Glory Film Company

Episode 22: Casting (2)

“You already met her?”
“Yes, she read the script on the spot and agreed immediately.”
“Wow, are you serious? Just like that, in one shot?”

The emotion in Ha Pilsung’s voice was unmistakable. Securing the top-choice actress’s agreement to join was beyond his expectations.

Youngkwang, however, didn’t mention that he hadn’t fully introduced Ha Pilsung to Kang Jooyeon yet or that negotiations over her fee and other details could still jeopardize the casting. Those were problems he intended to solve later. He was confident things would hold together.

But then Ha Pilsung threw a curveball.

“I’m glad she liked it… but I think I need to revise the script again.”
“Revise? Which part?”

Youngkwang asked casually, knowing scripts often changed during filming, on set, or even in the editing phase. But Ha Pilsung’s answer took him aback.

“I’ve been thinking… why did I insist on leaving out nudity? That’s arguably one of my strongest points.”
“…Excuse me? Nudity?”

This wasn’t a small tweak. It was a massive overhaul that could fundamentally change the film’s tone and focus.

What’s gotten into him?

If they’d been face-to-face, Youngkwang might’ve smacked him upside the head. Nudity—or the lack thereof—was a key reason Kang Jooyeon had agreed to the role.

“Why the sudden change? Which scene are we talking about?”

Youngkwang tried to stay calm and assess the situation.

“It’s about the male lead, Minwook, and why he can’t let go of Ha Yeonsu. His obsessive behavior needs stronger justification—something intense and visually striking. Editing with sound cues or hinting through dialogue has its limits. When Minwook is alone and consumed by his unbearable anguish, the audience needs a visceral reason to empathize with him.”
“And?”
“I thought maybe we could just show it briefly—just a few seconds—and get it over with. Instead of relying on experimental direction, which might not land with the audience, why not go bold and leave no room for ambiguity…”

“…Director?”

Youngkwang cut him off.

“We don’t need nudity to achieve that.”

“You think so?”
“It’ll be more refreshing this way. Audiences will imagine something even more provocative than what’s actually shown.”
“That was my initial thought too, but…”
“And for the record, one reason Kang Jooyeon was drawn to this project was because it didn’t include any nudity.”
“…Really?”
“She specifically praised the script for its completeness, its unique premise, and the depth of its characters. Those were the elements that won her over.”
“Oh… Is she uncomfortable with nudity now? I thought she’d done it before in previous works.”
“Circumstances have changed. Regardless, if you truly believe that scene is essential, you’ll need to discuss it with her directly.”
“Ah… I see.”

Youngkwang could practically picture Ha Pilsung’s expression on the other end of the line—frustration, self-doubt, and perhaps even resentment toward Youngkwang for moving so quickly with the casting.

So be it.

Youngkwang decided to let it go for now. Filmmakers—directors especially—were often eccentric and temperamental. It was best to leave them alone until they sorted themselves out. Negotiating later was a hassle, but not an insurmountable one.

“I’ve scheduled the first meeting for Thursday. You can discuss everything then and come to a clear agreement before signing the contract. Be transparent and honest.”

“Thursday? This week? But it’s Tuesday today!”
“The actress said Thursday works best for her. We’ll book a suitable location in Gangnam and let you know. Is there a problem, Director?”
“Uh, hang on. Thursday? Okay, I’ll revise the script one more time before then. Ugh, fine, I’m hanging up. Hanging up now!”

Click.

The call ended abruptly.

Ha Pilsung would undoubtedly pull an all-nighter to produce another revised draft by Wednesday night, or Thursday morning at the latest. If he genuinely believed the nudity was necessary, he’d craft a convincing script to persuade the actress.

Youngkwang trusted Ha Pilsung’s ability, but as the producer, it was his responsibility to review the revised content beforehand.

“One day should be enough, right?”

The reason Youngkwang told Ha Pilsung that the meeting with Kang Jooyeon was on Thursday, instead of the actual Friday, was precisely to allow time for these potential hiccups.

Of course, a small part of it was also fueled by annoyance at Pilsung’s sudden talk of nudity, which had nearly flipped the entire situation upside down.

“Anyway, now we need to find a male lead,” Youngkwang muttered, furrowing his brow.

The current buzz around the project was enough. A former erotic film director, Ha Pilsung, and Kang Jooyeon, who had made national headlines with her scandal, teaming up for a romantic black comedy? The mere idea would spark enough interest to render traditional marketing unnecessary. The moment word-of-mouth spread, it would blow up.

But if the film didn’t deliver enough quality to justify the hype, audiences would turn away just as quickly.

Finding a male lead who could not only balance out Kang Jooyeon’s strong presence but also elevate the film’s overall quality was critical.

And…

“He needs ticket-selling power.”

The ideal actor had to possess proven ability—or hidden potential—to carry a 120-minute runtime from start to finish. Only by completing the packaging this way could they secure the investment necessary to make the film properly.

Several well-known actors came to mind, but Youngkwang quickly calculated that securing them would be neither easy nor affordable.

That’s why his next destination was the audition site for Director Kwak Junghoon’s next project, Gate.

“The lead actor is already cast, but today they’re auditioning for two supporting roles and a few minor parts.”

Though this could’ve been delegated to an assistant director, Kwak, who had a particular attachment to these characters, insisted on personally overseeing even the smallest roles.

When Youngkwang had casually asked if he could observe the auditions, Kwak, already intrigued by him, had agreed without hesitation.

“Sure, come take a look and share your thoughts.”

Gate, Kwak Junghoon’s next film, was a contemporary piece quite different from his upcoming Guardian Spirits, which he had promised to My Way Pictures.

The story centered on two fictional countries embroiled in war and resource exploitation. After years of devastation, they declare peace—but the news doesn’t reach one isolated region.

Several factors contribute to this:

A powerful group benefiting from the war deliberately hides the news.
The region’s geographical isolation cuts off communication.
Both warring factions have a history of hatred so deep that peace seems impossible.

While the outside world moves toward reconciliation, tensions in the region escalate to their peak.

Eventually, two heroes emerge, bringing the two factions to an uneasy truce. However, the leaders of the two nations, each driven by their own motives, reignite the conflict, turning the heroes’ carefully orchestrated peace festival into a tragic battlefield—a climactic highlight of the film.

Though somewhat familiar, the story had an addictive quality, like spicy mala noodles that left you craving more.

The buzz surrounding the film—directed by a double-ten-million-hit director, rumored to have a massive budget, and backed by a powerhouse production company—was enough to draw attention from across the industry.

The audition site was packed with actors.

“This is insane. How many people are here?”

Youngkwang couldn’t help but compare. If My Way Pictures held an audition, would even a quarter of this crowd show up? Probably not. Maybe a tenth, at best.

That was part of why Youngkwang was here.

“Any decent actor Kwak Junghoon passes on, I’m taking.”

Kwak likely had an inkling of Youngkwang’s intentions when he granted him access to the auditions. Still, Youngkwang’s purpose was crystal clear.

He was here to scoop up any overlooked talent.

“Oh, you’re here?”

As Youngkwang quietly slipped into the audition room, Kwak Junghoon greeted him with a raised hand.

“Hello, Director.”

“Come on in and take a seat. Perfect timing.”

Kwak gestured toward an empty chair with a nod.

Youngkwang exchanged brief greetings with the staff before settling into the folding chair. Soon, the first actor walked in.

“Hello, I’m Kim Minhyuk.”

“Nice to meet you. Please start.”

“Yes, thank you. Ahem.”

The man, thin and wiry, stood at just over 170 cm. His prominent eyebrows gave him a distinctive look. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes briefly to center himself, then began reciting lines from the provided script.

“This… this is a trap. We need to turn back immediately.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you see? We’ve been out of contact for three days now. It’s too dangerous to keep going like this.”

“Ah… what am I supposed to do with this?”

Youngkwang sighed internally.

The assistant director reading lines opposite the actors was delivering a performance that outshone most of the auditionees.

“That’s pure acting diction. It’s so outdated. There’s no natural flow; it’s like they’re shouting, ‘Look at me! I’m acting!’ with an artificial tone.”

Youngkwang discreetly glanced at the profile of the current actor in the judge’s hand.

“A couple of indie films and a daytime drama? Probably worked a lot with veteran actors referred to as ‘masters.’”

Their acting carried a certain ‘classical stiffness.’ It felt old-fashioned, formulaic.

“Thank you for your time.”

Without lingering, Director Kwak Junghoon cut the performance short after observing only a few moments of the actor’s delivery.

“…Oh.”

The actor left, looking puzzled and unable to pinpoint what went wrong. Bowing briefly, he exited the audition room. Perhaps this wasn’t his first rejection.

Other actors followed—a mix of nervous performers forgetting their lines mid-scene and others blatantly copying the tone and character of famous stars with unabashed confidence.

“Thank you for your time.”
“Good effort.”
“Let’s move on.”

Each time, Kwak dismissed them with cold, concise words.

By the time they’d cycled through a dozen or so actors, Youngkwang found himself unimpressed.

“I expected more from an audition for a director with two ten-million-hit films under his belt. This is underwhelming…”

Just as disappointment was setting in, a striking figure strode into the audition room.

“Now, this one has camera appeal.”

Though impressive in person, this actor’s face seemed designed to truly shine on screen.

Tall, with fair, clean skin, and long, well-proportioned limbs, he carried an innate elegance. His monolid eyes were sharp yet kind, suggesting he could easily oscillate between playing heroic and villainous roles. The overall impression was fresh and versatile.

Even the faintly visible musculature, neither too bulky nor too thin, gave the sense of a disciplined, prepared actor.

“Hello, my name is Lee Jaehyun.”

His low yet clear voice was pleasant to the ears.

“Please begin,” Kwak instructed.

Whether it was instinct or charisma, the mood in the room shifted. Even Kwak and the other judges, who’d been exuding boredom moments before, leaned forward slightly in their chairs, suddenly interested.

“Ha. You caught me. When did you figure it out?”

“…He’s laughing?”

The scene in question depicted a covert operation being exposed to the protagonist. According to the script’s directions, the character SANGHYUN was described as ‘excited, voice trembling.’

Previous actors had taken the direction literally—flushing red, quivering their bodies, and yelling their lines to convey the character’s frustration and agitation.

But Lee Jaehyun? He delivered his lines with a calm, almost amused smile.

And yet…

“He’s trembling subtly—just his cheeks and hands.”

The layered emotions came through: anger at those who had pushed him to his limit, inferiority toward the protagonist, nervousness, and resignation. The subtle tremor in his voice and restrained body language conveyed a cocktail of complex feelings.

“So, it’s a self-deprecating laugh. Impressive.”

It was clear Lee Jaehyun had studied the script meticulously.

Rather than focusing solely on SANGHYUN’s rage for this single audition scene, he’d internalized the character’s entire arc. This allowed him to suppress the character’s emotions in a way that aligned with the narrative.

“I suppose I could take a guess?”

Lee Jaehyun’s expression shifted, now cold and sharp.

“You’re not quite clever enough to have figured it out on your own the first time, and it’s too late for this to be a recent realization. Let’s say… about a week ago? You must have spent those days stewing over this, haven’t you?”

What is this?

Youngkwang tilted his head, intrigued.

The performance was unlike anything he’d seen before—not just among today’s auditionees, but in general.

Every aspect—his pauses, his trembling, the modulation in his voice, the shifts in expression—was unique, commanding attention effortlessly.

It was hard to tell where the actor ended and the character began. Lee Jaehyun had surpassed the script’s vision for SANGHYUN, embodying the role so fully that it felt like the character had come to life.

“Hmmm…”

Youngkwang shook his head slightly.

As good as it was, this performance didn’t seem suited to this particular audition.