Filming (1)
Sometimes, when you were so buried in work that you barely knew which way was up, you’d finally come to your senses, glance at the calendar, and realize time had vanished before you even noticed it.
Lately, that was exactly how things had been.
What the hell? When did this much time pass?
Before I knew it, autumn had arrived.
My regression had been around springtime, so if I counted by seasons it had been two full turns already, and by months, about five.
It felt like the script-reading had only just happened, and yet here we were.
Time really was indifferent, I thought, though the fact that things were moving forward was still welcome.
Was the crank-in last week?
Filming had finally entered its proper phase.
The air was cooling, the leaves were turning; it was the kind of season that made a drama look good on camera.
These days, when the world was starting to dry out and lose its color, it felt like the right tone for a man thrown into a new life after dying for loyalty.
We were about nine months in now.
It would air in next year’s third quarter.
The time would come when nothing could be changed anymore.
Until then, what could I do?
I’d already done everything I could. In other words, I’d controlled everything that was within my control.
So all that remained was finishing the writing.
I was in the middle of revising episode ten.
The script was still going because screenplay writing wasn’t some magical thing that simply appeared exactly as I said it should. There were always outside factors that forced revisions.
Sometimes it was as simple as adjusting a line of dialogue to fit an actor’s delivery, or fine-tuning a scene in response to a sponsor’s or the network’s request.
And on top of that, there was my own greed—the desire to make the final result better than what I had originally written.
It’s not like there aren’t any weak spots.
The overall structure was good.
Then as now, Sword-Bound Gentleman was being built to satisfy the idea of something “everyone could enjoy.”
But did my best automatically equal the best possible result?
If I asked myself that, there was definitely a subtle flaw buried in there somewhere.
The villain was weak.
Yeong-ho’s success as a member of Geomgye was good. The tavern Hyang-dan would grow into—a place that became both the gang’s base and the center of the town—was good too.
The uneasy standoff with Jang Bung-ik, who, as a member of Geomgye, had no choice but to stand opposed to Yeong-ho even when he was acting in good faith, was good as well.
But Ma Gwi-pyeong, the novel’s villain, was vague.
The leader who commanded the Geomgye in Hanyang.
The largest axis of evil, a figure whose charisma held something so forceful it could make even a crying child fall silent.
He was that kind of presence, and the very next episode I needed to write would be his first appearance, so I wanted to give him even more weight.
It’s just… very slightly unsatisfying.
Structurally, there was no problem.
Even if I left it as it was, Ma Gwi-pyeong would still serve his role as a narrative device, drive the story forward, and disappear when his purpose was done.
But wasn’t evil that existed only as a device bland?
It left an unpleasant aftertaste, like a fishbone lodged between strips of flesh.
I already knew how to get rid of that.
He has to be compelling.
There had to be something in him that made people want to latch onto the character.
Then viewers would accept that bitterness as umami instead.
Once I understood the cause, I could look for the answer.
My original concept was a psychopath.
That had seemed like the right fit for the boss of an antagonistic noir story, and if I implemented it that way, the shape of the character wasn’t bad at all.
So why was he lacking in charisma?
At last, I could answer that.
He has nothing.
Ma Gwi-pyeong had no obsession.
And the absence of obsession was the same as the absence of lack.
An evil with nothing it wanted was vague and terrifying, and that made it unsettling.
But even though that unease could be a kind of appeal in itself, it still made him the sort of character people would hate, which didn’t suit a work like Sword-Bound Gentleman that was aiming for extreme mass appeal.
I just need one more thing. Something small, but sharp.
Tap, tap.
Staring at my notes, I fell into thought.
Since we were talking about villains, the first things that came to mind were the damned bastards who had ruined my life.
Even those men had been loved right up until they went to hell.
So why didn’t Ma Gwi-pyeong have anything like that?
As I kept thinking, the pieces began to spread out before me.
Psychopathic swordsman, evil living in Hanyang’s shadow, a man who doesn’t hesitate to cut people down and wants nothing but chaos from the growth of his own organization.
I pieced together the keywords I’d laid out and looked for the empty space.
...Why.
Why could Ma Gwi-pyeong only live as the head of Geomgye?
...Why.
Why did he want chaos?
Why.
Where did that ultimate desire begin?
It had to be something not dull, not vulgar, not stereotypical, and not too far removed either.
That subtle gap, that “why” between those extremes—
The “had to be” that reached all the way into necessity itself.
...Ah. I get it.
Lightning flashed through my head.
Irony.
There was no irony in the character.
His actions and their consequences were too one-dimensional.
In other words, there was nowhere for people to sympathize with him.
No matter how superficial it might be, a character’s ideology needed at least a shard of something that made it understandable.
Once you pulled out that premise, the line of thought would widen.
Why is he a killer?
Because there was something that could only be proven through murder.
Why does he form a group?
Because there was something he could only show by building a group.
How should I explain his final goal?
Ma Gwi-pyeong’s purpose was to bring chaos to the court.
The filthiest death possible for those at the top.
And why did he have to do that?
...Because that was the only way he could prove something.
What?
Every clue I’d laid out began to connect.
I traced the cause backward through the structure of logic, through process and result.
I had reached the root of the character.
...Because he puts all human beings on the same level.
That was it.
I had to show the world as Ma Gwi-pyeong, the psychopath, saw it.
The readers had to see the perspective only he possessed.
My hand started moving like mad, scrawling across the notebook.
To Ma Gwi-pyeong, all people are equal. If you stab them, they die. If they’re caught, they cry and beg to be spared, barely above beasts.
That was why he could not understand Joseon’s class system.
That society itself made him feel an absolute sense of disconnect.
So he wants to break it. Because he hates that world, hates that he himself is trapped inside that contemptible cage of ours.
It was escape.
Ma Gwi-pyeong’s ultimate goal was complete freedom from every rule this society imposed.
That was the irony at the heart of Ma Gwi-pyeong.
His cause—his pursuit of the vulgar equality of all people—clearly touched the modern mind’s own way of understanding the age of Joseon.
Unforgivable, and wrong in method, but there was still a sliver of comprehension to be found in that refusal of the era itself. That gap became Ma Gwi-pyeong’s center.
I opened Word.
What kind of dialogue would carry this?
The moment I understood the character and started throwing questions from his perspective,
crackle!
A night alley in Hanyang spread out before my eyes.
An old yangban who had spent too long indulging in nocturnal pleasures slumped to the ground and wet himself.
All around him: blood, corpses, everything that had been guarding him until a moment ago, torn apart and scattered.
Then a man appeared, wearing ragged clothes over silk and a wide straw hat pulled low over his face, and he spoke in an almost cheerful voice.
“My lord, now the only thing left that makes you noble is that silk robe.”
“W-what? Do you know who I am!”
In that terrified bellow, the demon saw only a lump of flesh begging for its life.
“I see a commoner adorning his skin and worshiping illusion.”
Ma Gwi-pyeong’s sword was drawn.
The yangban let out a metallic shriek, panic swallowing him whole.
“K-khiiik...!”
“How very curious. I wonder whether the feeling of slicing through your flesh will be any different from the one who died beneath my blade earlier today.”
Before the words could even finish begging for life, the sword flashed.
Blood burst upward like a fountain.
A red streak bloomed across the wall.
A yangban murder case.
The trigger that would send the story surging into its climax had been pulled.
And then—
Click.
My hand stopped.
At last, the pieces had clicked into place and the picture was complete.
There.
Every piece needed to build the final episode had finally aligned.
* * *
The Sword-Bound Gentleman shoot was moving through its first week in surprisingly smooth spirits.
If I put it a little crudely, that was probably because everyone on set was roughly the same weight class.
“Cut! We’ll start again in twenty minutes, so take a short break!”
“Yes, sir!”
The director was Min Byeongki, who had burned through his debut project and was now holding a megaphone for the second time in his life.
Among the actors, the biggest name was Yuk Hyeongseok, who played the villain Ma Gwi-pyeong.
The rest were a fresh batch of rookies, some with a little supporting experience, some who had never even had a bit part before. It was the kind of set where everyone still looked green.
It would have been strange if they weren’t getting along warmly.
Of course, there was another major reason for this atmosphere.
The shoot was going well.
Go Yeongchan, WBS’s chief producer, stroked his chin.
He had a little time to spare and had come by to check on the set.
He’d been worried after hearing from Byeongki that things were progressing smoothly, so he’d dropped in expecting to find trouble somewhere. Instead, all he saw was this calm, orderly scene.
Yeongchan was genuinely impressed.
These people had strength, sure, but in the end this all started with one person.
Just how sharp is Han Jaekyung’s eye, anyway?
Honestly, when the production first began, he’d been full of worries and had mentally run through every disaster he could imagine, preparing a whole arsenal of complaints in advance.
But the set was in a state where none of that was needed.
Did Byeongki really lead them that well?
He was sure Byeongki knew action from watching and experiencing it, but leading the atmosphere on set was a separate skill, and he’d expected some rough edges there.
But Byeongki was, unexpectedly—truly unexpectedly—exceptional at running a set.
More precisely, he was good at matching the pace.
He’s the type who runs around on foot.
That was the easiest way to explain him: the kind of director who thought, It’s frustrating, so I’ll just do it myself.
Before filming even started, Byeongki had personally recreated the camera angles, lighting, composition, and acting tone, setting everything up perfectly before calling the shoot to begin.
When the director worked that hard, the people beneath him had no choice but to run just as hard.
The mood became as tight as it needed to be.
Filming, after all, was half about the attitude of the crew.
How could there possibly be many NGs on a set like this?
If there was any variable, it would be the actors—but even there, the casting had been excellent.
Calling them skilled would be a lie. But they’re fresh enough that it actually adds life.
There wasn’t a single actor who was fully seasoned, but there wasn’t anyone who couldn’t do their job either.
In the end, the actors were the ones who made the set breathe.
Each of them had enough ability to carry out at least their own role properly.
On top of that, their attitude toward filming was excellent, so there wasn’t a single moment derailed by pointless trouble.
When I put all those elements together, one thought kept creeping in unbidden.
It’s like they were chosen according to their personalities.
It was absurd, of course.
How could anyone figure that out from those brief moments in an audition room?
And yet, knowing it didn’t make the suspicion stop.
In the end, I landed on the only kind of conclusion that could make sense.
No matter what it is, maybe he was just born lucky in the people department.
If Jaekyung heard that, he’d probably clutch the back of his neck and collapse.
Honestly, it was a relief he wasn’t here.
Anyway, the atmosphere was that good.
And once I thought about the episode eleven script I’d received that very morning, I couldn’t help but feel anticipation.
Ma Gwi-pyeong was really good. He had just the right kind of pressure, just the right kind of intrigue.
If things went the way I expected, it felt like something huge was going to land.
And that wasn’t some vague hunch.
Whatever else he was, Yeongchan was a veteran of the industry who had already served his time on set as a director before climbing all the way up to CP.
Good. Too good!
Still, if you looked at things too favorably, objectivity started to slip.
Wasn’t it important to search for a flaw on purpose?
When he thought along those lines and looked for a weak point, there was only one thing he could really call a blemish.
“You worked hard...”
Ryu Cheong-ah.
During filming she looked almost possessed, but the moment she stepped out of the camera’s sight she wilted like boiled greens—the female lead, now sagging pathetically in the corner.
She looked uneasy.
Anyone could tell she was fretting herself to death.
Of course, who wouldn’t notice when she kept checking her phone and sighing whenever she got the chance?
The reason for that behavior was obvious to Yeongchan.
Huh. I should’ve stopped this sooner.
There had been an incident at the wrap dinner after the script reading.
She’d gotten drunk, grabbed Jaekyung by the collar, and shaken him like a rattle.
- Let’s be friendsss~! Allies~! Brothers-in-arms~! Betrayal means death~!
Then she’d hugged him and declared a blood oath before passing out.
In the industry, that was practically a rite of passage, so everyone had laughed it off.
Even Jaekyung, who had been on the receiving end of her drunken antics, didn’t seem to care.
- ...That was a new experience. Yes, I suppose that can happen.
He’d even let out a dry laugh, clearly treating it as nothing more than an absurd little episode.
But Cheong-ah clearly hadn’t taken it that way.
Ugh, well, I guess so. If you’re a rookie actress at that age, a writer really would be the scariest thing in the world.
In this business, if you acted well enough, people would praise you even if you were a total menace. So why was she being so timid?
No matter how many times everyone told her it was fine, she just wouldn’t seem to hear it.
Watching her, there were moments when he wondered if she might actually cry.
Normally, a CP shouldn’t meddle deeply in the filming set, but dull-witted Byeongki wasn’t the sort to notice or handle something like this delicately.
Yeongchan scratched the back of his head for a while, then made up his mind.
He walked over to Cheong-ah.
“Ms. Ryu!”
“Ah—! Y-yes! Yes, CP-nim!”
“Why are you slumped over like blanched spinach? You’ve looked great today!”
“Th-thank you...”
Her pupils looked hollow, as if her soul had leaked right out of them.
She was in pretty bad shape.
“You’re still upset about Han writer, aren’t you?”
“Hah...!”
“Why are you still brooding over that? It’s fine. It’s fine! I asked him separately, and he really doesn’t care even a speck!”
He said it with full-hearted cheer, but maybe he’d stepped on a land mine.
“...He doesn’t care about me? I’m not even on his radar anymore...?”
Was it just his imagination, or did it feel like the remainder of her soul was leaking out through her mouth?
Yeongchan rubbed his eyes.
And when he looked again, it was still the same.
He clicked his tongue.
I don’t think I can handle this one.
Maybe this was something Jaekyung needed to know.
After thinking about it for quite a while, Yeongchan waited until filming restarted, then went to a corner and called Jaekyung.
“Hey, Han writer. How’s the writing going?”
[I’ve finished episode twelve and I’m doing revisions. What’s wrong? Is there something you want changed?]
“What? How are you working that fast? No, no, that’s not the important part. Sorry to bother you in the middle of writing, but the thing is...”
Yeongchan gathered himself and explained the whole situation.
After listening in silence, Jaekyung let out a dry laugh.
[She’s still like that?]
“Yeah, I was thinking maybe you could send her a text saying you really mean it when you say it’s fine.”
He wasn’t ordering Jaekyung to come down to the set or anything. He just thought Cheong-ah might feel better if Jaekyung told her directly that everything was fine.
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.
It sounded like he was thinking it over.
Then, after a moment—
[No. Come to think of it, I haven’t even brought drinks for the filming staff. I’ll come by and tell her in person while I’m at it.]
“H-huh? You’re going that far?”
[It’ll also be my way of showing appreciation to everyone on set.]
Thud!
Yeongchan clapped a hand over his mouth.
Had this ever happened before?
A writer saying he’d buy drinks for the crew just to encourage them?
Did someone like that even exist???
- Ugh, what is this footage!? I really ought to go down there and say something, huh? Hm!? Should I just storm in and turn the whole thing upside down for you all?!
- Can’t we all just do our own jobs properly? Director Go, why are you so bad at this?!
- Aaaagh!!! I’m not doing any script revisions, so just shoot it exactly as I wrote it, okay?!
A whole era of suffering and indignity.
In Go Yeongchan’s long career as a director, there had never been a writer like this. Never.
“Han writer...”
[...I’ll see you on set. I’ll bring everything with me, so excuse me for now.]
Click.
The call ended.
But the afterglow didn’t fade.
He put a hand over his chest.
Why did the warmth of this human decency keep swelling in him more and more each day?
Before long, his eyes squeezed shut too.
A firm resolution rose inside him.
Han writer, I’m definitely going to back you up.
That was right.
Whether he intended it or not, Jaekyung had taken one more step today toward becoming Yeongchan’s favorite writer.
A profession that could move people just by behaving like a human being.
Unfortunately, that was the state of the drama writer in Yeongchan’s heart...!
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