Episode 10. Studying Camera Work
On the day of Suyang’s premiere,
the online boards and communities erupted into chaos once the broadcast ended.
[Open the door open the door open the door open the door!!]
: “We all know you’ve got four pre-produced episodes!! Release them now!!”
[Just once please please please please!!!]
: “Director Choi, just once, please please please please please please please please!!”
[Do you want to see me go insane, PD Choi?!]
: “Release Episodes 3 and 4 right now!!”
[I condemn everything!!]
: “KMC must release Suyang’s 3rd and 4th episodes! Release them now!”
[Excuse me, PD? A package is here for you?]
: “Open the door open the door open the door open the door open the door!!”
None of the cast performances were lacking.
And then, capping it all, Episode 2 ended with that legendary cliffhanger: Danjong awakening, setting the stage for his clash with Grand Prince Suyang—the same scene teased in trailers that had already gone viral. It was the very definition of a devil’s cliffhanger.
Viewers gathered in groups to debate the actors’ performances.
“Kim Jehoon’s form is insane.”
“Wow… now I understand why people praise Lee Jaesoon so much.”
“Subin has awakened!!!!”
And they speculated wildly about future plot directions.
Even YouTube-style analysis programs popped up, bringing in drama experts and history scholars to seriously dissect the show.
“Obviously it’s not sticking 100% to the historical record, right?”
“Right. In the records, Danjong didn’t clash with his ministers so directly. It’s been dramatized, though not to the point of crossing a line. I’d call it a moderate historical-fusion.”
“So, depending on the adaptation, could the course of the Gyeyujeongnan coup be altered?”
“Well, considering the title is Suyang – The Thief Who Stole the Throne, the spoiler is baked in: Suyang will win. The path leading there, though, may differ.”
“You mean, unlike the weak and pitiful Danjong of history, this drama’s Danjong becomes Suyang’s true arch-enemy?”
“That’s actually a common misconception. Historically, Danjong wasn’t as powerless as people think. True, he was forced into retirement as a Sangwang after just a year on the throne, but afterward he showed remarkable political capability. So no, he wasn’t simply a helpless victim.”
“So the drama’s Danjong isn’t historically accurate?”
“Not exactly. Honestly, he feels less like Danjong and more like a ‘Kill-Bangwon’ type figure. Episode 2 shows him choosing not the king’s ‘virtuous path’ but rather the hegemon’s path.”
“Ah, yes. The direction was stunning.”
They recalled specific shots.
“The scene where the setting sun pours through the window into Danjong’s hollow eyes—first a flicker of resolution.”
“Then the mountaintop confrontation with Suyang, where the inner flames begin blazing—it felt like ignition.”
“Whether it was lighting control or CGI, the editing was exquisite.”
“Actually, it was pure natural light. Quite the coincidence, wasn’t it?”
“No way—that was natural light? Talk about destiny favoring the talented.”
The experts added layers of commentary, but one conclusion they all agreed upon:
“The child actor playing Danjong is unbelievable. Has there ever been such genius in Korean drama history?”
“His name’s Lee Jiwoo, right? This is actually his very first role.”
“What? Impossible.”
“It’s true.”
Public fascination with Lee Jiwoo exploded.
The Seiworld account and Naver blog his guardian Han Jisoo had once managed for children’s clothing ads now crashed under a flood of visitors.
Comments piled in so fast that Jisoo could barely keep up.
And at school—
“Whoa, it’s Lee Jiwoo!”
Even his friends and teachers looked at him with new eyes.
He’d always had a bit of fame, but the gulf between “child model for clothing ads” and “nationally beloved lead in a historical drama” was astronomical.
Even his homeroom teacher couldn’t resist.
“Uh, Lee Jiwoo… how does it turn out between Danjong and Prince Suyang?”
“Please check this weekend.”
Lee Jiwoo was delighted.
As demon Luciel, he had acted countless times, watching humans laugh and cry because of him. But it had been a long time since his own performance had sparked such joy and excitement.
“And acting itself is fun. Studying acting is fun. Coming here really was the right choice!”
“But this isn’t enough! If I’m going to do it, I want to do it even better!”
Now that he had been admitted to Dongwon Actors as a full scholarship student, he eagerly went to class.
In a typical beginner’s class, one would learn acting basics from instructors.
But Lee Jiwoo already had higher name recognition than many supporting actors with a decade of experience. Moreover, the head of Dongwon Actors, Choi Dongwon himself, had personally certified him as a “rough diamond.”
Thus Lee Jiwoo received the rare privilege of private lessons directly from Choi.
“Watch carefully, Lee Jiwoo. When you act in front of a camera, you must always perceive the lens’s field of view as an invisible box.”
“A box?”
“Yes, a square frame—the view frame. Always keep in mind what the camera is capturing.”
“Ah, I see~.”
“To remember the frame, set landmarks—like that stone, that railing, that stain. Draw your own invisible frame and act within it.”
“Aha…”
Choi’s tips were immediately practical.
“When you can perceive the frame, you’ll also adapt to different kinds of shots.”
“For example?”
“Take a dolly shot—where the camera moves on rails. If you shorten your stride to match the dolly’s pace, your movement appears natural, flowing.”
“Ohhh…”
“Conversely, if you walk faster than the camera, the frame lags and it feels like you’re rushing out of shot. It can work to create urgency, but otherwise it’s an NG.”
“Wow…”
Choi’s advice was both simple and profound—perfect for Lee Jiwoo, who had no basic technical knowledge yet could absorb it quickly. Choi was a master actor, but also a master teacher.
Jiwoo soon began applying these techniques on set—and even innovating.
“Cut!”
During Episode 5 filming,
Danjong wandered the countryside in disguise, witnessing the suffering of peasants crushed by corrupt officials. Seeing their despair, he staggered with hopelessness.
But Lee Jiwoo made an unusual choice—walking more slowly than the dolly camera.
PD Choi frowned.
“Lee Jiwoo, why are you walking so slowly? The camera passed you already. Let’s try again, match the dolly pace.”
Normally, Lee Jiwoo followed dolly shots without issue. This didn’t seem like a random ad-lib. Curious, PD Choi asked.
“…Um, PD-Choi , could we check the footage just now? I actually sent the dolly ahead on purpose, like Teacher Choi Dongwon taught me…”
“What? On purpose?”
“Yes.”
Lee Jiwoo spoke carefully, feigning nervousness so as not to offend.
“With the camera leaving first, Danjong appears left behind, alone—that way, his hesitation and despair come through stronger.”
“…What?”
“And if you zoom out while leaving him isolated in the lower left frame, it emphasizes how small and pitiful he becomes.”
“….”
An elementary schooler suggesting framing like a film director?
PD Choi was struck speechless—not out of anger, but like he’d been bewitched.
“What kind of child actor talks about dolly-first framing?”
And worse—he realized it actually worked.
Running the scene through his mind, PD Choi grew convinced.
“…Let’s try again.”
“Should I do it the same way?”
“Yes. Let’s see.”
When they rolled again, the difference was startling.
What had been a plain sequence now radiated emptiness and despair.
It looked like something out of an art film—techniques avoided in conventional dramas.
Of course, PD Choi wasn’t ignorant of such methods. He had simply never used them, molded by industry dogma:
“Flashy, complex camera work is poison in TV dramas. Keep it simple. The audience wants clarity, not pretension.”
He had conformed to that logic. Until Lee Jiwoo.
“This is too good to throw away…”
By shifting just the camera work, a simple scene of Danjong grieving over his people became layered with the hollow solitude of a ruler who failed his duty.
The DP, sound director, scriptwriter, and PD Choi huddled together. Finally, they agreed to keep it.
“Given the level of acting and direction, no one’s going to complain if we spice up the camera work.”
“At worst, they’ll just say, ‘Oh, PD Choi got artsy.’ With your career, no one will doubt it’s intentional. And if they do, I’ll share the blame.”
The DP laughed good-naturedly.
And so, amid a warm and collaborative atmosphere, Lee Jiwoo began actively sharing camera work suggestions.
PD Choi took in what was useful, discarded the rest, and engaged in genuine feedback.
Thus Episode 5 was completed.
And when it aired—
Film student Son Jun-hwi dropped his chopsticks in shock.
