From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

There was a slight commotion in the screening room of the Chinese Theater.

Just moments ago, they were enthusiastically discussing Anson's retro sixties look. His soft, golden short hair with its well-behaved bangs, and his slightly restrained, shy smile, made it seem as if he had traveled through time, flowing backward from the twenty-first century to decades ago.

In the blink of an eye, they witnessed Anson's most disheveled, worst, and most terrifying appearance since his debut in "Friends."

The consistently handsome and cheerful, consistently elegant and dashing Anson was now a mess of stubble and sores at the corners of his mouth. Not even a glimmer of light could be found in his eyes. He was curled up like a discarded object in a corner, desperately hugging himself in an attempt to keep warm, yet still unable to feel any warmth. His faintly rising and falling chest and lackluster eyes seemed to feel the chill seeping into his body.

Could this really be Anson?

Clearly, he wasn't here on vacation.

However.

Carl didn't buy it, remaining calm and strictly professional.

Carl pulled out a stack of documents and methodically recited the extradition条例, completely ignoring Frank's weak pleas for help.

"Help me."

Carl continued.

Frank's voice was as faint as a wisp of smoke, barely able to produce any sound. His coughs also grew weaker and weaker. He squeezed out a cry for help from his throat, weak and powerless.

"Help me."

Frank didn't continue speaking, only quietly, weakly, and desperately curled up into a ball. He seemed so small, as if he might disappear at any moment, his eyes looking towards Frank, sending out a signal for help.

Those eyes, even in their disheveled, weak, and lackluster state, quietly emitted a glimmer of light amidst the filth and chaos, like a deep, azure ocean, faintly reflecting the world's turmoil.

Desperate and pained.

Fragile and struggling.

Seeming as if a single touch would cause them to fall apart.

In an instant, the entire screening hall held its breath.

Finally, Carl paused, looked through the wire mesh, and stared directly into Frank's eyes with a calm expression, "You don't think you can fool me, do you?"

Carl even added a cold taunt, "There are sixteen more pages."

The audience in the screening room couldn't believe their ears. Looking at Frank in this state, and then at the cold-blooded Carl, one by one, they easily changed their allegiance—

Even though Anson was the prisoner and Tom was the agent; even though Tom also had the classic Hollywood good-guy face, playing countless American hero roles.

But at this moment, the audience still wavered, involuntarily standing behind Frank.

And things continued to get worse.

Frank ultimately couldn't hold on any longer and fainted on the spot.

Enraged, Carl was both angry and annoyed, and immediately demanded a doctor. They dragged the unconscious Frank to the medical room; however, the doctor was in no hurry after arriving, which made Carl furious. He roared at the doctor, as he had traveled thousands of miles to Marseille and definitely wasn't going to take a corpse back.

The doctor finally paid attention, turned around, only to find the bed empty.

The scene cut, and Frank was staggering, stumbling, running away, causing cheers, curses, and jeers from the other prisoners in the jail.

Only now did they realize they had been tricked.

No wonder the prison was heavily guarded, no wonder Carl was so cold-hearted. It turned out there was a reason for everything.

Slightly belatedly, the information from the fake television program at the beginning of the movie returned to their brains—

A con man. A super con man. A top con man who had written countless achievements.

This was Frank William Abagnale.

But!

The most amazing part was that even in such a disheveled, down-and-out, and pathetic situation, without the added bonus of good looks, he still managed to trick the audience.

Even tricking FBI agent Carl. For the nth time.

In the screening room, between laughter and tears, curiosity began to stir again.

It had to be said that Steven Spielberg had some real skills. In a short introduction of less than ten minutes, he firmly grabbed the attention of the entire audience.

This was ability.

At this point, the film's narrative finally began to unfold slowly.

1963, New York, New Rochelle, Christmas Eve.

Frank Abagnale Sr. had a successful career and a happy family. Because of his personal contributions, he was placed on the honor wall of a historic private club.

Young Frank Abagnale Jr. and his mother sat in the front row, witnessing this moment with their own eyes, their eyes shining with respect and admiration.

After the party, Little Frank and his mother danced beside the Christmas tree in the living room, while his father told the story of how he and his mother met and fell in love in Paris, a romance that was intoxicating, and laughter continued to linger.

His mother accidentally spilled red wine on the white carpet, and Little Frank hurriedly rushed into the kitchen, carrying a glass of milk to clean up the wine stain, but unexpectedly saw his father and mother continuing to dance lovingly—

The wine stain was simply not important.

Quietly watching this scene, Little Frank showed a childlike, bright smile.

......

Still green, still naive, still oversleeping on school days, Little Frank was woken up early in the morning by his father. He rubbed his eyes, worried about being late for school, but didn't expect his father to say that he wouldn't be going to school today, that they needed to go to a meeting.

However, going to the meeting required a black suit.

It was still early, and the suit shop was not open. Although Frank Sr. called out to Darcy, the clerk who was about to open the door, Darcy repeatedly stated that they would not open for another thirty minutes.

Frank Sr. refused to give up.

"I'm facing a difficult situation right now. I need to rent a suit for my child. This is my child, Frank. He needs a black suit."

"Someone in my family has died, my father..."

Little Frank glanced at his father: Funeral? Where did the funeral come from?

Frank Sr.'s words, however, did not stop and were not affected.

"...eighty-five years old, a war hero, there will be a funeral this afternoon, a military funeral, planes flying overhead, a twenty-one gun salute."

"Frank needs to rent a suit for a few hours."

Darcy was almost persuaded, but she still showed a look of embarrassment, "I'm sorry, we don't rent clothes, and we're not open."

With that, Darcy was ready to close the door.

Frank Sr. called out affectionately.

"Darcy."

"Darcy, please, come back."

Darcy stopped, looked back through the glass door, her face full of helplessness.

Frank Sr. was not discouraged, but instead showed a gentlemanly smile.

"Darcy, is this yours?"

Frank Sr.'s right hand reached into the iron gate, spread his palm down, and a golden necklace fell out, which stunned Darcy and made her walk out again.

"I just found it in the parking lot. It must have slipped off your neck."

A smile, gently blooming.

Then, the scene cut—

A luxury car wobbled and parked on the side of the road, and Frank Sr.'s voice came from the back seat, "Don't hit the curb", but the car still stumbled and bumped, and finally adjusted itself.

Under Frank Sr.'s command, "Now get out of the car and come around to the back to open the door for me."

Little Frank, who appeared in front of him, was wearing a smart black suit.