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I知 Not a Doctor, But I Played One on Korean TV

10.22.07 | 12:01 PM ET

I lead an uneventful life as an English teacher, working on a small island off the southern coast of Korea called Jeju. It’s a fairly normal life, marked by fits of boredom and ruled by routine. That briefly changed during a trip to the local E-mart—Korea’s answer to Wal-Mart. I was in the check-out lane when my Russian friend, Victor, called. He owns a tourism company on the island.

“Brian, do you have the wetsuit?” His voice was frantic and I could hear his wife laughing in the background.

“What?” I asked, putting my grocery basket down. “No.”

“I am sorry, I mispronounce. I mean a business suit.”

“Yeah, why?”

“They are shooting a drama in Jungmun tonight. They need foreigners. Can you come?”

“A drama?” I asked. “What kind?”

“I don’t know, but they’re shooting in Jungmun and they need foreigners quickly. Can you bring some of your friends?”

I called a few fellow English teachers and asked if they would be interested. Some desperately wanted to, but didn’t have a suit; others had been through the experience of being on Japanese or Korean TV before and had had their fill. Tom and Robert had the suits and the interest, so the three of us gathered outside a neighborhood bakery, resplendent in our sport jackets and ties, to meet with Victor. He showed up in his old, beat up van. We jumped inside.

Nervous and excited, we speculated as to what kind of “acting” we’d be doing and which drama we’d be performing on. I text messaged my boss and a Korean friend, Hye Ri, to tell them I was going to be on a Korean drama.

Brian: I’M GOING 2 JUNGMUN 2 B IN A KOREAN DRAMA!!  :)
Hye Ri: !.! Really? Which one?
Brian: I DON’T KNOW! LOL!  I’LL LET YOU KNOW WHEN I GET THERE! ;)

We arrived at a five-star hotel a few minutes later. A sign in the lobby proclaimed portions of the hotel were being cordoned off for filming. The film crew spotted us and asked us if we were with the drama. When we said yes, they pointed us downstairs.
When we got there a director told us we would be playing surgeons at a conference for a TV show called “Ha Yang Ku Tap” or the “Grand, White Tower.” I texted Hye Ri and my boss the name of the show. Within seconds I got their responses.

Hye Ri: Oh my God!!! That is a very popular medical drama!!!!
Mrs. Park:  Is there Kim Myun Min? Can you get his sign?

Kim had earlier made a name for himself playing the Korean war hero Admiral Lee Soon Shin on one of Korea’s most popular mini-series. I asked the director if this Kim Myung Min was there and he told me that in fact he was. We foreigners were herded into a room and given name badges for our “conference.” I looked down at my badge. “Daniel Morris,” it read.

“What did you get?” I asked Tom.

“Sam Smith. How about you, Victor?”

Victor looked at his badge “J. S. Lee.”

“A Korean name!” I said, laughing. “That’s going to be a difficult acting challenge for you.”

We were handed charts about various medical procedures. I was instantly a kidney specialist. Tom was a brain surgeon. Looking around, I could see the film crew had scraped the bottom of the foreigner barrel to cast its doctors. The call had gone out island-wide to anyone who happened not to be Korean and owned a suit. Foreigners with dreadlocks, tattoos and wild piercings showed up to pose as the international community’s most respected surgeons.

A foreign woman waved her name badge at the director and complained “My name is Jeremy Stevens. That’s a man’s name.”

The director laughed. “Don’t worry. The camera won’t get close enough to see the name. It doesn’t matter.”

We followed dumbly as an assistant led us into a lobby where hotel waitresses hovered over pots of coffee.

The assistant director stopped by to give us direction. Victor translated. “Just stand here and talk.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Anything,” said Victor. “It doesn’t matter.”

A waitress next to us did her best to compose herself as she looked anxiously over her shoulder.

One of the show’s lead characters sauntered up and struck up a conversation in Korean. He was a charismatic old man who played the president of the National Association of Korean Surgeons. The director told everyone to get ready. I stood with my cup of coffee in hand, wracking my brain about what to talk about. The camera rolled in as the director yelled, “Action!” 

I looked about casually and asked if he was interested in football.

“Ha-ha!” went the surgeon, who bid us farewell then turned to see the show’s young, heartthrob leading man, Kim Myung Min. The two exchanged words, then the heartthrob scoffed and stormed away.

“Cut!”

The assistant director instructed us to speak more quietly after the doctor departed. After which he grabbed another hostess and shoved her into view of the camera.

“Action!”

Tom and I looked around and marveled at how bizarre and exciting we found the whole event. Foreigners milled about in a general state of disorder, talking and drinking coffee as the camera worked its way through the crowd.

I asked the refined old man how long he’d been involved in acting, but before he could answer, the camera rolled by and he was off again.

“Ha-ha.” He turned once more to meet his younger rival. The same scene of scoffing and stomping feet repeated itself. We went on like this perhaps five or six times until the director was satisfied he had the perfect take. With each take we sipped coffee and carried on casual conversations about our humdrum island lives. From there we took seats in a large auditorium where the “conference” was taking place. With pens in hand, my fellow surgeons and I looked as serious as possible, sitting in rapt attention as the show’s young hero delivered a powerful lecture on kidney grafts. All the while the head of the National Association of Korean Surgeons boorishly carried on in a private conversation with a patient’s husband while he spoke. The young hero cast him a plaintive look.

“Cut!”

The director told us the shoot was finished and thanked us for our efforts. We seasoned acting pros erupted into applause. Kim Myung Min slipped into the hallway where I joined a mob of adoring Korean women waiting to get his autograph. Tom stood by taking pictures while I did my best hysterical Korean girl impression.

When the show finally aired, Tom, Robert, Victor and I appeared for a grand total of four seconds, and our speaking lines had been lost to the editing room floor.

I guess I knew I wasn’t destined for anything more than four seconds of glamour and excitement, a brief escape from my life of tedium. I got my ticket into that world, after all, by the mere fact that I was white and owned a suit.

I’ve wondered whether I should look down on opportunities that come my way here only because I’m a “token foreigner.” But it seems the fate of every expat is to be seen as “unique” and “interesting” by their local hosts, while never truly belonging.

So, though I feel both pushed away and drawn in by my adoptive home, for now I’m just fine being “that white guy.” And while my mom may not be able to say that her son is a doctor, she’ll at least be able to say I once played one on Korean TV.

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Photos Courtesy:  REUTERS  |  iStockPhoto  |  flickr  

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