A couple weeks ago I dreamed that I was at the home of an actor with glasses and longish curly hair (he looked like Phil Spector in non-afro, non-bald form). I was there with my parents who were visiting him. My wife and kids were there too, and the four of us were in a corner room watching TV while the host and my parents were socializing elsewhere.
I had heard a rumor, in a “past memory” within my dream, that the actor had murdered his wife, captured the event on film, and kept a hidden copy on a VHS cassette labeled as “Rain Man.” I started looking through a nearby shelf of VHS cassettes and soon found one with “Rain Man” written in black magic marker on the spine label. I turned to my wife and said with a sarcastic tone, “Want to watch Rain Man?”
I put the cassette into the VCR and pushed play, and sure enough it was a home video in which the actor and his wife appeared. The rumor was that the actor had commissioned a film to be made about him professing his love for his wife, with the intent of “accidentally” causing her death in the end, but the only copy in existence somehow made it obvious that it was no accident (and somehow the police had never gotten a hold of it).
The video had some weirdly acted scenes, including a drunk Gwyneth Paltrow slurring through her monologue (titles on the screen even stated “Drunk Gwyneth Paltrow”), and a scene involving pipes collapsing off of a wall foreshadowed the final calamity.
I knew I had something important on my hands, so I fast-forwarded the video looking for the murder scene, so that once I found it I would have something concrete to report to the police. I thought I might be getting close when the actor walked into the room then saw what was on the screen and got very angry. A crowd of guests had followed him, so he contained his anger and tried not to draw attention to the video.
I got my cellphone ready to call the police, then I woke up.