Picture this, if you think it wise:
After a long day – or even a short day – of being a person who gets stuff done, I like to get myself a beverage, take off my trousers, and sit around in my underwear for a while.
The other day I was sitting on the sofa, elegantly sprawled and scratching bits that needed to be scratched, when I noticed a big bruise on my thigh. It was the kind of bruise that says ‘Hey!‘
So I looked at the bruise, said ‘Hey,’ back, and wondered where it had come from. My curiosity didn’t last long – I got distracted by my beverage, which on this particular occasion was hot, and had a half-biscuit floating in it.
Last weekend was horrible.
Imagine the worst weekend you can imagine. Now stab yourself in the eyeballs while imagining it. That’s almost how bad last weekend was – except the screaming noises coming out of your mouth are probably more pleasant than the dialogue of last weekend.
What made it worse was that it wasn’t the machinations of fate that made it so horrific – just the unholy union of boredom and masochism.
Miss-Matic and I did this to ourselves. I doubt the scars of our decisions will ever fully heal.
Last night I watched a 2010 film called Buried. This is a Ryan Reynolds vehicle, only one without wheels. It’s more like a box, with Ryan Reynolds in it.
I once took a course on short-film production. In that course, it was suggested that the way to make a short film is to use as few actors as possible, and as few set-pieces. The powerhouses of creative vision behind Buried clearly decided to take this idea to its extreme. There’s one actor – Mr Reynolds, and one set-piece – him, in a box.