Pen and Paper Translations

But before she could figure out why his aura had changed, the other students started filing in.

When they saw Myeong-woo each one simply said:

“Hey, long time.”

“You made it.”

“…”

and left it at that.

There was Hwang Min, who looked thirty years older than his age; taciturn Lee Dae-beom; and Choi Su-bin, keeping time to her music through earphones.

Counting Myeong-woo, six students formed one lesson group.

Only after their instructor and academy director, Gong Chae-yong, walked in did class officially begin.

“Everyone stretched?”

“Yes.”

Acting always involves physical action, so warm-ups were basics. ZC Academy also had one extra stretch just for acting.

“We do the inner stretch together. Ready.”

The inner stretch was simple: laugh on purpose.

“Remember: it starts as an imitation, but it ends by making a real mood. No fake facial muscles, laugh for real. Laugh ten times bigger. Ah-haha!”

“Puh-ha-ha, my stomach!”

“Blast those endorphins!”

“Endorphins, ha-ha-ha!”

Beyond the mirrored wall, the kids came into view: stern faces, old-looking faces, awkward faces, haughty faces—all melted into laughter.

They bent double wiping tears, rolled on the floor, stamped their feet, howled like lunatics with no one feeling shy. No restraint at all when expressing emotion.

Myeong-woo giggled until his lungs were airy.

Being alive really is great.

Energy tingled from scalp to soles; positive currents flowed through his body, a solid certainty swelling inside that he could do anything.

When they were almost tired of laughing, the stop signal came.

“Thirty seconds to settle.”

A deep breath gathered the feelings; a trace of mirth lingered, which was fine.

While pinching her cheeks, Mi-gyeong asked,

“Sir, what are we doing today?”

That was what Myeong-woo wondered too.

“Up through last week we worked with same-day lines.”

“Then today is assigned lines?”

“Catch.”

He handed out printouts.

“This is the scene you’ll act today. Read it first.”

Let’s see.

S#1 Bridge (night)

“I” and that person (he, she, child, elder—your choice). He stands with his back to me, perilously close to the edge.

–Partner: (in sorrow) Don’t stop me. I want to leave now.
–I: (begin acting freely)

Just half an A4 page.

They did this drill often: quote lines from a movie you saw yesterday, from a play you’re rehearsing, or speak whatever comes to mind.

The director always said, “If you can pull emotion from inside yourself, anything is fine.”

To pull emotion, you must have a story. How you set and interpret yourself changes the scene; it is entirely up to the actor.

Some students complained, “Why must the actor create the story, too?”

He would answer, “There is no script in the world that is finished.”

Beginners vaguely think the script explains everything, but it does not; the stage directions are full of blanks.

Ask a director or writer about the character:

Favorite T-shirt?
Gait?
What does she eat for breakfast?
When does he sleep?

Some answer red T-shirt, splayed walk, cereal, eight o’clock sharp; others just say they don’t know.

But the actor playing the role?

“You must all be able to answer, without exception.”

This process builds the actor’s creativity; imagination decides the depth of dialogue and quality of acting.

You also need the skill to weave your own experience into the script. Ad-libs are essential on set, and when that time comes you must rely on your experience whether you like it or not. That is why words like “on-the-fly script” exist. Even scripts written over decades are revised on site. Only when the director, writer, and actor’s views combine is the work complete.

“So, what now?”

Bridge. A person on the brink.

The first memory that came was stopping someone ready to die—Kim Sa-gyeon’s memory, not Myeong-woo’s.

Past-life memories vast as an ocean—if not now, when would he use them?

“If I do it like this…”

“Hmm, got it,” Gong murmured while watching the students scatter and rehearse.

“All right, who goes first?”

Silence.

He had expected that—yet there was one exception. Among eyes avoiding his, one pair sparkled: Myeong-woo’s.

Look at this kid? His gaze said, Pick me, I’m ready.

But people are contrary; if you ask, they withhold. Gong pointed instead to the student who seemed least prepared.

“Hwang Min, you’re up.”

Predictably, Hwang protested.

“Ah, sir…”

“Come out.”

“Can’t someone else go first? How about Myeong-woo, he’s just back?”

Name dropped, Myeong-woo looked up; Hwang added lightly,

“These things start with the weakest, right? Give me a little more time and I’ll nail it.”

“Will you stall like that on set?”

“The crew waits for leads, doesn’t it?”

“You’re the lead?”

His eyes said, At least here I’m top tier.

“Enough chatter, take your mark.”

“Fine… nobody’s ready anyway, I’ll take one for the team.”

As Hwang ambled up, Myeong-woo thought, He looks down on people—no respect.

He knew why. Apart from his high face value, Hwang was rated best in pure acting by teachers and students alike: crisp line delivery, never intimidated, good at taking control of a scene.

“Stand here. Check your blocking.”

Gong himself played the partner.

Facing front, Hwang explained his setup:

“We’re lovers. I’m four years older, her parents reject the marriage, she’s worn out and wants to break up. I’m passionately trying to stop her.”

A common premise—but rattling it off showed quick acting sense.

“I’ll quote part of the lead’s monologue from the film ‘High Noon Daylight’ we studied.”

Sensing he was ready, Gong gave the cue:

“Don’t stop me. I want to leave now.”

Calm. Not really a duet; Gong was almost a prop. In contrast, Hwang plopped to the floor, knees buckling, then crawled on all fours to Gong, clutching his trouser leg.

“Marry me.”

Anxious face, trembling eyes; rapid emotional immersion trained in drills.

“Remember the day we met? We were clueless freshmen. Haha, I pretended I’d forgotten but it was love at first sight, that day you guided me around campus.”

Good projection; mature features let him pass for an adult role. He stared into space recalling the past, then eyebrows curved in plea.

“So please, don’t just say we should break—”

“That’s all.”

But did it pull the audience in? Hard to say. Gong pinpointed the cause.

“Have you ever been in love?”

“My nickname is Hwang Casanova.”

“Oh? Then staring at only one person still felt awkward, huh? Every emotion you pick is intense, exaggerated, yet you also try to show yearning—busy, busy, right?”

“…”

His acting lacked affection; his emotional palette was still narrow. Gong demonstrated briefly, coached him, and said,

“Remember, your acting exposes your humanity.”

After the harsh feedback he called the next student.

One by one the kids performed: an ex-lover—

“Senior! How could you just quit like that? Did you think about us left behind?”

“Okay. Next.”

—a careless office worker; a seaside dried-squid hawker; a drunken wanderer.

Some played clownish, others sweated in deep character. Hye-rim, right after Hwang Min, earned praise for a stable portrait of a life-weary woman.

“Last, Myeong-woo.”

At last, it was his turn.

“No freebies because it has been a while. I already gave you extra time.”

“Yes.”

Calmly he laid out his premise.

“Name, Kim Sa-gyeon.”

“Name…?”

“Living in a hut halfway up a mountain, he finds a woman about to jump from a cliff. I didn’t ask who she was, but from her clothes it was easy to guess she was a runaway slave.”

Seeing Gong startled by the concrete setup, he added,

“I will stop her.”

Everyone had once imagined stopping a suicidal partner, yet they avoided it: the simpler, the harder. They had never witnessed death; the situation felt too vague, too dramatic, making personal imagination harder.

Knowing that, Gong asked,

“Won’t it be difficult?”

“It will be fine.”

Even so, nobody expected much; none had ever been moved by his acting. Their own turns done, they watched him with idle faces.

What is that look in his eyes…? Only Gong, facing him, sensed something different.

A plain gaze—no tension, no tremor, no grim resolve—just an ordinary young man.

“Shall we begin?” Gong asked.

It was hard to tell if he was ready. Myeong-woo nodded.

In that instant, someone they had never seen stood there.

Unconsciously, Gong put more feeling into the cue than with anyone else.

“Don’t stop me. I want to leave now.”

A veteran cue.

Yet without a flicker, Myeong-woo reached out on cue.

“Ugh.”

Powerful grip—strong enough to yank an adult male—charged his hand, underscoring the urgency.

Yes, it had been urgent.

Naturally, he recalled his past life.

On Sa-gyeon’s mountain a huge rock jutted by the cliff, rarely visited. There was a suspicious woman with eyes resigned to death. He had recognized it instantly. He seized her as she was about to leap.

She had said, Why do you stop me?

Sa-gyeon’s answer, now spoken by Myeong-woo:

You cannot see it, but—

“You cannot see it, but downstream this water ends at a porters’ rest, filled with the filth of dogs, cattle, and humans.”

Catching Gong’s startled face, he still matched breaths with the partner in memory.

Back then she wore shabby rags. He asked neither name nor status but had guessed she was a runaway slave.

“You are a bond-servant. The world may judge your worth less than this foul stream…”

Sa-gyeon had added,

“Yet from now on many things will change.”

He had shared with her, just a little, the truth of the world.

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