Slowly, and methodically, cleaning a handgun. I’m thinking a .38 special sort of revolver, but I’m not picky. With great deliberation he loads the rounds, one at a time into each chamber. The astute observer will note that he does not leave an empty chamber. This whole time he does not look up from where he is working with his gun.
Once the gun is loaded, he picks it up, and hefts the weight. Not handling it as a weapon, just holding it, as if to measure something about it. He puts the gun down, and cleans up the materials from the cleaning. He has a small case or satchel that holds the cleaning tools and supplies, and carefully puts all of them away in their obviously accustomed places. Puts the box of ammo into the satchel, as well.
Now he’s sitting, still looking down at the small hotel room table. The audience can hear all the noises of life going on around him, and so the implication is that he can hear it as well. Again he picks up the gun, weighing it in his hands. Puts it down again.
Rather than offering any closure, that’s how I’d end the film, actually - just the man, his revolver, the figurative and literal seperation from life, and the question: what will he do?
Writing.
Occasionally he stops and looks up in thought.
Sometimes he crosses out what he has written.
He gets up to pace and finishes his work.
He shows the camera what he has written:
You are watching a short film
The entire film is one shot, one framing
The room is a hotel room. The walls are thin.
You hear everything that is going on in the surrounding rooms. crying. sex. arguements. the hum of a television. A radio. general chatter.
All of these lives are playing out beyond the walls. No one knows what significant events are unfolding just next door.
Decomposing. He died of a heart attack while filming a sex tape with a hooker, and she fled in terror, leaving his corpse to be discovered by the cleaning crew the next morning.
Hey, this is one of those personality questions, isn’t it?