Many people had high expectations, and the preparations for filming Ego proceeded smoothly.
Director Joo Chan-seong truly lived up to his reputation as a world-class master. Even in the pre-production process—assembling the staff, scouting locations, building sets, and testing cameras—his ability was evident. He was more meticulous and detailed than any director Taeha had ever worked with. He never missed a single thing and was thoroughly systematic. Among the crew, a joke circulated: “The director probably knows how many spoons we have in our houses.” It was a remark implying that Joo Chan-seong’s preparations were so thorough they bordered on exhausting, but for Taeha, it was reassuring. Taeha also believed that the more airtight the pre-production, the fewer unexpected accidents would occur, ultimately leading to better results. In that sense, Joo Chan-seong’s working style was a perfect match for Taeha’s.
‘What I like most of all…’
It was the way Joo Chan-seong analyzed the work.
‘He asks a tremendous number of questions. But almost none of them feel pointless.’
On the contrary, every single one was worth considering at least once. And as a result of this process, parts of Ego’s scenario were revised.
Seeing the scenario being revised, Joo Chan-seong said, “Ah, you don’t have to modify the work just because of my opinions. I’m only asking what I’m curious about.”
Taeha didn’t think Joo Chan-seong wanted the work to be changed either. Joo Chan-seong was simply asking questions to create a direction that fit the writer’s intent. It was just as he had promised at their first meeting: to work faithfully to the work. Taeha could sense this from Joo Chan-seong’s attitude.
Nevertheless, Taeha proceeded with the revisions solely for the sake of the work.
‘After hearing Director Joo’s thoughts, I could see what the work was lacking.’
Above all, Taeha’s revisions were very minor. At most, they involved filling in insufficient explanations and polishing the details of the dialogue. But even these small changes made the scenario’s direction much clearer. And as a result, Joo Chan-seong’s directorial ideas became more abundant—another achievement.
That was it.
Joo Chan-seong went beyond asking Taeha about the work; he even sought advice on directorial ideas. The level of detail was beyond imagination.
“I was thinking we could emphasize the scene where the letter first arrives to Seong-jae through the mailman. We could depict the background of the mailman cycling to Seong-jae’s detached house as a dark blue forest.”
Since Taeha had also imagined the overall color tone of Ego to be similar, he agreed with Joo Chan-seong’s suggestion. But Joo Chan-seong’s idea didn’t end there.
“To show the dark blue forest, I think it would be good to use a drone to capture the overall picture, then gradually zoom in on the mailman. We’ll do a close-up all the way to the mailman’s coat flaps fluttering in the wind.”
In this way, Joo Chan-seong even discussed with Taeha how to shoot each scene. It was a method of working that Taeha had never experienced before.
That’s why, when Joo Chan-seong first came to Taeha’s studio and brought up these topics, he was a bit flustered.
‘I thought he just came to have a meal and build rapport before filming.’
But during the meal, when Joo Chan-seong put down his spoon and asked these questions, his expression was endlessly sincere. So Taeha also stopped eating and had to draw on all his knowledge of directing to offer his opinion.
“If you’re going to do a close-up, how about also capturing raindrops falling one by one onto the mailman’s hand? That would naturally justify why the first letter got wet and some of the ink blurred.”
“Oh. That’s a good idea.”
And so, Joo Chan-seong came to Taeha’s studio almost every day, spending four to five hours discussing direction before leaving. At first, Taeha didn’t understand why Joo Chan-seong was doing this, but gradually he began to grasp the reason.
Through their conversations, directorial ideas began to develop bit by bit.
Sure enough, after about a month of similar work, Joo Chan-seong spoke up.
“Just as I expected.”
“What is?”
“You have a remarkable talent for direction as well.”
Hearing this unexpected praise from Joo Chan-seong, Taeha thought for a moment and then spoke.
“I was actually curious. Do you usually discuss the direction of a work with writers like this?”
“I always try, but this is the first time it’s progressed so seriously.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. After all, few people have imagined the scenes as much as the person who wrote the work. But strangely, writers seem to find it difficult to bring up these topics.”
“That makes sense. They probably haven’t thought about it.”
“So I was very glad when you accepted my discussions. And in fact, talking with you has been a great help. The proof is that I get better ideas from our conversations than from discussions with the assistant director or the cinematographer.”
It turned out that Joo Chan-seong wasn’t having these discussions only with Taeha. He also met regularly with the assistant director and the cinematographer, discussing scene by scene how to best direct Ego. It was a moment that made Taeha understand why Joo Chan-seong always received praise for his fresh directing techniques with each new film.
‘With this kind of obsessive dedication to the work, it’s no wonder he gets good results.’
On the other hand, Taeha was surprised that their conversations were actually more helpful for direction than he had expected. He had thought that no matter what, he couldn’t match the assistant director or the cinematographer, who had formally studied direction.
‘Is it really that helpful?’
Taeha thought for a moment but shook his head. He wondered if it was just lip service from Joo Chan-seong.
But Joo Chan-seong continued to ask Taeha directorial questions even after that. Thanks to this, Taeha could imagine more clearly how the film would turn out, and it was a huge help. His fear that Ego might be directed in a way different from his imagination disappeared. And it was much easier to think about how to act in accordance with the direction.
‘Now all that’s left is to act exactly as I’ve been imagining all along.’
It was the day before filming for Ego began.
***
The first scene of Ego starts with Seong-jae receiving a letter from the mailman. The letter, wet from rain and blurred ink, has more illegible content than readable. But even so, the mere existence of the letter shocks Seong-jae deeply.
“Why is this…?”
The reason is simple.
Seong-jun, who sent the letter to Seong-jae, is his old close friend who disappeared ten years ago.
Of course, normally, if a close friend thought to be missing sends a letter, one would feel joy. But Seong-jae can’t simply be happy. Because Seong-jae’s wife (Hyeon-jeong) was originally Seong-jun’s wife. Moreover, Hye-in, whom he cherishes even more than his own biological daughter, is also Seong-jun’s biological daughter.
In other words, if Seong-jun is really alive and returns, Seong-jae could lose his wife and daughter.
Consumed by these thoughts, Seong-jae feels extreme anxiety. And perhaps it was survival instinct.
“Honey, what are you looking at?”
Hearing Hyeon-jeong’s voice from behind, he unconsciously hides the letter.
“Oh, the gas bill is higher than I thought. I guess we ran the boiler too much last month.”
Seong-jae turns around with an excuse, and Hyeon-jeong smiles, relieved.
“That’s probably it. It was extremely cold even for March. And Hye-in is sensitive to cold, after all. She takes after you.”
“…Yeah. She takes after me.”
“Still, it’s a relief that the weather is warming up. By next week, we’ll be able to go on a picnic with Hye-in, like we do every year.”
“She’ll like that. Our daughter.”
Thus, Seong-jae successfully defuses the situation. But his heart remains unsettled.
He feels that at any moment, Seong-jun might return and demand his family back.
In this state, Seong-jae goes to pick up Hye-in from school at dismissal time. But Hye-in, who is with her friends, doesn’t look very cheerful.
Seong-jae finds her expression cute and asks as he fastens her seatbelt in the passenger seat.
“Did something happen at school today?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is it? Tell Dad.”
“The kids say I don’t look like you.”
“…What?”
“They say I only look like Mom and that I look too different from you. That makes me mad. I do look like you.”
***
Coincidence or not, hearing Hye-in’s words sends Seong-jae into extreme anxiety. He even has nightmares of unknown origin while sleeping. In his dream, Seong-jae is chased by an unidentified entity in a dark blue forest. He suffers large and small injuries along the way, but he can’t stop running. Only when his breath reaches his throat and he can no longer breathe does he finally wake from the nightmare.
—
As his anxiety grows day by day, the second letter from Seong-jun finally arrives.
[I know you must have felt some anxiety upon receiving my first letter. I also agonized for a long time over whether I should send it.
But you don’t need to worry too much. For whatever reason, I have no intention of coming back. I just wanted to tell you that I’m doing well.
And I wanted to say thank you. For taking care of my inadequate wife and my daughter, whose identity is ambiguous.
If I may ask one favor: no matter what truth comes to you, don’t let it shake you. Sometimes avoiding the truth and turning away from it is how you protect your happiness.]
Unlike the first letter, the contents of Seong-jun’s second letter are entirely legible.
After reading it, Seong-jae is noticeably relieved. Because Seong-jun has firmly stated that he won’t return.
But soon, Seong-jae feels anger. He thinks that if Seong-jun wasn’t going to come back, it would have been better not to send even this letter.
Yet his anger doesn’t last long. Because he feels disgusted at himself for not being able to fully rejoice in his close friend’s safety.
Tormented by guilt, Seong-jae picks up the letter and heads to the storage room. He tries to hide the second letter in the same corner where he hid the first.
But in that process, he discovers an unexpected item.
It’s a diamond ring he has never seen before.
Presumably Hyeon-jeong’s.
At the same time, a phrase from the second letter flashes through his mind.
[And I wanted to say thank you. For taking care of my inadequate wife and my daughter, whose identity is ambiguous.]
And so, suspicion toward Hyeon-jeong begins to bloom in Seong-jae’s heart.