Somehow the Yarra River’s current seems to flow with an especially brown hue today, while the air looks to hang heavy with a smoggy tinge to it.
In actuality, both are just as exceptionally average as ever, but since returning to my reality of the ‘Bubble Boy’ episode of Seinfeld after visiting the promised lands of outdoors, viewing life from this side of the glass is just a tad more pane-ful (I’m sorry).
The chance to literally think outside the box was one taken with open arms, so I will recount yesterday’s excursion into the wild in meticulous detail from the perspective of a shut-in.
In what felt like a casting scene for Silence of the Lambs, I donned the mask and was escorted at a distance along the hallway, down 20-odd floors and around a corner where only a door stood between me and the outside world.
Had the hotel staff envisioned letting us off our leash for a leisurely stroll along the riverbank or a parade around a local park?
Try 20 minutes staring at a car park for some liberation.
Nevertheless, roving around a greyscale compound experiencing real temperature outside of 22.8 degrees of regulation was, well, a breath of fresh air, and I savoured every second of it until it was time to go back to away-from-home detention.
After completing the post-lunch prison-style exercise circuit, I followed it up by diving into some literature as a means to fill the afternoon’s chasm.
Reading about ‘King’ Wally Lewis’s silent struggle with epilepsy helped quash any waves of self-pity, while watching Michael Jordan inspire a generation via Netflix occupied an hour or so.
But even after coming 22nd in the hotel’s isolation Kahoot trivia, there was still plenty of time left to kill indicated by a soft glow radiating from beneath the horizon.
Punching in for room service and ordering a six pack of Furphys ($30, for those wondering) inspired a twilight zone-esque passage of thought, however.
What if this whole experience was later recreated for screening purposes, joining other disasterpieces like Norbit and The Room in the bracket of movies that should never have been made?
It is probably an idea that doesn’t deserve any follow-up, but hear me out.
First of all, the choice of director is easy: Quentin Tarantino.
QT flirted with the idea of a single-location setting for Reservoir Dogs, and jumped in with both feet in 2015’s The Hateful Eight, and as an avid fan I’m sure he would be able to transform my mundane situation into a hold-onto-your-hat rollercoaster despite the closed window of opportunity for needless gore.
As for a soundtrack, nothing epitomises blandness and boredom quite like Chris Martin’s vocals atop a vanilla melody, so I’d happily allow Coldplay to let rip on the score.
The million-dollar question of who would take on the role of me was a hard one, but after much deliberation it was clear there was only one man for the job: Nicolas Cage.
No other actor has sabotaged his own career by throwing himself into doomed plots quite like Cage, who seems hellbent on gracing tragic cinema with his overemphatic style of performance, making him the perfect man to lead the line as Liam Nash in A Lavish Nightmare.
He also does his own stunts.