, who had arrived at the meeting spot a full thirty minutes before the scheduled time, sighed.

"...What if Lee Yeonjae says no? Then it's all over."

As the screenwriter jiggled his leg anxiously, the director beside him snapped, "Stop shaking your leg. You're making me dizzy too."

"Aren't you nervous, Director? If we can't land Lee Yeonjae, this script goes in the trash."

"Then obviously it goes in the trash. Do you really think Lee Yeonjae is going to shoot this?"

The screenwriter bristled at that.

"Then why would he ask for a meeting if he's not going to do it!"

"Because YOU put my name in the director slot, that's why! Do you have any idea how many actors want to make a film with me?"

The director — the man behind two ten-million-admission blockbusters — shrugged his shoulders smugly.

The screenwriter scoffed. "Oh, look at the big shot. Says the guy who came running the second he heard 'meeting with Lee Yeonjae.'"

"Damn right I did, you punk. Today's just a casual meet-and-greet — we size each other up, and once the mood thaws a little, I ask him."

"Ask him what?"

"What kind of script Lee Yeonjae actually wants to shoot."

The plan was, apparently, to then whip up exactly the script Yeonjae wanted with miraculous precision — and at that, the screenwriter nearly choked.

"Ugh, I have some professional pride too, you know! I'm a fairly well-known writer myself, and you treat me like dirt."

"Oh yeah? Are you more famous than Lee Yeonjae?"

"......"

The screenwriter's mouth clamped shut like a clamshell.

The director snorted and crossed his arms. "Hey, I know you've got skills. You, me, and Lee Yeonjae — that combo could turn out a genuinely good film. BUT. Not a healing film."

The director's tone was firm.

"I'd bet Lee Yeonjae won't do healing either. How many films have flopped pushing 'healing'? He's at the age where he's got to be thinking about his career too."

What does he even lack that he'd need to make a movie about swapping bodies with a puppy? — the screenwriter had no comeback for that. So instead, he ignored the director, pressed his palms together, and made a wish.

'Please, please let Lee Yeonjae say yes!'

He was one of the more successful established screenwriters in the industry, with over a decade of experience in film. Which was exactly why he knew better than anyone:

If Lee Yeonjae wasn't cast, this movie would never see the light of day.

'If I miss this chance, I'll never write a healing film in my life.'

He had spent his whole career on action and thrillers, which made the longing all the more desperate.

'A quiet, gentle healing film.' In the world of commercial cinema, where box office was god, it was practically a forbidden word.

Of course, healing films that became massive hits did exist. But that was like saying lottery winners exist. In other words, the odds that his healing film would hit it big were exactly the odds of winning the lottery.

'Why is it so hard for healing films to succeed?'

The biggest reason was probably that there was simply no need to see them in a theater. Unlike action films, where true catharsis demanded a theater's thundering sound system, a healing film played just as well on a screen at home.

And in an era where OTT streaming had become part of daily life, that was truer ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠than ever.

The problem was that the people investing in the film industry knew this all too well.

But what if the protagonist was that Lee Yeonjae?

Then everything changed. Healing film or whatever, investors would line up out the door. Even if only Yeonjae's fans bought tickets, the film would sail past its break-even point without breaking a sweat.

'What an astonishing actor.'

Lee Yeonjae's fanbase was unbelievably solid for a child actor — nearly idol-like in its devotion. And yet, ironically, the works he chose and the performances he gave all carried broad, mainstream appeal. He wasn't an actor who rose on the strength of his fans, but he was certainly an actor who was loved by them.

If Lee Yeonjae merely agreed to appear, his first-ever healing film could be born into the world.

'Please. Please.'

Just as the screenwriter was murmuring this in his head, a knock sounded and the door opened.

"You've been waiting a while."

Lee Yeonjae greeted them in a soft, composed voice and bowed politely at the waist. "I'm Lee Yeonjae. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Not at all — we're the ones who came early!"

The screenwriter was smiling, about to introduce himself, when he noticed the figure standing behind Yeonjae.

A... thug?

As the screenwriter and director both sucked in their breath, Lee Yeonjae swiftly introduced his manager. "This is my manager. There's no need to be frightened" — the smooth, practiced delivery made ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it abundantly clear this was not the first time this had happened.

"Please, have a seat."

"Thank you."

He's taller than I expected.

In person, Lee Yeonjae was a man of few words. Feeling the silence stretch, the screenwriter forced the corners of his mouth up.

"Have you... had a chance to look at the script?"

"I read it so carefully. I actually went back and watched or read everything you've written. Every single one was fun."

The screenwriter clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Really?"

It's happening. This is happening.

The screenwriter shot the director a look that screamed 'I told you!!!' The director, in the spirit of calming him down, smacked his leg, then turned to Yeonjae.

"We'd like to cast you as the lead, Do Yooyoung. Would you be willing to appear in this script?"

A straight-to-the-point question. Unable to bear the suspense, the screenwriter screwed his eyes shut.

'Please, please, please.'

In the brief moment before Lee Yeonjae opened his mouth, ten thousand thoughts flashed through the screenwriter's mind. And then came the answer — far more easily than expected, and remarkably simple.

"Of course."

Delivered in a tone of mild puzzlement that seemed to say, why else would I be here?

'Insane. For real?'

While the screenwriter sat frozen stiff, the director asked again, just to be sure.

"Truly? No requests to change anything in the script? The genre, even the smallest details?"

"Shouldn't you be asking the writer that...?"

Lee Yeonjae wore the expression of a man wondering why on earth you'd direct that question at the actor. Only then did the director realize: this kid really was a natural monument. He's the real deal.

"You've put my mind at ease. Thank you — truly, truly!"

As the screenwriter rejoiced, Yeonjae smiled along with him — and then asked, half-bewildered:

"Thank you as well. So, what's the audition schedule look like?"

"What audition?"

"The audition for the role of Do Yooyoung."

"...?"

"...?"

A beat of silence fell over the room. Lee Yeonjae, the screenwriter, and the director all wore expressions of pure incomprehension. Only Yeonjae's manager wore a faint, knowing smile.

"Why... would we hold an audition? We haven't even considered another actor besides you."

"I'm sorry?"

Lee Yeonjae looked genuinely flustered.

"You're casting a film's lead — at minimum, you should do a camera test. What if you don't like my acting later on?"

Coming delivered with a faintly lecturing tone, no less, the screenwriter and director didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

'Excuse me, you're Lee Yeonjae.'

The Lee Yeonjae. The youngest ever winner of the Best Actor award at the Cannes Film Festival, and the lead of Killing Horn — a series even being floated for Emmy consideration.

They were dumbfounded to hear him talk like some unknown hopeful — but the manager stepped in mid-exchange, and the conversation was finally wrapped up. After Lee Yeonjae's official contract was signed, everything proceeded without a hitch.

And so the filming schedule was set for Shin Yooyoung — Lee Yeonjae's second big-screen appearance.

'It's already June.'

The scenery outside the car window had turned a lush green. Sunlight glinted off the trees, announcing summer's arrival.

I quietly gazed out the window.

'Will it be okay?'

We were on our way to meet the golden retriever cast as the dog who swaps bodies with the protagonist in Shin Yooyoung. The director had suggested we get acquainted before filming properly began, so I'd set up the visit.

Though the green scenery filled my view, my worried mind refused to focus on it.

'What if the dog is scared of me?'

I'd barely crossed paths with animals in my life — and in those few encounters, they'd all avoided me. I remembered it vividly: the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠way animals would steer clear of my surroundings as if approaching something unclean, which only made the kids at the orphanage even more afraid of me.

'When was the last time I saw an animal after meeting the Fog?'

Just Seo Jio's cat, I thought. 'Thankfully, she liked me.'

The memory surfaced of that cat flopping down squarely on my lap the moment we met. But I'd never met a dog that liked me, so my mind was made up:

Even if the dog hated me, all I had to do was make sure it never showed on camera.

"We're here, Actor."

I stepped out of the car carrying a bag stuffed with treats.

'Why am I so nervous over this?'

I'd read every book on golden retrievers I could find — traits, care methods, all of it — but the anxiety remained. We couldn't even talk to each other. How was I supposed to tell a dog not to let on that it disliked me?

"Ah, I think that's the place."

Where Jinbae-hyung pointed stood a countryside house with an enormous yard. I steeled myself and headed inside.

"Happy!!!!"

And a few seconds later, I was staring up at the sky.

'What?'

What just happened?

"Actor, are you okay?!"

"Oh no, I'm so sorry! Happy!! Get up! How many times have I told you not to pounce on people?!!"

Jinbae-hyung and the dog's owner were shouting, and somewhere above me came a panting — hah, hah — and from that, I pieced together the situation. Lying flat on my back in the grass, I rolled my eyes over and found myself face to face with the dog pinning me down.

―Hah, hah.

"...Hello."

―WOOF!

The dog barked loudly. Hot breath washed over me through its panting mouth.

"Happy, get up already?!"

The owner hauled the dog off me while Jinbae-hyung looked me over. "Any dizziness? Should we go to the hospital?"

"Hyung, calm down. It's grass."

"You fell over with no way to protect yourself! I'm so sorry — I should have been right beside you."

I waved off his insistence that we see a doctor in case of a concussion. Honestly, seriously.

Just then, the owner came over to apologize. "I'm so sorry. Not that it's an excuse, but since his training, he's never ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠once done this. Oh dear — are you hurt anywhere?"

"I'm fine."

While the owner apologized again and again, I stole a glance to the side. The dog, sitting rigidly at attention, was staring straight at me.

I asked the owner carefully.

"How does he seem to you, exactly?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you think... this guy dislikes me?"

At my ultra-cautious phrasing, the owner's face filled with question marks. "Dislikes you?" And then, in a voice steeped in sheer disbelief, he raised a finger and pointed at one spot.

"That tail of his is about to fly off right now..."

The dog's tail was spinning like a helicopter rotor.

'The book said that's a sign of affection.'

I swallowed a sigh of relief. Nice. We can film.