Quietly, Gloria sat there, tears streaming down her face, sobbing uncontrollably—
From the moment Peter said he couldn't, the tears wouldn't stop.
She had followed Peter on this journey, from a shy and unassuming bookworm to a brave superhero shouldering responsibility.
His refusal of Mary Jane wasn't because love had faded; on the contrary, it was because he loved deeply that he chose to turn away, sacrificing himself to protect those he loved.
He had already lost Uncle Ben, then Norman, and was on the brink of losing Mary Jane and now Harry. He couldn't—and wouldn't—risk any more.
Despite the pain, he held his head high and embraced his destiny.
That skinny boy with the black-framed glasses, mocked by classmates, had finally grown into Spider-Man, a superhero bearing the responsibility of justice for New York.
Oh, God.
In the dark, Gloria let her sadness flow freely.
However.
The theater was silent.
It was often heard that in France, when a movie ends, it's not over; all the audience would patiently wait for the credits to roll—if not a hundred percent, then certainly a vast majority, because they believe watching the credits is a mark of respect for the film and its crew.
After all, a film requires a huge team of support and collaboration behind it.
But that's Europe.
In the United States, especially in 2002 before post-credits scenes became popular, audiences didn't have this habit.
People were more accustomed to scenes where, as soon as the movie ended, audiences rushed out of their seats without waiting for the credits or lights to come on.
Noise, commotion, and chattering—whether or not the projectionist wanted to, the lights had to come on to avoid any accidents.
Over time, people had gotten used to this scene.
But now, it was different—
Everything was silent, quiet.
The theater was immersed in the moment, whether touched, shocked, stirred, or deep in thought. Thoughts tangled together in a complex web:
If even Roger Ebert was surprised, then the shock and impact on ordinary viewers were not surprising.
People had come expecting a popcorn flick, ready for two hours of light, enjoyable entertainment—indeed, it was a popcorn flick, a typical one with seamless narrative flow and no dull moments, a purely enjoyable time.
However! But!
No one expected the popcorn to turn out with a Michelin-star effect. A bucket of popcorn, aromatic and crispy, left a strong aftertaste, making people sit there savoring the experience, momentarily stunned.
Most importantly, in the final scene of the film, there was an image of—
The Twin Towers.
Destroyed in the 9/11 attacks, the Twin Towers had become a scar in many people's hearts. Months later, the debate over whether to preserve the ruins or rebuild the towers was still ongoing, and healing was still far off.
Now, the audience saw the Twin Towers again.
This was the first time after the events that people saw the Twin Towers in a movie. Watching Spider-Man swing between skyscrapers, his slender shoulders seemed to bear the responsibility of protecting New York. This brief scene left those still in pain stunned.
The bridge between film and reality had been opened.
Silence spread.
Emotions surged.
At first, it was just a small surprise, a momentary lack of reaction. Plus, since it was a premiere, guests and journalists displayed their decorum, not breaking the mood; but slowly, the turbulence in the silence sparked.
Eyes turned back to the big screen.
The credits, the names of the crew, now carried a different weight—
They needed to thank Sam Raimi, they needed to thank Avi Arad, they needed to thank every crew member behind the scenes.
It was this team that created this film, a story about superheroes but even more about a young man's growth.
Unlike the countless heroic tales on the big screen, Peter Parker had troubles and pain. He made mistakes and acted foolishly. He was just an ordinary high school student who had to grow up quickly, learn to face and bear responsibility, and step into the real world.
This popcorn story with a tragic undertone showed a different side of superheroes and made audiences view heroes from a different perspective.
In 2002, amid a flood of blockbuster films—disaster, sci-fi, action, and more, all with explosive effects, continuing the blockbuster trend started by "Terminator" a decade ago—Spider-Man took a different path, opening a new genre film landscape.
Like a breath of fresh air.
Silence had its own power.
At the entrance of the Chinese theater.
Suddenly, Blair turned to look at the door—
By now, the film should have ended, but why was there no sound from inside?
Was there no end, or was there a post-screening Q&A session?
But even if there was a Q&A, there shouldn't be complete silence after the film, right?
Wait, could the movie have flopped?
Not only Blair, but a number of journalists waiting outside also looked at each other, anxiously:
Could it be that the first summer blockbuster after 9/11 didn't make an impact? Was it too soon to return to normalcy?
"Blair?" Karen noticed and called out.
Blair didn't speak, just stared at the theater door.
Without warning, a wave of sound surged—
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Listening closely, the sound grew louder, building into a massive force, like a storm crashing over them.
The next moment, boom.
Heat waves, exuberant.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
That was applause?
Everyone looked at each other, unsure through the wall and door:
After all, this was just a summer blockbuster premiere, not a European film festival with fanatical art film enthusiasts. A premiere? Applause? Wasn't that a bit far-fetched?
Or was it just polite applause?
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The sound continued to rise, even from outside the door, the increasing heat and excitement were palpable.
The guess was overturned instantly, as astonishment and surprise gripped their hearts:
Wait, did the movie... explode?