Firstly, the curtains. It is my feeling that all windows should have blinds, as they present infinitely more appeal for both the user and the onlooker. Observe the opening credits of Rear Window: the bamboo blinds roll away one at a time, gradually revealing the set, teasing the viewer like the Dance of the Seven Veils. They also afford a clearer silhouette and thus play to the power of suggestion.
In a similar vein, the view from any window should be a carefully executed mise en scène, uncluttered but artful and rewarding of one’s prolonged attention. A handful of extras crossing back and forth; the rumble of the occasional automobile, perhaps. A close-up view of a bare red-brick wall will hardly suffice. This is not the stuff that enduring Hollywood iconography is made of.
The room itself, while spacious, is lacking in certain dramatic accouterments. My wardrobe is scarcely deep enough to admit my assistant, a very slight gentleman of diminished stature, and would certainly not permit my own entrance. When the visual dimensions of a piece of furniture rule out any possibility of a killer (or killers) dwelling within, then we are all left the worse for it. Perhaps another room—dare I suggest the presidential suite—might afford a more pleasing topography?
I am also less than pleased with the facilities. The en suite décor is twee to the point of insult. All bathrooms should be brilliant white to contrast with the emission of certain bodily fluids or chocolate sauce. My bathtub is green. Dark green. This simply will not do.
Lastly, I am horrified by the lack of peepholes drilled into my walls. I had my assistant remove every picture frame and scour behind every fixture (the aforementioned wardrobe presenting scandalously little in the way of difficulty) and he found not a single pinprick. What of voyeurism, I ask? Anthony Perkins must be turning in his grave.
While I realize that some of my requirements may seem a little odd, even anathema, to the bulk of your clientele, I hope you’ll be able to accommodate my needs. Oh, please don’t mistake my modest requests for some ghoulish desire to see myself and others slaughtered in our beds like so many pigs. I abhor the idea that a knife-wielding maniac is at large in the building even as we speak, waiting and plotting his next murder, but I enjoy the thought that he could be.