WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: Potter
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
◈ The Genius Writer Who Will Never Fall Again ◈
Chapter 13: Filming (1)
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Sometimes, when you’re so overwhelmed by work that you finally come to your senses and look at the calendar, you find that time has vanished in the blink of an eye.
Lately had been like that.
‘What? When did this much time pass?’
It was autumn already.
I’d regressed around spring, so two seasons, or roughly five months, had passed.
It had still been quite hot at the script reading, but it was already like this. Time truly was indifferent. Still, the sense that things were moving forward was welcome.
‘Was the crank-in last week?’
Filming had now begun in earnest.
The weather was cool, and the leaves had turned. It was the perfect season for an adaptation. At a time when the world was beginning to dry out, it was the right tone for portraying a man who died out of loyalty and was thrust into a new life.
About nine months remained.
It would air in the third quarter next year.
Then the time would come when nothing could be changed.
What could I do until then?
I’d done everything I could. In other words, I’d controlled everything within my control.
So the only task left was to finish writing.
I was in the middle of revising the script for Episode 10.
The script should have been finished long ago, but writing a drama was not some fantasy where things came out exactly as I said just because I yelled, ‘Do it like this!’
External factors often required revisions. Sometimes it was as minor as adjusting dialogue to suit an actor’s tone, or slight changes to the story at a sponsor’s or broadcaster’s request.
And personally, I wanted to produce something better than what I’d originally written.
‘It’s not like there’s nothing lacking.’
The overall structure was good.
Then and now, Sword Pact, One Lord was taking shape in a way that fulfilled the premise of being something everyone could enjoy.
But did giving my best always lead directly to the best result?
There was a subtle issue there.
‘The villain was weak.’
The success Yeongho would seize as a member of the sword brotherhood was good.
Hyang-dan’s tavern, which would grow into both the group’s headquarters and the center of the town, was good.
Yeongho’s uneasy standoff with Jang Bung-ik, who could not help but oppose Yeongho because Yeongho was part of the sword brotherhood even while acting righteously, was good.
But Magwipyeong, the story’s villain, was vague.
The leader of Hanyang’s sword brotherhoods.
The greatest axis of evil, a figure with charisma enough to silence even a crying child.
Episode 11, which I was about to write, would contain his first appearance. I wanted to give it more weight.
‘It’s just a little lacking.’
There was no problem with the narrative.
Even as things stood, Magwipyeong could fulfill his role as a plot device, drive the story forward, and make his exit.
But evil that merely fulfilled its function as a device left an astringent taste.
Like a fishbone caught in the flesh, it created an unpleasant irritation.
I knew how to remove it.
‘He needs to be compelling.’
There needed to be something about the character that people could find appealing.
Then viewers would take that bitterness as savoriness.
Identify the cause, then look for the answer.
‘The original concept was a psychopath.’
It was a fitting concept for the leader of an antagonistic noir faction, and the resulting setup had not been bad.
But why wasn’t he compelling?
Only now could I answer that.
‘He has nothing.’
Magwipyeong had no obsession.
The absence of obsession was the same as the absence of lack.
A villain with no desires was inscrutable and frightening, but inevitably unsettling.
That unease could be appealing in itself, but it could also inspire disgust. It did not suit a work like Sword Pact, One Lord, which pursued the broadest possible appeal.
‘If I could just add one more thing...’
Tap. Tap.
I stared at my setting notes and began to think.
When I thought of villains, the first people who came to mind were the bastards who had fucked up my life.
Even they had reasons people loved them before they fell into ruin.
So why did Magwipyeong alone have none?
As my thoughts continued, the elements unfolded.
‘A psychopathic swordsman. Evil living in Hanyang’s shadows. He kills without hesitation, builds up followers, and wants chaos.’
I assembled the keywords spread before me, searching for the empty space.
‘...Why?’
Why did Magwipyeong have to live as the leader of a sword brotherhood?
‘...Why?’
Why did he desire chaos?
‘Why?’
Where did his ultimate aim begin?
Not boring, not crude, not conventional, and not too far removed.
The “why” in that delicate space was...
‘Something that had to be.’
The moment I reached that blank space of inevitability.
‘...Ah. I get it.’
Inspiration flashed through my mind.
‘Irony.’
The character had no irony.
His actions and their outcomes were too one-dimensional.
In other words, there was no point of empathy.
No matter how superficial it might be, a character’s ideology needed some small opening through which it could be understood.
The moment I pulled out that premise, my thoughts expanded.
‘Why is he a murderous fiend?’
There was something he could prove only through murder.
‘Why does he organize a group?’
There was something he could show only by organizing one.
‘How should I explain his ultimate goal?’
Magwipyeong’s goal was chaos in the royal court.
The vulgar deaths of those held high.
Why did it have to be that way?
‘...Because there’s something he can prove by doing it.’
What?
Every clue I’d laid out came together.
By tracing the cause backward through the process and result that formed the logic, I reached the character’s foundation.
‘...Because he puts all humans on the same level.’
That was it.
I had to show the world as the psychopath Magwipyeong saw it.
Viewers had to see the perspective that belonged to him alone.
My hand moved wildly, scribbling across the notes.
‘To Magwipyeong, all humans are equal. Stab them, and they die. Catch them, and they cry and beg to live, things barely above beasts.’
That was why he could not understand Joseon’s caste system.
He felt a profound alienation from society itself.
‘That’s why he wants to destroy it. He hates being trapped in that world, in that utterly hypocritical “us.”’
It was an escape.
Magwipyeong’s ultimate goal was complete freedom from every rule imposed by society.
That was Magwipyeong’s irony.
His cause, which sought a vulgar equality for all, clearly touched upon a modern person’s awareness of Joseon as an era.
He could not be forgiven, and his methods were wrong. Yet his rejection of the age itself resonated enough to create the smallest sliver of understanding.
That gap became Magwipyeong’s core.
I opened Word.
‘What dialogue could bring this out?’
The moment I understood the character, I raised a question from his perspective.
Clatter!
A nighttime alley in Hanyang spread out before my eyes.
An elderly nobleman, who had been engrossed in revelry until late at night, collapsed and wet his trousers.
Blood and corpses surrounded him. Everything that had protected him moments before had been torn apart.
A man appeared, wearing ragged clothes over silk garments and pulling a broad-brimmed hat low over his face. In a distinctly cheerful tone, he spoke.
[“My lord, the only thing that makes you noble now is those silks.”]
[“Y-You insolent cur! Do you know who I am?!”]
Within that terrified shout, the demon saw only a lump of meat desperate to survive.
[“I see a lowborn wretch who dresses up his skin and worships an illusion.”]
Magwipyeong drew his sword.
The nobleman let out a shrill cry of fear.
[“Kghh...!”]
[“I am truly curious. Does cutting through your flesh really feel any different from cutting Young-gil’s the day before yesterday?”]
Before the nobleman could even beg for his life, the sword flashed.
Blood sprayed upward like a fountain.
A red trail spread across the wall.
The murder of an aristocrat.
The trigger that would send the drama hurtling toward its climax had been pulled.
My hand stopped.
At last, the pieces had come together and completed the picture.
‘Done.’
Every piece needed to build the finale had fallen into place.
* * *
The set of Sword Pact, One Lord was passing its first week of filming in a smooth atmosphere.
To put it somewhat crudely, everyone on set was in about the same weight class.
“Cut! We’ll start again in twenty minutes, so let’s take a short break!”
“Yes!”
The director was Min Byeong-gi, whose directorial debut had flopped and who was now holding the megaphone for a second time.
Among the leads, the biggest name was Yuk Hyeong-seok, who played the villain Magwipyeong.
The rest of the cast ranged from actors with only a few supporting roles to fresh rookies who had never even done bit parts.
It would have been stranger if they were not getting along.
Of course, there was another, bigger reason for the mood.
‘Filming is going well.’
Go Young-chan, WBS’s chief producer, rubbed his chin.
He had come to inspect the set while he had some free time. Byeong-gi had said filming was proceeding well, but Young-chan had grown worried enough to come see for himself.
Instead, he found a set running smoothly.
Young-chan was inwardly impressed.
The crew had their own strengths, but in the end, all of this had begun with one person.
‘Writer Han, just how good is your eye?’
To be honest, Young-chan had been full of worries before filming began. He had thought through every possible problem and come prepared with complaints.
But none of it was necessary.
‘Was Byeong-gi always this good at directing?’
Young-chan had been confident in Byeong-gi’s action work because he had seen what the director could do. But leading the atmosphere on set was an entirely different matter, and Young-chan had expected some friction.
Yet Byeong-gi was unexpectedly, truly unexpectedly, excellent at directing a set.
More precisely, the director was good at keeping things moving at the right pace.
‘He’s the kind of director who gets up and does it himself.’
If things were frustrating, Byeong-gi stepped in personally.
Before filming, the director personally demonstrated the camera angles, lighting, composition, and acting tone, then began only after everything was perfectly set.
When the director worked that hard, the people below could not help but work hard too.
The set had exactly the level of discipline it needed.
The crew’s attitude was half of filmmaking.
How could there be frequent NGs on a set like this?
The only variable was the actors, but the casting was excellent too.
‘Calling them experienced would be a lie. But they’re so lively that it gives the scenes more life.’
There were no truly seasoned actors, but neither was there anyone who could not handle their role.
In the end, the stars of the set were the actors.
Every one of them had the ability to carry their part.
Their attitude toward filming was excellent as well, so there were no delays caused by pointless trouble.
Putting all the elements together made Young-chan think one thing.
‘It’s almost like Writer Han picked them based on their personalities.’
It was absurd, of course.
How could anyone grasp that from such brief observations at an audition?
Young-chan knew it was impossible, but the suspicion would not go away.
Eventually, there was only one realistic conclusion.
‘Whatever it is, maybe Writer Han was simply born lucky with people.’
If Jae-kyung heard that, they would clutch the back of their neck and collapse.
It was fortunate that the person in question was not here.
In any case, the atmosphere was that good.
Thinking of the Episode 11 script received that morning, Young-chan could not help feeling excited.
‘Magwipyeong was really good. He has just the right amount of menace and mystery.’
If things went as planned, something big was coming.
It was not merely a vague feeling.
Young-chan was an industry veteran who had worked as a director, built up a solid record, and risen to chief producer.
‘Good. This is so good!’
But looking at things too favorably would make them less objective.
Perhaps Young-chan needed to force himself to find flaws.
And after searching, there was one tiny blemish.
“Good work...”
Ryu Cheong-a.
During a take, she was almost like someone possessed. But the moment she stepped away from the camera, she wilted like blanched greens.
She seemed anxious.
Anyone could see she was restless. How could they not, when she kept checking her phone and sighing whenever she had a moment?
Young-chan knew the reason.
‘Hmm. Maybe I should have stopped her sooner.’
There had been an incident at the dinner after the script reading.
After getting drunk, Cheong-a had grabbed Jae-kyung by the collar and shaken him.
“Let’s be close friends! We’re allies! Comrades! Betrayal means death!”
Then she had hugged Jae-kyung, declared him a blood ally, and promptly passed out.
In the industry, it was practically a rite of passage, so everyone had laughed it off.
Even Jae-kyung, who had suffered through the drunken antics, had not minded.
“...It’s a new experience. Yes, I suppose that can happen.”
Jae-kyung had even let out a dry laugh. It was clear he considered it no more than an absurd incident.
But Cheong-a apparently did not feel that way.
‘Well, at that age, and as a rookie actor, this is when writers are the scariest.’
With acting that good, she could throw a tantrum and still be praised in this industry. Why was she so timid?
No matter how often everyone told her it was fine, she would not listen.
Sometimes, it even looked as though she might cry.
A chief producer should not interfere too deeply with the set, but oblivious Byeong-gi was not the kind of director who would carefully notice something like that.
Young-chan scratched the back of his head and made a decision.
He approached Cheong-a.
“Actor Ryu!”
“Uh... Ah! Yes! Yes, Chief!”
“Why are you drooping around like blanched spinach? You’re in great form today!”
“Haha... Thank you...”
There was no soul in her eyes.
Her condition was rather serious.
“Is this because of Writer Han?”
“Eek...!”
“Why are you still brooding over that? It’s fine. It’s fine! I contacted Writer Han separately, and he really doesn’t care in the slightest!”
Young-chan said it cheerfully, but perhaps they had stepped on a landmine.
“...He doesn’t care about me? Am I not even on his radar anymore...?”
Was Young-chan imagining it, or did it look like the last of Cheong-a’s soul was leaving through her mouth?
Young-chan rubbed his eyes.
He looked again, but Cheong-a still looked the same.
Young-chan clicked their tongue.
‘There’s nothing I can do here.’
Maybe Jae-kyung needed to know.
After worrying for a long time, Young-chan went to a corner once filming resumed and called Jae-kyung.
“Hey, Writer Han. How’s the writing going?”
[“I finished Episode 12 and am proofreading it. Is something wrong? Are there revisions?”]
“What? Why are you working so fast? No, no, that’s not the point. Sorry to bother you while you’re writing, but the thing is...”
Young-chan gathered himself and explained everything.
Jae-kyung listened silently, then let out a dry laugh.
[“Is she still like that?”]
“Yeah. I was wondering whether you could send them a message saying it’s really fine.”
Young-chan was not telling Jae-kyung to come or go. He only thought Cheong-a would feel better if Jae-kyung reassured her.
There was a brief silence on the other end.
It sounded as though Jae-kyung was thinking.
Then Jae-kyung spoke.
[“No. Come to think of it, I haven’t treated the filming crew to drinks even once. I’ll go and tell them myself while I’m there.”]
“Uh, huh? You’d go that far?”
[“It’s also a way to show my appreciation to the people doing the filming.”]
Young-chan covered his mouth.
Had anything like this ever happened before?
A writer saying he would bring drinks to encourage the filming crew.
Did such a writer even exist?
“Is this what you call footage?! I need to go tell them off! What?! Do you want me to go overturn the whole thing?!”
“Can’t we all just do our jobs properly? Director Go, why do you have no sense at all?!”
“Aaaagh! I’m not revising the script, so just shoot it the way I wrote it!”
It had been an age of endless hardship.
Young-chan could say with certainty that, throughout his directing career, he had never encountered a writer like this.
“Writer Han...!”
[“...I’ll see you on set. I’ll bring something, so I’ll hang up now.”]
The call ended.
But the feeling it left behind did not fade.
Young-chan placed a hand over their chest.
How could the emotion stirred by this warm human decency only grow stronger with every passing day?
Young-chan squeezed their eyes shut.
A firm resolve rose within them.
‘Writer Han, I’ll make sure you succeed.’
That was right.
Regardless of his own wishes, Jae-kyung had taken another step toward becoming Young-chan’s favorite writer today.
A profession where simply acting like a human being moved people.
Sadly, that was the current state of drama writers in Young-chan’s heart...
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