Aura of a Genius Actor

༺ The Final Act of the Monodrama ༻

The curtains were drawn, and a mat was laid out.

Only a single stand light was turned on. It was a yellow incandescent bulb.

In the middle of it all, Yoon Hansung gave two pieces of advice.

“If you deeply feel negative emotions, they can be discharged through violence or self-harm. No matter what feelings arise, remember that you are precious beings and restrain yourself from violent behavior.”

The actors flinched at the slightly chilling advice.

“And, from now on, let us pledge to bury all stories that occur here, in our hearts, the moment we step outside the door. Actors live by empathizing with others’ feelings. Anyone who replaces others’ sorrow with their own curiosity does not qualify to be an actor. Isn’t that right?”

One by one, they rose to make a vow of silence. It was necessary, as the task was to dig into the very depths of the participants’ emotions and memories.

“Let’s start by accepting volunteers.”

Hansung looked around the room. Two or three hands were raised. He chose one male student, who then came up onto the mat.

“What’s your name?”

“Shin Suho.”

“I’ll give you the floor. Suho, why don’t you adopt the most comfortable posture?”

Suho hunched over and sat down on the mat, embracing his knees. The idea of facing his memories was somewhat frightening.

“What was the most intense emotion in Suho’s life? Any emotion, joy, or sorrow, is fine.”

“Joy.”

‘Joy’ was usually not a commonly chosen emotion. It was not easy to intensely experience a positive emotion. What kind of joy could it have been that it was considered the most intense emotion in his life?

“When did you feel that joy?”

“…When my parents were getting divorced, they decided to take one child each, and my mother chose me.”

Thud.

The atmosphere became heavy.

“Could you explain the situation in more detail?”

“My dad was always indifferent to us. I only realized it when I got older, but he had another woman. The atmosphere at home was always bad, so I would rather hope he wouldn’t come home. When it was just my mom, my younger sibling, and me, we got along really well. Perhaps it was because we had a common enemy.”

“But your dad said he would take one of you?”

“I don’t understand that. I don’t know whether it was a desire to continue his lineage, or maybe he just didn’t like the feeling of losing.”

“How did they decide who would go with whom?”

“My dad, as if doing a good deed, gave my mom the right to choose. Thinking about it, he was such a bastard. He told her to pick the cuter one as if he was giving out puppies to adopt. Despite being very close to my younger sibling and loving them, at that moment… Yes, I desperately hoped that my mom would choose me.”

“When your mom chose you, do you remember how you felt?”

“…Yes. It was really shitty, but I was happy. I saw my sibling’s expression then. I think I felt a bit smug. I was incredibly selfish even though I was young. Thinking about myself back then makes me feel nauseous.”

Suho’s confession was infused with deep-seated guilt. Was that truly joy?

As if he was venting out a scream, Suho’s expressions became rougher.

His confession of youthful selfishness was pitiful to watch, but Hansung did not prematurely comfort him, engrossed as he was.

“How did your sibling look?”

“They looked like they were about to cry. Their eyes welled up with tears in their despair… but they nodded at me as if to say that it was okay. What a fool.”

This wasn’t joy.

Suho was joking about his own joy.

It was bitter sorrow.

“Don’t suppress your emotions from that time. Let’s slowly bring them up. Concentrate. Your father’s expression then, your mother’s expression, and your sibling’s expression. The feeling of looking at them… Try to express it in words.”

Slowly, Suho rose to his feet.

Swallowing once, and then again, the first words he finally spat out were:

“Jinho. Uh… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

It was a desperate apology, as if he was about to vomit blood.

*

Several people lay sprawled out.

Some had vacant looks in their eyes.

Ultimately, there were actors who couldn’t break their shells and were blaming themselves.

They took a break in the middle of an emotionally charged event.

Shortly after, Yoon Hansung spoke in front of the gathered people once more.

“I think I’ll participate as well.”

The members were surprised.

“Since there’s no one to guide me, it’ll be a monologue rather than maximizing my emotions, but refer to how a person like me, who has gone through this stage several times, has what kind of emotion and how to express it.”

The actors slowly got up and sat in a circle.

Yoon Hansung took off his shoes and socks and unbuttoned one button on his shirt. When he ruffled his waxed hair, it was as if the messenger leading them to the swamp of emotions had returned to a struggling human.

He stood barefoot under the dim light.

He closed his eyes and maintained silence, immersing himself. His eyelids trembled.

“Daughter.”

At that word, everyone held their breath.

“My daughter. My beloved daughter. My only daughter, Bo-eun. I still remember the moment you were born. Your first cry, which I wanted to remember as the greatest joy of my life, now brings tears to me every time I recall it.”

The sorrow, refined through thousands, even tens of thousands of repetitions, settled in the heart of the viewer like refined frost, rustling.

When it collided with the warm hearts and melted into wicked corrosion, the chest tingled, and tears unknowingly overflowed.

“Daughter. I remember the moment you first said clearly, ‘Daddy, take care.’ Whether it was a word you said without knowing its meaning, taught by your mother, my chest became full at your clear pronunciation. When I patted your head, I just laughed heartily, but when I opened the door to leave the house, you started crying as if you lost the world, filling your eyes with the question ‘Why’.

Now, every time I come back to the empty house and every time that I realize your absence, I am crying like I’ve lost the world, holding onto my heart filled with resentment and my inner screams of ‘why’.”

Drip—

A drop of tear fell onto the mat.

That sense of loss was so fresh and red as if he had lost his daughter yesterday that the observers started shedding tears themselves.

“When my young daughter experienced pain beyond my age, became more mature than me, and whispered in my ear, ‘Don’t cry, daddy, I’m fine,’ I cried because the fist holding my finger was so tender. My resolution to protect you gracefully in my arms, no matter what storms come in the world, was torn apart thinner than a mere sheet of paper, and all I could do… was pray.”

Torment.

The sight of recalling despair was brutal.

When Yoon Hansung’s monologue, which lasted for a while afterward, was all over, everyone was crying without exception. It was especially true for the actors who had just heightened their emotions and had their emotional shells peeled off. They were completely absorbing Yoon Hansung’s sorrow and feeling it intensely.

Those raw emotions were the source of actor Yoon Hansung’s sentiment. Everyone glimpsed the innermost depths of the undefeatable ‘sad emotion’ acting.

It gave the actors more courage to face their own emotions.

‘He’s a person sensitive to others’ tragedies as much as his own.’

Yoomyeong then seemed to understand why Yoon Hansung spoke to him in his previous life.

Yoon Hansung was a person who deeply empathized with sadness.

Even when he was just one of the many extras who couldn’t see the light despite their efforts.

‘He’s a good person and a good actor, but…’

He had something he wanted to say, but Yoomyeong held his tongue.

*

Today’s workshop lasted well over six hours.

As it was nearing nine o’clock in the evening and everyone had finished their assignments except for Yoomyeong, Yoon Hansung said something unexpected.

“I want to express my gratitude to everyone who participated sincerely in today’s challenging tasks, and I want to ask for your understanding about something.”

The exhausted members raised their heads, sending him puzzled looks.

“Shin Yoomyeong.”

“Yes?”

“You might have heard that I recommended him to participate in this workshop. In fact, I saw his face for the first time today. Professor Lee Jae Pil showed me a video of him acting in class.”

The members nodded their heads.

“Emotional maximization exercises are meant to break the limits of emotions, but I don’t think it would have much meaning for him.”

Ooh—

Everyone exclaimed at the acknowledgement from the current star actor.

“I heard he had only recently started acting, so I don’t know how he can bring out such emotions. Perhaps he has experienced far more storms in life than his age suggests.

Anyway, he had already gone through the stage where expanding the scope of emotions would be helpful to him and I’m curious about his variation, so I want to give him a different assignment.”

Everyone’s curiosity was piqued.

“I want to see him perform a full act of a monodrama.”

When the horrifying task was announced, everyone’s surprised gazes gathered on Yoomyeong.

Monodrama. A one-person play.

To perform the entire act and not just an excerpt, it would take at least 90 minutes. One must carry the same length as a typical theater performance alone.

It required considerable mental and physical effort because if one does not concentrate intensively, the audience’s immersion can be broken in an instant.

“Is it possible? It would be nice if you have a one-person play script memorized, and if not, you can read while looking at the script.”

Yoomyeong pondered.

What he was considering was not whether to accept the task, or whether to memorize the script or read it.

It was about which of the one-person play scripts he had memorized he should choose.

“Yes.”

“What’s the title of the play?”

“I’ll… tell you tomorrow.”

Yoomyeong postponed revealing the title of the play until the day of the task.

This exciting confrontation injected adrenaline into the tired actors.

*

It was the day of Yoomyeong’s task and the last day of the Oedipus Summer Workshop.

The assembled members looked more haggard than usual.

The aftermath of the emotional maximization the day before was significant. There was so much noise from shouting, cursing, and crying that the building’s security guard was alarmed enough to come running.

There were those who went home completely drained of emotions and passed out immediately, while there were also those who couldn’t get a wink of sleep all night because of the trauma that surfaced above their slumber.

Nevertheless, there was no one missing today.

“A 90-minute monodrama. It seems tough even with about two months of practice time…”

“Do you think he’ll just resort to reading the script?”

“Memorization is one of the problems, but will he be able to endure without collapsing in the middle? Even being alone on stage for just ten minutes would make your mouth dry and make you feel exhausted to the point of death.”

“Even for us as the audience, it’s a problem. Will we be able to focus and watch a 90-minute solo performance?”

“Exactly. It must be incredibly challenging to carry the emotions throughout.”

“I’m really curious about what the script is.”

Everyone seemed skeptical about today’s event.

“But how does one handle the scene transitions in a monodrama?”

When someone threw that question, Yoomyeong entered the lecture hall and everyone fell silent.

He lightly greeted, “Hello,” then sought out the podium pushed aside on the stage. He found the remote on the podium, turned on the projector, and a woong— sound filled the room as a blue screen lit up the front. Part of Yoomyeong’s body blocked the light, creating a shadow on the whiteboard.

‘What’s he doing…?’

Despite everyone’s curiosity, Yoomyeong immediately turned off the projector. He simply pocketed the remote.

Kiiiik—

It was three o’clock, and Yoon Hansung opened the lecture hall door. Everyone scattered to their seats.

“Without further ado, shall we begin?”

Yoomyeong stepped forward and asked for the curtains to be drawn and the lights turned off. As the room was plunged into darkness, he turned on the projector.

The blue light eerily fell, illuminating Yoomyeong’s face in a strange blue color.

“I couldn’t sleep because I was curious. What’s the title of the play?”

“It’s <The Existential Murderer>. Let’s begin.”

Upon hearing that title, Yoon Hansung flinched in surprise.

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