He is certain that any film boasting that sort of title is overwhelmingly likely to not be suited to his time or to his tastes, selective and profound as those may be, and he eyes the case skeptically.

He heaves a weary, possibly exaggerated sigh and retrieves the bottle of likely revolting whiskey. Considering the length of time he has been awake, it is not unreasonable to presume he would lack the requisite finger strength to open said bottle. The corner of his mouth twitches. Alleged failure of an objective is remarkably simple to manufacture.

"I suppose," he says crisply, extending the bottle to her. "Do me the honor?"