Picaresque.
It refers to a genre in which morally flawed characters drive the story, and such plots naturally stir curiosity and intrigue in audiences.
They are neither too simple nor needlessly complex, yet they give the narrative framework tremendous appeal.
That is why many works have succeeded by putting villains at the forefront.
In drama, there is Breaking Bad. In animation, Death Note. In film, I Saw the Devil.
These titles thrilled people not only because the stories were good but because the characters were brilliantly crafted.
A bulldozer-like drive that spares no means for its ends makes these characters all the more fascinating.
If I apply that, I can turn the journalist into a villain to make her more compelling, and by using the setup of taking down chaebol, I create a clash of evil against evil.
Such a structure might feel trite later, yet for audiences today it could be an innovative form of storytelling.
“Ah… am I stupid?”
I had overlooked the most important element: gender.
Should the protagonist be male or female…
I sat in the office, blankly turning it over.
Which gender would pull viewers deeper into the film…
The answer came quickly once I recalled how successful works built their characters.
Heather Holloway, the reporter in Thank You for Smoking, is a very attractive character.
Her extreme nature that will do anything for her goal, combined with a hunger for scoops, makes people frown yet wonder what she will try next.
Though a supporting role who exposes the hero’s flaws, her impact is so strong she is almost a lead.
Zoe Barnes in House of Cards is a similar figure and appeared as a highly engaging character.
The common trait of these two is that they are women.
They are cold-blooded enough to use even their femininity for success.
A character I had left vague as a mere villain became clearer, and the main plot snapped into place at once.
Next day.
I showed the roughly finished synopsis to Junseong.
He stared at it with a curious expression.
“How is it?”
“It’s fresh, but… the key is whether Korean audiences will accept a character like this.”
Resting his chin on his hand, he asked, “Any actor in mind? Casting will be critical.”
“Pretty, mid-twenties, gives off a career-woman starving for success.”
“And the more acting skill the better? Actually, without strong acting the whole film will sink.”
“Of course.”
Looking at the synopsis, he grabbed his head.
“Pretty, mid-twenties, and outstanding actress? That’s practically a mythical creature—harder than finding a needle in the desert.”
“Hm…”
Leading a film at that age is tough for anyone, male or female.
Sure, they can play a goofy student or a plucky daughter, but a role where she can do anything for her dream is harder to pull off.
Overplay it and she’ll be called wooden; underplay it and the character loses bite.
“Why do you always take the hard road? Just use Junsik hyung—change it to a male journalist.”
“Junsik hyung is the chaebol.”
“Huh?”
He frowned.
“With the way he looked at the ceremony, he would fit a chaebol nicely. I thought he looked plain, but with some makeup the flashy style suited him.”
“Now that you say it, maybe… but can he act a villain? He’s so nice.”
“He’s a machine—input equals output.”
Laughing, Junseong asked, “Then all we need is the mythical creature. Let’s see who’s out there.”
He set the synopsis on the table and searched young actresses online.
If she looked captivating, she lacked skill; and if her acting shone, her visuals didn’t fit.
Everything on screen has a reason to be there; beauty has its purpose.
Pretending an obviously plain actor is gorgeous inside the film’s world is foolish.
“No one grabs me. Should we just run an open audition? People must be lined up for your next film.”
“It might take too long.”
“We don’t have to screen the amateurs ourselves. Hire evaluators and it’s fast.”
He stood, photocopied the synopsis, handed me the original, and went on.
“When can you finish the full script?”
“About two weeks, if I focus only on it.”
“You’d better focus only on it—this is the start.”
Marking a rough schedule on the calendar, he said, “We don’t know how many will apply, so give the open audition plenty of time: second, third, and final rounds—four stages total. Maybe we’ll find a pearl in the mud.”
He had a point.
The lead of Park Hoonjung’s hit The Witch was cast through an open audition.
Over 1,500 applied, and the actress who beat 1,500-to-1 perfectly embodied the role, as if born for it.
“So write some sides for the audition, key scenes. How many will apply to ‘a new film by Gyeong Chanhyeon’? I can’t guess how many evaluators we’ll need.”
With eyes closed, fingers moving as if on an invisible calculator, he computed.
Inspired by his possessed-looking fingers, I began writing the script.
Kwak Yeonji finished acting practice, did her workout, and came home.
It was 9 p.m.
She hated the silence that greeted her every time, so as always she turned on the TV first even though she never watched it.
“Director Kim Eunha’s film Memory of Murder is making headlines. It has passed two million viewers, the first Korean woman director to do so.”
Hearing the familiar name at last, Yeonji turned and sat right in front of the TV.
“Director Kim Eunha’s Memory of Murder deals with the Hwaseong serial killings. Thanks to the film, public interest in the case has risen again. Programs like Current Affairs Q&A and We Need to Know This are re-examining the crime, pointing out the police shortcomings of the day. Police authorities say they are considering a reinvestigation…”
“Amazing.”
She watched Kim Eunha on screen with envy.
Then an unwelcome person appeared beside her.
“The final scene showing the suspect as an inmate was created on the personal recommendation of Director Gyeong Chanhyeon and is considered highly credible…”
Click.
Irritably, she shut off the TV.
The memory of that drink with Gyeong Chanhyeon, Kim Seunghun, and Lee Jungwoo a few weeks back filled her with annoyance.
“Phew…”
She tried calming herself with yoga breathing, but suddenly she recalled Gyeong Chanhyeon’s face and words as he listened to her honest worries.
He had barely looked at her, responded half-heartedly, then tossed out, “Oh, really?”
The same line directors always used when pretending to listen. A mask of curiosity hiding zero interest, as if to say, “Just be a vase, why so many words?” She had hoped never to see that again, yet she read it in him that night.
“Spicy food, that’s what I need.”
She decided to go buy chicken feet and was putting on her coat when—
Ring-ring.
Her manager’s name lit up.
“Hello?”
“Yeonji, I have good news. Can you talk?”
“Yes. What is it?”
The manager’s voice was not as bright as the words “good news,” and she asked anxiously.
“You know Director Gyeong Chanhyeon, right? He’s picking his new lead through an open audition! Let’s apply!”
“Open audition? But actors must be lined up to work with him. Why an open audition? Is it just marketing for the next film?”
Gyeong Chanhyeon had cranked out two films, Night and Desireless, in quick succession like a factory foreman.
They earned critical praise as well as strong numbers.
He could simply send the script to good actors and ask if they were interested, so why an open audition?
“The film hasn’t even cranked in—what marketing? I got this info with great effort, no one else knows. You’re in, right? This is really your chance. You know how good his reputation is.”
Yeonji could not answer at once.
Hundreds, maybe thousands, would apply to a Gyeong Chanhyeon film.
Plus, though it was only a graduation film back then, he had rejected her once; the prospect weighed on her.
And another reason…
When she stayed silent, the manager pressed.
“You apologized to him after getting his number from Seunghun, right?”
“….”
“You didn’t, did you…”
The manager burst out in frustration.
“Please, Yeonji! Director Gyeong is your last lifeline. Look at Park Junsik! Isn’t that enviable? Giving a no-name stage actor that kind of recognition isn’t easy; not everyone can do it!”
“I know, but… don’t you think I’ll fail? The odds are huge…”
“Weren’t you sick of being the brainless beauty next to the hero? You said you’d had enough!”
She started to say more but stopped, then sighed.
“….”
Silence hung for a moment.
Soon the manager spoke again.
“The lead in his new film is a journalist—someone insane for her dream. I hear revenge is a key motif too. That’s all I’ve learned. It’s late, so don’t eat. Sleep well.”
Click.
The call ended, and Yeonji shrugged off the coat half-donned.
“So sick of all this…”
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