There are many ways to promote a film, but if you had to name the most “major” one there’s only one answer.
“Stage‑greetings, obviously.”
“They’re hard on the body, but nothing brings a reaction as clearly as those. They’re great for boosting your personal recognition, too.”
“Right. Folks like us rarely stand face‑to‑face with the audience, so we have to stamp our faces into their memory when we can.”
Strictly speaking, press conferences and previews are also part of promotion.
These days YouTube has been added to the mix, but the traditional toolkit is about those events.
Then you add on interviews and TV variety shows, Rowoon thought.
Some of the leads had already confirmed appearances on well‑known talk programs.
Rowoon’s manager, however, took it another way.
“Offers will be flooding in for you, too, so don’t lose heart! Got it? I’m telling you—you’ll be on New Quiz before long!”
The manager cheered him on as if trying to keep Rowoon from feeling small, though Rowoon himself felt nothing of the sort.
But with my level of name recognition right now… a bit out of reach, he dared not say aloud for fear of hurting the manager.
Anyway Rowoon wasn’t envious of variety shows.
The hardcore schedule of hopping from theater to theater like a grasshopper was tiring, yet strangely fun.
It was delightful to see people enter with let’s‑see‑what‑you’ve‑got faces and come out all soft and glowing with goodwill.
“Yujeong and Seojun and Jiho—aren’t you three tired?”
“Ah, there he goes, using the character names again.”
“Can’t help it; they’re glued to my tongue. Anyway, Rowoon, Chaheon, Saero—you holding up? We old guys don’t get called for every stage‑greeting, so the kids are the ones suffering.”
Just before their fourth greeting of the day, the actors playing the modern‑day roles groaned theatrically.
Age seemed to make the string of hardcore stops tough for them.
“I’m fine,” Rowoon answered.
Compared with idol days when he’d been pushed to the brink, this was a breeze.
In fact the enjoyment outweighed the fatigue, so he said so—
—and was instantly showered with praise and snacks from every direction.
“Quit fussing over us and look after yourself, Rowoon. You never put on weight no matter how much we feed you—how’s that even possible?”
One of the few merits of the “original body” was a good frame that didn’t gain fat easily, and Rowoon took full advantage.
When things are rough, eat well.
Hunger on top of exhaustion is misery; eating together beats eating alone.
They’re over‑praising me for something I do just because I like eating…
If Rowoon cared about rice power, the senior actors had voluntarily taken charge of snack power.
Director Kim had supposedly begged them not to spend their own money since the budget covered refreshments—
“But since we’re eating anyway, why not make it tasty and plentiful?”
Rowoon had once murmured.
After that, something must have passed between manager and actors.
In any case they kept bringing goodies, and most of them seemed desperate to hand everything to Rowoon—rather awkward, really.
“These are dried persimmons from my parents’ village—sun‑and‑sea‑breeze dried, chewy and sweet. Your sugar looks low, so eat one right now. It’ll slide right down.”
“Why don’t you have some too, ma’am?”
“…I’ve put on weight. Well, if you insist I’ll eat with you.”
People often said middle‑aged actors were difficult, but Rowoon couldn’t relate.
They’re such good people. Even knowing the body’s reputation they keep feeding me…
Anyone who gives you food can’t be bad.
“By the way—”
The actress slipped the half‑dried persimmon into his hand, then leaned in conspiratorially.
“Chaheon isn’t… bullying you, is he?”
“Eh?”
“Tell me quietly if he is. I’ll scold him.”
Well—
He’s right over there listening, though…
The waiting room wasn’t large; on one side Chaheon stood with arms folded, giving a having‑fun? smirk.
“Uh… not really.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t a lie just because Chaheon could hear: though he’d shown hostility at first, things had completely changed.
Recently he’d outright said he didn’t dislike Rowoon.
Strangest of all was Chaheon’s habit of separating the original Lee Rowoon and the current Rowoon in his mind—like an open church turning closed.
“You must wonder why I’m saying this,” the actress went on with an embarrassed laugh.
“He’s rough around the edges, but he’s a decent kid—good actor, clean private life, self‑disciplined, never arrogant on set.”
It’s true—despite being a top star, he never put on airs; he treated even the bit‑part actors with courtesy, chatted easily, and stayed refreshingly down‑to‑earth.
But why tell me all this?
Rowoon’s puzzlement showed, so she added:
“I just thought you two would make perfect friends. He looks his age when he’s with you… honestly you could do better, but if not for you he’d never make a friend at all.”
“I can hear every word,” Chaheon called, tongue clicking.
“So do you actually have friends? No, right?”
“I can act without friends.”
“That’s why you hang around old fogies like us. When a good friend turns up you should latch on. Stand alone too long and people make mistakes.”
Then, kindly to Rowoon:
“Give it a try—having him at your side won’t be so bad.”
One could hear the subtext use him as a human talisman.
“You’re treating me like a lucky charm,” Chaheon complained.
“Not a charm—more like pest‑repellent.”
They all laughed, knowing no harm was meant.
“True, the kid’s a bit clueless. I’ll keep an eye on him,” Chaheon said at last.
“Great! Friends look after each other.”
“Entry in five minutes!” a staffer announced, and private chatter ended.
Day 2.
Again the cast assembled for stage greetings—four straight days and counting, with another week ahead.
Yet the Gwiro waiting room buzzed with energy, not fatigue.
“At this rate we might really hit a million in a week!”
Midnight box‑office numbers updated daily, and the team checked them like the weather.
They’d projected figures from pre‑sales, but only the official count at midnight was certain.
“Don’t jinx it,” someone cautioned.
“Come on, the feel is right. Seventeen‑thousand on opening day? Rowoon’s number isn’t impossible.”
Good first‑day returns guarantee nothing; if word of mouth says “boring,” it ends.
K‑moviegoers, quick to spread opinions, will not open their wallets for dull films even with the biggest stars.
“Let’s not celebrate yet—watch and see.”
But by the fourth day…
“With day‑two and day‑three like that, are we not really going to break a million inside a week?”
The sober caution of earlier had vanished..
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