From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

The night was deep, and all sounds were still.

In the vast FBI office, only Carl Hanratty remained, all alone.

However, Carl seemed completely unaware; or perhaps, he was aware but didn't care.

He was comparing the fingerprints of that "Barry Allen," trying to find the real identity of this criminal suspect—

In the 1960s, still the primitive age before computers, there were no databases.

You couldn't just tap a search key and have the computer start searching on its own.

Everything had to be done manually, with a magnifying glass, comparing one fingerprint at a time.

If there were ten thousand fingerprints, then you had to compare them ten thousand times.

Purely physical labor.

So, Carl was working overtime.

Ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling.

The telephone's ringing was particularly jarring, but Carl continued to examine the fingerprint meticulously with his magnifying glass, awkwardly wedging the phone receiver between his ear and shoulder.

"This is Carl Hanratty, Merry Christmas."

"Hey, Carl."

A greeting, and Carl suddenly sat up straight, his eyes widening.

"Hello?"

The person on the other end of the phone didn't hear a response and thought there was a problem with the line.

Carl, however, immediately sobered up, quickly turning off the radio, "Barry Allen, Special Agent."

The voice on the phone was slightly distant and weary, gently rippling through the cold, damp night, "I've been trying to find you for the past few hours."

Wait, Carl was looking for him, and he was also looking for Carl?

Carl, "What do you want?"

Little Frank, "I want to apologize for what happened in Los Angeles."

A single shot—Steven Spielberg completed the narration with just one shot—

The previous second, a close-up shot of Carl gradually pulled back and up, finally completing the composition from a high, overhead angle.

The next second, the shot cut to Little Frank in a hotel room, also a high, overhead composition, the two figures overlapping.

A desk lamp, a chair, both alone, both lonely.

On Christmas Eve, they were both alone.

The quiet and desolate atmosphere quietly spread, cleverly forming an intertextuality, simpler yet more direct than any dialogue or explanation.

Two strangers had unknowingly established a connection.

"Haha. Haha."

Carl chuckled dryly, "You don't need to apologize."

"Are you working on Christmas Eve too, Carl?"

So people with families can go home early."

"I thought you were wearing a wedding ring.

I thought you had a family."

"No.

No family."

The light from the lamp fell hazily on Carl's face, a resolute look appearing in his eyes as he took the initiative, "If you want to talk, let's talk face to face."

"Okay."

Little Frank didn't hesitate at all, even a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, giving the answer directly without any trickery.

"I'm at the Stuyvesant Arms, room 3113.

In the morning, I'll be heading to Las Vegas for the weekend."

Carl was fully on guard, immediately picking up a pen and jotting down the key information on a sticky note: Room 3113, "S…"

Wait, Stuyvesant?

That place is located in Brooklyn, New York, and the Stuyvesant Arms is a hotel.

Carl's pen paused, "Are you going to trick me again?

You're not going to Las Vegas, and you're not at the Stuyvesant Arms."

"You want me to send twenty agents to rush into your hotel on Christmas Eve, break down your door, so you can make us look like a joke?"

This time, Little Frank didn't respond immediately, holding the receiver, quietly staring ahead, the focus in his eyes gradually dissipating.

Just a brief moment.

However, he closed his eyes, "If I tricked you, I'm very sorry.

Sincerely."

Carl didn't buy it, "No, no need."

"Listen, I'm serious."

"No, you don't need to feel sorry.

In fact, I know it's you, maybe I didn't put handcuffs on you, but I know it's you."

This was Carl's stubbornness and pride, and also Carl's persistence.

Little Frank tasted the gnashing of teeth in the words, and he murmured with a desolate and nonchalant expression, "People only know what you tell them, Carl."

Carl didn't notice, or rather, he noticed, but he was fully on guard, avoiding being tricked again, and wouldn't easily believe Little Frank, "Then you tell me, Barry Allen of the U.S. Secret Service, how do you know I won't look in your wallet?"

In Hollywood, Carl had asked Little Frank for identification, and Little Frank threw his entire wallet to him, and diverted Carl's attention, like walking on a tightrope, successfully convincing Carl, and then successfully escaping.

Little Frank gave an unexpected answer, "It's the same reason the New York Yankees always win.

No one can take their eyes off the pinstripes."

Carl frowned, "The Yankees can keep winning because they have Mickey Mantle, no one ever bets on them because of their uniforms."

"Are you sure, Carl?"

"I'll tell you what I can be sure of, you're definitely going to get caught.

One way or another, it's just a matter of mathematics, just like in Las Vegas, the house always wins."

Little Frank didn't speak, holding the receiver tightly, quietly staring ahead, the shadows cast by his thick eyelashes slowly diffused and swirled in his eyes:

No fear, no panic, no nervousness; only endless loneliness and desolation.

His usually neatly combed hair hung down slightly disheveled, the look in his eyes in the dim light was not clear, but that handsome face that was impossible to look directly at was as cold and fragile as an ancient Greek statue.

The camera is powerful.

A close-up shot, a low-angle shot from below, slowly outlining the contours of that face in the quiet and dim light, finally focusing sparsely on those drooping eyes.

Just like that, cutting off breath.

In a short moment, the entire screening room could truly and deeply feel that emotion, a kind of indescribable bitterness spreading on the tip of the tongue.

Then.

Little Frank spoke, trying his best to remain calm but still slightly low, "Carl, I'm sorry, I have to end the conversation."

"Heh heh," Carl chuckled, "You didn't call to apologize, did you?

Ha, hahaha."

Little Frank's attention was caught by Carl's laughter, "What do you mean?"

Carl's mood finally relaxed, "You… you don't have anyone else to talk to, hahaha."

Bang.

Little Frank hung up the phone abruptly.

Carl was startled, but it didn't affect his good mood, laughing constantly, reopening the radio, even starting to hum Christmas carols.

In the dim light, Little Frank stared ahead in shock, his scattered focus reassembling, finally regaining his senses and sobering up—

Quickly tidying himself up, opening the room door, and leaving quickly.

Bang!

The room door opened and closed again, leaving only the camera focused on the room number.

3113.

Melvin widened his eyes, not daring to believe this scene, but Steven Spielberg's camera deliberately lingered in close-up for several seconds, ensuring that everyone could still clearly see this set of numbers after rubbing their eyes.

This, this means…

Could it be that the address Little Frank just gave was true?

No way?