There was a slight commotion in the Chinese theater screening room.
Just moments ago, they were animatedly discussing Anson's retro 1960s look. With his smooth, short golden hair and neat bangs, and a slightly shy, reserved smile, it was as if he had traveled back from the 21st century to a distant past.
In a flash, they witnessed Anson's most disheveled, terrible appearance since his debut in "Friends."
Usually dashing and elegant, Anson now had a scruffy beard, sores at the corners of his mouth, and not even a glimmer of light in his eyes. He was a shadow of his former self, huddled in a corner, trying in vain to warm himself. His faintly rising chest and lifeless eyes seemed to radiate a chill that seeped into his bones.
Was this really Anson?
Clearly, he wasn't here for a vacation.
But.
Carl wasn't having any of it, remaining calm and businesslike.
Carl pulled out a stack of documents, methodically reading the extradition rules, completely ignoring Frank's feeble plea for help.
"Help me."
In a fit of rage, Carl furiously demanded a doctor. They dragged the unconscious Frank to the infirmary. However, when the doctor finally arrived, he was in no hurry, infuriating Carl even more. He roared at the doctor, insisting that he hadn't come all the way to Marseille to bring back a corpse.
But at this moment, the audience still felt torn, finding themselves instinctively siding with Frank.
Finally, Carl paused, looking through the wire mesh directly into Frank's eyes with a calm expression. "You don't think you can fool me, do you?"
Fragile and struggling.
Desperate and pained.
Frank, barely breathing, couldn't make a sound. His coughs weakened, and with all his might, he weakly squeezed out a plea for help.
Carl continued.
Eventually, Frank couldn't hold on anymore and fainted on the spot.
Those eyes, even in their disheveled, weakened, and dull state, quietly emitted a faint glimmer amidst the filth and chaos, like the deep blue ocean subtly reflecting the world's turmoil.
In that instant, the entire screening room held its breath.
It seemed like the slightest touch would shatter everything.
Despite Anson being a prisoner and Tom being an agent; despite Tom having the classic Hollywood good-guy face, playing countless American hero roles.
And things were only going to get worse.
Looking up, Carl calmly appeared above him, and Frank exhaled a long breath.
The audience in the screening room couldn't believe their ears. Seeing this version of Frank, and then the cold-hearted Carl, they easily changed sides—
The camera cuts, showing Frank staggering and stumbling while trying to escape, inciting cheers, curses, and jeers from the other inmates.
"Help me."
Frank didn't say more; he just quietly, barely alive, curled up, his whole body so small that it seemed he might disappear at any moment. He sent a distress signal with his eyes.
The doctor finally took notice. Turning around, he found the hospital bed empty.
Frank, in the end, couldn't escape, collapsing to the ground with his knees buckling.
Carl, coldly, added another jab, "Sixteen pages to go."
"Alright. Carl. Let's go home. Back to America."
Audience: ???
It wasn't until now that they realized they had been deceived.
No wonder the prison was heavily guarded, no wonder Carl was so ruthless; it all made sense.
A beat slower, the information from the fake TV show at the beginning of the movie came back to them—
A conman. A super conman. A top conman who had made countless achievements.
This was Frank William Abagnale.
But!
The most amazing part was that even in such a miserable, defeated, and pathetic state, without any boost from his looks, he still managed to fool the audience.
He even tricked FBI agent Carl. Who knows how many times now?
In the screening room, amidst laughter and tears, curiosity once again reared its head.
It must be said, Steven Spielberg truly has a knack for it. In less than ten minutes, with a single introduction, he firmly captured the audience's attention.
That's skill.
At this point, the movie's narrative finally begins to unfold.
1963, New York, New Rochelle, Christmas Eve.
Frank Abagnale Sr. had a successful career and a happy family. Due to his personal contributions, he made it to the honor wall of an old private club.
Young Frank Abagnale Jr. and his mother sat in the front row, witnessing this moment, their eyes shining with respect and admiration.
After the party, young Frank and his mother danced by the Christmas tree in their living room. The father sat by, recounting the story of how he and the mother met and fell in love in Paris. It was so romantic it made people swoon, with laughter lingering in the air.
When the mother accidentally spilled wine on the white carpet, young Frank rushed into the kitchen in a panic, bringing out a glass of milk to clean up the stain. But then he saw his parents continuing to dance lovingly—
The wine stain didn't matter at all.
Young Frank watched quietly, a child's innocent, radiant smile on his face.
...
Still young, still innocent, still the kind who'd oversleep on school days, young Frank was woken up early in the morning by his father. He rubbed his eyes, worried about being late for school, but his father told him they weren't going to school today; they were going to a meeting.
But, for the meeting, he needed a black suit.
It was still early, and the suit shop wasn't open. Though Frank Sr. called out to Darcy, the shop clerk who was preparing to open, Darcy repeatedly said they wouldn't open for another thirty minutes.
Frank Sr. refused to give up.
"I'm in a bind right now. I need to rent a suit for my child. This is my son, Frank. He needs a black suit."
"Someone in my family has died. My father..."
Young Frank glanced at his father: Funeral? What funeral?
But Frank Sr. didn't pause, continuing his speech.
"...Eighty-five years old, a war hero. There will be a funeral this afternoon, a military funeral, with planes flying overhead, a twenty-one-gun salute."
"Frank just needs to rent the suit for a few hours."
Darcy was almost convinced, but she still showed a troubled expression. "Sorry, we don't rent suits, and we're not open yet."
Saying this, Darcy was ready to close the door.
Frank Sr. called out sincerely.
"Darcy."
"Darcy, please, come back."
Darcy stopped, looking back through the glass door, her face full of reluctance.
Frank Sr. was not deterred. Instead, he offered a gentlemanly smile.
"Darcy, is this yours?"
Frank Sr. reached through the iron door, opened his palm, and let a golden necklace drop, surprising Darcy, who walked back out.
"I found it in the parking lot just now. It must have slipped off your neck."
A smile gently bloomed.
Then, the camera cuts—
A luxury car wobbled as it pulled over to the side of the road. From the back seat came Frank Sr.'s voice, "Don't hit the curb," but the car still stumbled and bumped into it before finally straightening out.
Under Frank Sr.'s guidance, "Now get out, walk around the back, and open the door for me."
Appearing in front of us, young Frank was wearing a crisp black suit.