Return of the Genius Photographer

Song Sang-hyun, completely immersed in his role, collapsed onto the street, sobbing with the faint glow of dawn behind him.

A man, alone and crying.

In the quiet slum, his cries echoed in the empty air.

“Why me?! Why is it always me?!”

In one of his hands, a phone was visible.

On the small screen, a simple, matter-of-fact message glowed in red: “Rejected.”

Another rejection notice, the thirtieth one to be exact. He had now received more rejections than the years he had lived.

It had become all too familiar to him by now, but even so, the sight of that message filled him with despair and a burning anger at himself.

“Damn it…”

Why was the world so cruel to him?

Or maybe the world had always been harsh, and he was only now realizing it.

In his other hand, a bottle of soju rolled across the ground, clinking hollowly as it went.

Could it be because he was drunk?

The man thought that even the bottle seemed to be mocking him…

“Heh, heh, heh…”

It was hard to tell whether the man was laughing or crying as he stared blankly at the cold ground.

“Haa..”

At that moment, he raised his hand, as if about to smash the phone against the pavement, but stopped midway and let out a long, heavy sigh.

The faint thread of reason that still remained within him held him back.

His phone and the suit his mother had scraped together money to buy him were his only possessions of any value.

He felt pathetic.

He couldn’t even express his rage properly because of his fear of losing what little he had.

Yes, money.

That damned money…

Money was the problem.

“From now on, I’ll do anything that pays…”

With that, he made a vow to himself, staring up into the void as though hoping his empty gaze would reach somewhere—anywhere.

Everyone on set watched Song Sang-hyun’s performance with bated breath.

Despite his youth, his acting skills were clearly those of a seasoned professional.

To carry a scene with nothing but a monologue and evoke such emotions was something only exceptional actors could pull off.

Great actors have a way of drawing you in, and their energy, while powerful on-screen, feels even more intense in person.

While everyone else was mesmerized by the raw power of his performance, Director Kim Yong-deok watched with a calm, calculated eye.

‘Just a little more… Pull the emotion up just a bit more, Sang-hyun.’

This was one of the most crucial scenes in the early part of the movie.

The protagonist, whom Sang-hyun played, was a young man full of dreams, but the repeated failures in finding a job left him despondent.

From this moment on, the character’s life would shift entirely, focusing solely on the pursuit of money.

This scene was pivotal in conveying that change to the audience, and its significance could not be understated.

Director Kim, aware of this, watched with utmost care, his eyes glued to the monitor. He hadn’t called “cut” yet, and Song Sang-hyun, having worked with him numerous times before, knew exactly what that meant.

Slowly, deliberately, Sang-hyun heightened his emotions, his eyes locking onto the camera.

A small smile played on Director Kim’s lips as he watched through the monitor.

‘Yes, that’s it. Keep pushing it.’

While ordinary people would simply marvel at a great actor’s performance, a director experiences a different kind of joy.

For a director, the greatest satisfaction comes from seeing the scene they had envisioned come to life exactly as they had imagined.

The fulfillment and exhilaration of creating something that didn’t exist before, of translating a story from their mind into moving images—this is a joy only a director knows.

Of course, it seemed that Director Kim was the only one on set who understood this particular feeling.

Everyone else watched with the eyes of an audience, absorbed in the actor’s performance, without wondering about the shot being captured.

Well, it was understandable.

Maintaining composure in front of such a passionate performance was likely what had allowed him to rise to the rank of director in the first place.

Still, there was something a little lonely about being the only one who truly felt the satisfaction of this moment.

As he put aside his thoughts, ready to call “cut” after capturing a satisfactory take, a sound beat him to it.

-Click

The shutter of a camera rang out, slightly startling Director Kim.

He turned toward the source of the sound and saw Woojin, camera in hand, pressing the shutter button with a sharp, focused look in his eyes.

Director Kim let out a small sigh of admiration.

Though not part of the filming staff, there was at least one person on set who was seeing things from a similar perspective to his own, capturing the same moment through a lens.

***

I tightly gripped my camera, my eyes glued to the actor’s performance.

Though I had already read the script and knew the scene well, witnessing it unfold in real life was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

The actor’s performance, which had reached its peak, was worthy of being captured at that very moment. Yet, like a patient fisherman waiting for the right moment, I remained calm and kept watching.

‘Not yet.’

The actor’s eyes, filled with an almost obsessive intensity, reflected a deep sense of determination, as though he had fully become the character.

His gaze, sharp and unyielding, drew every camera angle towards him.

For a brief moment, I almost pressed the shutter, but I restrained myself.

‘Not yet.’

I wanted to take the shot. The urge to press the shutter was overwhelming. My heart pounded with the temptation to capture this powerful performance.

‘Just a little longer.’

But the time hadn’t come yet.

If this were my personal shoot, or if I were simply trying to capture a good photograph, I would’ve already been pressing the shutter non-stop.

With such a talented actor before me, I wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to take incredible shots.

But this was a movie set, and I had to remember that this moment wasn’t meant for me. I could only press the shutter when it wouldn’t disrupt the immersion of the actor or the director. That window of opportunity would be brief, but within that short span, I needed to capture the perfect still, one worthy of being used for a movie poster.

As Song Sang-hyun pulled himself deeper into his role, emotions he had already expressed seemed to rise again.

No more lines, no more gestures—just raw emotion conveyed through his eyes.

He gazed into the camera with a haunting look, the face of a young man who had lost his dreams and hopes, filled with despair.

At that moment, as I met his empty gaze, I knew the perfect timing was upon me.

‘Now.’

I quickly maneuvered through the sea of equipment and positioned myself naturally with my camera.

From a diagonal angle, slightly off from where the movie camera was focused on the actor, I captured his performance through my lens.

Seeing the man who was crying without tears, I pressed the shutter.

-Click

―Okay! Cut!

Almost simultaneously with the director’s call of “cut,” the sound of my shutter echoed softly on set.

*****

With Director Kim Yong-deok’s call for “cut,” the slate snapped shut.

The clack of the slate, along with the director’s call, seemed to pull Song Sang-hyun out of his immersion.

“Good work. Here, drink some water and take a break,” his manager said, offering him a bottle.

“Thanks,” he replied, taking the water, but his mind wasn’t on a break. He quickly looked around for Director Kim, wanting feedback while he was still in the zone.

“Where did the director go?” he asked, heading toward the monitors, where Director Kim had been stationed throughout the shoot.

But to his surprise, the director wasn’t there. Confused, Sang-hyun grabbed a passing staff member and asked where the director had gone.

“He’s over there, talking to the photographer,” the staff member pointed.

Sang-hyun followed the gesture to where Director Kim stood, engaged in a conversation with Woojin.

“Photographer Nam Woojin, did you manage to take many photos?” Director Kim asked.

“No, not many,” Woojin responded with a relaxed smile. “I tried not to interfere with the shoot.”

“I see…”

Woojin’s casual demeanor hadn’t changed since their first meeting, but something about him still nagged at Director Kim’s thoughts.

‘Did I imagine it earlier?’

The Woojin standing before him now was a far cry from the one he’d seen just before calling “Cut.”

Looking at Woojin’s friendly face, Director Kim Yong-deok recalled what had happened earlier.

When everyone on set, except for himself, was still entranced by the actor’s powerful performance.

For that brief moment, Woojin had shown the poise and composure of a veteran director, his cold, sharp focus making him indistinguishable from someone with years of experience.

It had only lasted for a fleeting second, but the thought had struck him so deeply that, unable to shake his curiosity, he had come looking for Woojin.

Yet now, as he watched Woojin casually stroll around the set, camera in hand, he looked just like an ordinary high school student.

Was it really just a trick of the eye?

Had the director simply expected too much from a mere high schooler, even if he was a talented photographer?

As Director Kim was feeling slightly disappointed with this thought,

“I was just about to come see you, so this works out perfectly,” said Woojin.

“Yes?”

“Could you take a look at this photo? I think I’ve got one that could work for the poster.”

With a smile, Woojin handed the camera to Yong-deok, showing him the picture. The moment the director saw it, his eyes widened in disbelief.

‘I wasn’t wrong!’

The photo captured Song Sang-hyun staring straight ahead, his emotions stretched to the limit, with a look of despair and emptiness.

Though the angle was slightly different, it perfectly encapsulated the very moment Yong-deok had wanted to highlight in the scene.

As someone who had envisioned this moment from the beginning, there was no mistaking it. This photo had been taken just before the “cut” sign, precisely at the climax.

“How did you know to capture this moment?” he asked, still astonished.

“When I thought about the script, it seemed to me that this scene focused more on emptiness than on an outburst,” Woojin replied.

“Huh…”

“When I saw the actor maintaining his concentration even after the lines were finished, I figured something important was about to happen.”

Yong-deok was speechless as he listened to Woojin’s casual explanation.

To Woojin, it seemed like nothing extraordinary, but to the director, this was beyond comprehension.

How could a photographer, who wasn’t an actor or director but closer to a mere observer, pinpoint the climax of a movie in real time?

And it wasn’t like Woojin had been there throughout the shoot—he was just stepping onto the set for the first time.

‘How deep must this young student’s insight be?’

It was impossible for anyone to capture such a pivotal moment without a profound understanding of the script and the film’s emotional undertones.

The fact that this seemingly young and inexperienced student had that level of insight was hard to believe.

From their first meeting, Yong-deok had sensed that Woojin was no ordinary person. But even then, Woojin had far exceeded his expectations.

‘And the photo is flawless.’

Even though there had been only a brief window before the “cut” sign, the photo was stunningly sharp and clear. Its quality was impeccable, leaving nothing to criticize.

In a voice filled with admiration, Director Kim asked, “So, are we going to use this photo for the poster?”

The picture seemed perfect for that purpose. As mentioned earlier, today’s shoot had captured a crucial scene that would set the tone for the entire film and propel its themes forward.

Woojin’s photo held the kind of symbolic weight and intrigue that would draw audiences in.

But to Yong-deok’s surprise, Woojin shook his head, still smiling.

“No. This is just the beginning.”

‘This isn’t the final one?’

Hearing that, Director Kim swallowed hard.