Practice Shoot and the Protagonist's Weakness
Drama production is broadly divided into three stages.
Pre-production.
Production.
Post-production.
To put it simply, it's the stage of preparing for the shoot, the stage of actually shooting, and the stage of turning the footage into a finished product.
The Chief CE is responsible for everything up to pre-production, so once shooting begins, my role is essentially done.
All that's left is to act as an on-site assistant CE, serving as the communication channel with SSK?
Post-production, which kicks off after shooting wraps, is the real technicians' time.
So with a light heart, I started wandering around to watch the shoot.
Honestly, I was deliberately keeping things light.
Having seen the final product already, if I nitpicked every detail, it'd never end.
Jung Hee-soo's direction might differ from what I'd seen at times.
But if I butted in every time, the set wouldn't function.
So no matter what, I planned to respect the director's authority and step back.
"Do CE. Go over to the actors and…"
What?
"CE, could you run lines with me for a sec?"
You're busy?
"Hyun-woo. I got this furniture made exactly like you specified, but doesn't the texture look a bit off on camera?"
Too much?
The three-day Gangwon-do location shoot, which started at 6 a.m. on Monday, wrapped up at 6 p.m. on Wednesday.
"Ugh, it's freezing. What kind of March weather is this?"
"Feels like we're back in the army, right?"
"That place over there was my unit…"
"I'm hitting the sauna the second we get to Seoul."
"Me too."
"Let's go together."
Because the drama's season was fall, the actors—who had to wear light clothes—were clamoring for saunas as they boarded the bus.
Usually, they'd ride in manager-driven vans, but you know how it is.
We had a chartered group bus.
After circling the set once and climbing aboard, I called out to the actors.
"Saunas are great, but sudden drastic temperature changes can lead to colds, so everyone be careful."
"Temperature changes!"
"Watch out for colds!"
The staff chuckled at the actors echoing back in unison.
Not mockery, but smiles laced with fondness.
Everyone was saying this was the most relaxed set they'd ever been on.
I get it.
I know how much actors bully set staff.
That doesn't mean all actors are jerks.
Dig deeper, and often there's a good reason.
For instance, if I blow an important schedule for reshoots, but my co-star shows up late for their own schedule?
And I'm stuck waiting hours on set?
Especially if that co-star is my junior or lower-tier?
Wouldn't I be pissed?
It's the set staff who have to hold back the furious actor ready to bolt, saying, "I'm sorry," a hundred times even though they did nothing wrong.
And that's not even the end once shooting finally starts.
The sour atmosphere makes OK cuts elusive.
Then the director flips out, and the staff have to take it all.
By the way, that's a heavily sanitized version.
Plenty of actors torment staff for no reason.
But on Gongbeomche, none of that happened.
Instead, they were cracking jokes with staff, giggling, even pitching in on tasks.
Because they all knew rock-bottom hardship all too well.
Of course, fame might change them later.
But not right now.
However…
"Do CE."
"Yes, Director."
"Dinner together work?"
In this industry, results trump personality.
After arriving in Seoul, dismissing the actors and staff, I sat down alone with Jung Hee-soo.
Over the past three days, we'd built a solid rapport.
Jung was a far better director than I'd anticipated.
Not just in skill, but in character too.
He wasn't free of the director's typical prickliness and irritation, but the fact it never stemmed from personal pettiness made him a class act.
When roe deer cries endlessly delayed shooting, he'd suggest early dinner instead of snapping at staff.
In turn, Jung had started trusting me.
Whenever acting issues arose, he'd call me in as messenger, and I'd handled it well.
The initial stiffness from script reading was gone; dining alone felt natural now.
But I sensed it.
Behind the director's smiling banter lay uncomfortable truth.
Sure enough, after wetting his throat with wine, he lowered his voice a tone.
"What'd you think of the footage, Do CE?"
"I can't judge footage and predict the final product."
"Just say it as you see it. Around 70 points?"
"Yeah, something like that? It's just practice, after all."
That's right.
Unbeknownst to actors and most staff, this Gangwon-do location was a practice shoot.
To be precise, good scenes would make the drama, but failed ones could be redone.
The drama's set in a Gangwon-do cabin, but not every scene shoots there.
Exterior scenes needing the background do, but interiors are on a Seoul set.
That way, no weather glitches or external noise disrupt precise shots.
Plus, camera movement is limited without pre-laid tracks on a set.
But we hadn't told the actors.
We gave them a chance to practice like it was the real deal.
A luxury afforded by our tight budget—rumor had it the finance head wanted to kill me after seeing the call sheet.
SSK's Han Sung-hoon reportedly blocked that.
Anyway, the key was actors getting one more shot.
"You know, Do CE? The idea that long-time unknowns act with raw authenticity is a media myth."
"I've heard that."
"Not well-known among actors? It's big among directors."
"Is it?"
"Sure, there are gem unknowns. No chances, bad luck, poor networking… all sorts buried for reasons. But directors aren't blind. They spot talent fast."
Jung chuckled wryly and continued.
"So, harsh truth: long-time unknowns usually have reasons."
I opened my mouth, wondering if the acting sucked—but Jung beat me.
"I was shocked during the shoot. They were too good. Unbelievably so for unknowns."
"Ah…"
"No idea what kind of guy picks exactly those people, Do CE."
"Thank you. Glad you liked the casting."
"Is that attitude why you nailed it?"
"Haha…"
"Half the interiors we shot can go straight in. If not for those damn roe deer, it'd be more—but too much noise."
The roe deer wailed endlessly.
Civilian access controlled, but wild cries? Impossible.
"But… Eum Sung-hyun's centerpiece scenes are iffy."
Yeah, that was the real talk.
I'd thought the same.
"Be honest. Without Eum Sung-hyun, it's not 70—more like 90 points, right?"
"…Yes."
Jung nodded.
"I get your character now, Do CE. Thought you took his money at first, but it's purely for the drama."
He went on.
"Eum's peaks are sky-high. Plenty of 120-point scenes."
"But the lows tank it."
"For roles 4 or 5, it'd be applause. Great rookie, bright future."
"But it's the lead."
"The protagonist carrying the show."
"As is…"
Eum Sung-hyun's dragging Gongbeomche down by the ankle.
That was Jung Hee-soo's point.
After parting with Jung, I pondered on the street for a while.
Gangwon-do's March was brutally cold, but Seoul's chill felt refreshing.
Or maybe I was so stifled, the knife wind felt cool.
Truthfully, no major issue with Eum Sung-hyun's acting.
Quality fluctuating with immersion? Every actor deals with it.
The problem: he's the protagonist, and Gongbeomche's script is hypersensitive.
Every character's puzzle piece must fit perfectly, but his sticks out.
But should I relay this straight?
He's already burdened— is this the right direction?
Mid-dilemma, Yoon CEO from D.P popped into mind.
The one person who knows actors best, as far as I knew.
First paycheck, visiting him— was that just months ago?
Call okay?
Short debate, quick action.
"Hey, you punk! It's been months?!"
After the warm greeting, I explained the situation, and Yoon CEO burst into booming laughter.
"You're hilarious. You shredded Seo Jae-yeon's and Choi Jae-hyuk's mentals as rookies, but now you're all considerate with him? What gives?"