Night had deepened, and all was quiet.
In the vast FBI office, Carl Hanratty was the only one left, all alone.
However, Carl seemed entirely unaware of this; or perhaps, he was aware but simply didn't care.
He was comparing the fingerprints of the suspect, "Barry Allen," trying to uncover the criminal's true identity—
In the 1960s, still the pre-computer era, there was no database to search with a single keystroke; everything had to be done manually. Using a magnifying glass, matching fingerprint by fingerprint. If there were ten thousand fingerprints, you'd have to compare all ten thousand.
Pure physical labor.
So, Carl was working overtime.
Ring, ring, ring.
The phone rang sharply, but Carl continued to scrutinize the fingerprints with a magnifying glass, awkwardly positioning the phone receiver between his ear and shoulder.
"This is Carl Hanratty, Merry Christmas."
"Hey, Carl."
One greeting made Carl sit up straight, his eyes wide open.
"Hello?" The voice on the other end, not hearing a response, thought there was a bad connection.
Carl snapped awake, quickly turning off the radio, "Barry Allen, Secret Service."
The voice on the phone sounded distant and weary, gently rippling in the cold, damp night, "I've been trying to find you for the past few hours."
Wait a minute, Carl was looking for him, and he was also looking for Carl?
Carl asked, "What do you want?"
Young Frank said, "I wanted to apologize for what happened in Los Angeles."
One shot, Steven Spielberg used just one shot to complete the narrative—
In the previous second, the close-up shot of Carl slowly pulled away and rose, finally capturing the scene from above.
The next second, the shot cut to the hotel room where young Frank was, similarly framed from above, their figures overlapping.
A desk lamp, a chair, both all alone, both isolated in their loneliness.
On Christmas Eve, the two of them were both alone.
A quiet and melancholic atmosphere slowly spread, forming a clever intertextuality that was simpler and more direct than any dialogue or explanation.
Two strangers unknowingly formed a connection.
"Haha. Haha." Carl chuckled dryly, "You don't need to apologize."
"Are you working on Christmas Eve too, Carl?" Young Frank sounded lost and confused, his voice sinking into the dim light.
"I volunteered. So those with families can go home early."
"You were wearing a wedding ring once. I thought you had a family."
"No. No family." The desk lamp's light fell hazily on Carl's face, and a resolute look flickered in his eyes as he took the initiative, "You want to talk to me, let's talk face to face."
"Sure." Young Frank responded without hesitation, even a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, giving a straightforward answer without playing any tricks.
"I'm at Stevenson Arms, room 3113. In the morning, I'm heading to Las Vegas for the weekend."
Carl was on full alert, immediately grabbing a pen to jot down key information on a sticky note: Room 3113, "S..."
Wait a minute, Stevenson?
This place is in Brooklyn, New York, and Stevenson Arms is a hotel.
Carl's pen stopped, "Are you trying to trick me again? You're not going to Las Vegas, and you're not at Stevenson Arms."
"You want me to send twenty agents to break down your hotel room door on Christmas Eve, just so you can make us look like fools?"
This time, young Frank didn't immediately respond. Holding the receiver, he stared silently ahead, his eyes losing focus bit by bit.
Just a fleeting moment.
However, he closed his eyes, "If I tricked you, I'm sorry. Sincerely."
Carl wasn't buying it, "No, no need."
"Listen, I mean it."
"No, you don't need to apologize. In fact, I know it's you. Maybe I didn't slap the handcuffs on you, but I know it's you." This was Carl's stubbornness and pride, his persistence.
Young Frank detected the bitterness in his words. He murmured with a face full of desolation, indifferent and casual, "People only know what you tell them, Carl."
Carl didn't notice, or maybe he did but was on high alert, avoiding being tricked by young Frank again, refusing to believe him so easily, "Then tell me, Barry Allen of the Secret Service, how did you know I wouldn't check your wallet?"
In Hollywood, Carl had once asked young Frank for identification. Young Frank had thrown his entire wallet to him and distracted Carl, walking a tightrope, narrowly convincing Carl and escaping the crisis.
Young Frank gave an unexpected answer, "Same reason the New York Yankees always win; no one can take their eyes off the pinstripes."
Carl frowned, "The Yankees win because they have Mickey Mantle. No one ever bets because of their uniforms."
"Are you sure, Carl?"
"I'll tell you what I can be sure of: you will be caught. One way or another, it's just a matter of numbers, like in Las Vegas, the house always wins."
Young Frank didn't speak, gripping the receiver, quietly watching ahead, the shadow of his dense eyelashes casting over his eyes, enveloping them in a mist—
No fear, no panic, no tension; only endless solitude and loneliness.
His usually neat hair hung slightly disheveled, the faint light not clearly illuminating his eyes. That face, too handsome to look at directly, seemed like a fragile, icy Greek statue.
The camera held power.
A close-up shot, an upward angle, gradually sketching the contours of that face in the silent, dim light, all finally focusing sparsely on those downcast eyes.
Just like that, it took your breath away.
In that brief moment, the entire theater could genuinely and profoundly feel that emotion, a bitterness that welled up on the tip of the tongue.
Then.
Young Frank spoke, trying hard to stay calm but still slightly low, "Carl, sorry, I have to end this call."
"Heh," Carl chuckled, "You didn't call to apologize, did you? Ha, hahaha."
Young Frank was caught by Carl's laughter, "What do you mean?"
Carl finally relaxed, "You... you have no one else to talk to. Hahaha."
Bang.
Young Frank suddenly hung up.
Carl was startled but wasn't deterred from his good mood. Still chuckling, he turned the radio back on and even started humming a Christmas carol.
In the dim light, young Frank, still in shock, stared ahead, his scattered focus coming together again as he regained his senses and clarity—
Quickly gathering himself, he opened the door and left the room swiftly.
Bang!
The door opened and closed, leaving the camera focused on the room number.
Melvin stared wide-eyed, unable to believe what he saw, but Steven Spielberg's camera lingered intentionally on the close-up for a few seconds to ensure everyone could clearly see the number after rubbing their eyes.
This, this means...
Did young Frank just tell the truth about his location?
No way.