Initially, even Steven himself believed that Anson was just a pretty face, a model, a vessel to showcase the various personas of Little Frank Abagnale and use his male charm to attract audiences. Anson's ability to embody different styles with unique charisma was the main reason Steven decided to cast him.
But now?
How much of that initial intention still remained?
From acting to charisma, from subtle details to overall presence, Anson had brought surprise after surprise. The film was still in its first half of shooting, and yet, he had already created a dazzling screen presence, to the point that even Tom Hanks seemed to pale in comparison.
As a director, what more could he ask for?
There was a faint anticipation in Steven's heart for "Spider-Man"—
Yes, not for "Catch Me If You Can," but for "Spider-Man."
Steven was extremely curious about what kind of screen charm Anson's Spider-Man could present. Undoubtedly, it would be a surprising unboxing experience.
This young actor was about to shine on the big screen with an explosive debut, and Steven was 100% confident and couldn't wait to witness it.
In a flash, just a brief moment, thoughts surged in his mind, but in reality, the eye contact between Anson and Tom on the screen lasted only an instant.
Then.
With a turn, Little Frank, carrying his typewriter, resumed his steps.
One step.
Out the door.
Finally, Little Frank left the room, escaping by the skin of his teeth.
And Carl?
Now, with the room finally empty except for Carl, this white-collar criminal investigator, who spent his days in the office, also began to relax.
Huff, huff.
Finally, he could catch his breath.
The entire process was tense, filled with danger; everything had happened so quickly that he had even forgotten to breathe. It wasn't until now that he felt the lactic acid buildup in his muscles, causing his knees to tremble slightly, almost making him lose his balance.
He bent over, resting his hands on his knees. His calves went weak, and he took a small step back, nearly falling but quickly grabbing the bed to steady himself.
Taking the opportunity, he sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his hat. Sweat covered his forehead in a thin layer as he let out a long sigh of relief, finally calming down a bit.
"Heh, heh."
Thinking back on the whole ordeal, it was absurd yet fortunate. Then, considering the suspect had been captured, the usually stern-faced Carl let out a chuckle, a bit sheepish.
"Heh, heh."
Reflecting on it more carefully, a look of satisfaction appeared on his face.
But there was still a sense of disbelief.
"Agency?"
Wait... wait a second.
Something seemed a bit off, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what it was. Was he just being paranoid?
After all, the field was different from the office. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, his brain couldn't function normally, and baseless suspicion was normal.
However...
Wait.
He froze, his gaze dropping to the wallet in his left hand.
His brain was still muddled from lack of oxygen, unable to think clearly. It was a gut feeling, almost like an invisible force compelling him to unbutton the clasp.
Pop.
This time, using both hands, it became much easier, and the wallet opened smoothly.
The ease of it made him pause slightly, as if he were opening Pandora's box, a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. Then he quickened his movements.
He opened the wallet.
—What?
Ads. Laminated sheets. Newspapers. Coupons.
Inside, it was all junk. All of it.
No IDs, no driver's license, no credit cards.
Carl panicked.
His fingers moved frantically, pulling out layer after layer, emptying the wallet completely but finding nothing. He suddenly looked up and scanned the room, finally realizing what was wrong—
Labels.
On the dining table, there were dishes from the hotel room service. However, the labels on the ketchup, Coca-Cola, juice, champagne, peanut butter, and other bottles were all torn off.
He'd been puzzled before, feeling something was off, and now the answer was clear: those torn-off labels were neatly folded and stuffed into the wallet.
Damn it.
Damn it!
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
Carl emptied the entire wallet, his heart sinking heavily. He finally felt the impact of a freefall. Scanning the room:
Damn.
Immediately, Carl leapt up and rushed to the window, trying to locate the vehicle where they had detained the suspect. But when he yanked open the curtains, he saw him.
Barry Allen.
"Barry" was jogging along, glancing back at the window. When he spotted Carl's figure, he sped up without hesitation, running towards a car parked by the roadside, yanking the door open, and getting in.
Carl: Stunned!
"Hey!"
Carl shouted, but Barry didn't even look back. With swift movements, he got in, started the engine, and sped away.
Reflexively, Carl prepared to jump out of the window. But as he propped his hands on the windowsill, he realized his clumsy actions couldn't get him through. Even though it was just the second floor, it was still too challenging for him.
Realizing this, Carl went mad—completely mad.
He watched helplessly as "Barry's" car disappeared from his sight.
"Oh, damn it!"
The string of rationality snapped. Carl furiously threw the wallet aside, exasperated.
"Cut!"
It was over. Finally, it was over.
This time, even before Steven gave further instructions, the set couldn't contain its excitement. One by one, people raised their hands:
Shouts, cheers, and even some whistles. It was like a party, with the whole motel buzzing. The celebration spread from the first floor to the second and then back down to the first.
Noise and revelry.
More than any words could convey, such a reaction was the most genuine and direct.
It filled the entire place.
Steven stood up from behind the monitor, just about to speak, but he was engulfed by the boiling excitement of the set. His words were swallowed, and he stood there, somewhat helpless. His expression revealed a hint of resignation—
Liking it was one thing; having the shooting schedule interrupted and the set losing control was another.
But this time, Steven didn't stop them. His smile widened slightly as he walked directly towards Anson on the first floor.
This scene was indeed quite special.
Anson was more restrained than usual, while Tom was more exaggerated than usual. Both actors were adjusting and finding their rhythm. This was also the reason for the numerous retakes earlier. They were trying to find the right state in their performance with each other, constantly adjusting based on their partner's rhythm, attempting to achieve harmony.
This is the right way to handle a scene with two actors. It's not just about one side adjusting or changing. Only when both actors find a harmonious rhythm through mutual adjustment can they create sparks, allowing the performance to explode with chemistry, where the result is greater than the sum of its parts.
Such adjustment isn't easy.
Not just for Anson—even a seasoned actor like Tom needed repeated attempts.
As a result, the two characters that appeared on screen didn't seem like Anson or Tom. The misaligned performance rhythms created an unexpected comedic effect—
Perfectly on target.
From the beginning, Steven wanted to make this film a colorful piece of entertainment. There was no need for excessive seriousness or a bleak, dark tone.
Now, they were on the right path.
However, the crew and actors on set weren't entirely sure about this, and all eyes fell on Steven.
They kept watching Steven as he stopped in front of Anson.
"Thumbs up."
"Steven gave Anson a thumbs-up, and it wasn't just one—it was both thumbs up."
Boom!
The set erupted into applause.