Sick daze

Being home sick this week, accompanied solely by chicken soup, Kleenex, and my own personal Jumbotron, afforded me lots of downtime. Most of this downtime I spent dragging myself from one sofa to another, to the bed, and to the bathroom, always in a half-Dayquil-, half-Nyquil-induced haze, groaning morosely as my aching body strained under the activity.

Nevertheless, I didn't cull all my drama and comedy just from my own pathetic existence. I also acquired quite a bit by watching lots and lots of television.

During brief moments of lucidity, I managed to catch a glimpse of each and every one of the 500+ channels I subscribe to in my digital cable package. This is my report.

* * *

The soaps

I have now witnessed Jessica and Tess (played by Canadian hussy Bree Williamson) integrate their different personalities on One Life to Live. I will miss Tess; slutty and crazy always win out over demure and sane. It's soap opera logic.

I have marveled at how All My Children has basically recycled the same plot lines for the last two to three years and have wondered why the actress playing Kendall (Alicia Minshew) hasn't ruined her voice by screaming through every scene, whether it was called for or not--sort of the acting equivalent of a Whitney Houston performance.

I have noted that Reva Shane's portrayer, Kim Zimmer, has become somewhat zaftig on Guiding Light, remarking how La Zimmer is following in Kathleen Turner's footsteps once again. She and Kathleen have crossed paths before. Watch Body Heat sometime. Search EBay for old episodes of The Doctors. You'll see.

Nonetheless, both actresses are still lovely, still incredibly talented, but, whether fairly or not, because of some extra pounds and a few more wrinkles, are perceived to be no longer the sex bombs they once were.

I know just how they feel.

The talk shows

I saw all the stock episodes of Jerry Springer and Maury, which consistently consist of the following themes:

• "My wild teen is having non-stop sex with every boy in the neighborhood because she wants a baby, and I can't stop her!" (Maury)
• "My husband's a midget, and I'm cheating on him with his best friend (also a midget)" (Jerry)
• "I've been on this show nine times before trying to find my baby's daddy, but I'm sure the tenth time is the charm!" (Maury)
• "My boyfriend wasn't there for me when I needed him (i.e., he was in prison), so I'm having an affair with his brother/sister/father/mother/cousin/best friend/son/daughter/butcher/baker/candlestick maker/all of the above" (Jerry)
• "I used to be a dweeb; now I'm over-siliconed babe/over-steroided hunk and ready to reveal my secret crush to a high school friend and rub his/her nose in my perfection." (Maury)
• "I didn't really have anything to say; I just wanted to flash my tits at the audience and get some beads--wooooooooh!!!" (Jerry)

I couldn't bring myself to watch Oprah or Dr. Phil, and I can generally only do so when I'm suffering from a broken heart or need something to charge up my bitch batteries. You might think that I could be more enlightened if I did watch Oprah or Dr. Phil, but I suspect I would just be less entertained. Nothing exceeds like excess and all that, and despite million-dollar give-aways on Oprah, when it comes to excess, Jerry and Maury will always have her beat. In fact, they'll even beat her before a live audience with a leather-clad midget and a 14-year-old hooker wielding the paddles.

The movies

While convalescing, I caught some movies, too--or I should say, parts of movies, as I inevitably stumbled upon something worthy of watching an hour into the show.

The best by far was this little Norwegian film on the Sundance Channel or the IFC called Monster Thursday (Monstertorsdag). Terrible name. Good little film. It's the story of a love triangle--two male friends and the woman who comes between them, or rather the one friend coming between the man and the woman--played out in Norway's surfing community. Surfing in Norway! Who knew? (Except perhaps Kangaroo . . . ?) Still, that novelty aside, the film was, as they say, "achingly beautiful," as the Scandinavians manage to do so well, all brooding skies and moody countenances. Monstertorsdag managed to tell a tried-and-true tale in a most affecting way.

Less satisfying was the Apartheid-goes-Hollywood drama, A Dry White Season, starring Donald Sutherland, Susan Sarandon, Janet Suzman, and Jürgen Prochnow. After sitting through the last hour or so of this one, all I can say is, who knew Apartheid could be so boring?

Well, of course that's not all I can say . . .

Donald Sutherland does an amiable job in this alternately ham-fisted yet exceedingly dull tale of Afrikaner teacher Benjamin du Toit, who, through legal challenges and fair reporting, tries to expose the brutal, repressive side of Apartheid (was there another?) to White South Africa. Already we see the problem: The movie is hobbled by trying to make drama come alive through affidavits.

Along the way, Ben must deal with his two Pinewood Studios Central Casting-perfect children and his histrionic wife, played by famed South African actress Janet Suzman. I originally thought it was Stephanie Beacham in the role of Susan du Toit, as both actresses in the '80s had heaps of big auburn hair and tons of grandiose gestures, tending to act out in that Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts fashion, suitable for either King Lear or The Colbys.

Susan Sarandon plays a minor role as British-South African journalist Melanie Bruwer. There's not much to the performance, so there's not much to comment upon. Let's just say that if the end of Apartheid depended on Sarandon's ability to carry an accent through this movie, well, Willem de Klerk would still be sitting pretty in Pretoria as president-for-life.

Jürgen Prochnow plays police creep Captain Stoltz, the stock I'm-kind-of-like-a-Nazi-but-I'm-supposed-to-be-South-African role. No first name, just Captain Stoltz. Even Danielle Steele's got more imagination when it comes to personalizing Nazis.

OK, so I didn't see the whole thing--I completely missed Marlon Brandon's 10 minutes or 10 tons, whichever comes first, of screen time. Maybe the film was touching, earnest, fierce, and cathartic, all rolled into one, and I just didn't see enough to know better. If I'd seen more, maybe the Black African characters would have seemed better drawn rather than just merely long-suffering and pitiable. If I'd seen more, maybe Marlon's heavy breathing and scenery chewing would have made all the difference in the world. If I'd seen more, maybe A Dry White Season wouldn't seem so dated in a post-Apartheid world.

Nonetheless, I felt the same way after watching Cry Freedom way back in the moment in 1987. Bored. Bored by Hollywood people trying to make a Message Picture so that everyone could sit around at dinner parties in New York, Washington, and Los Angeles, ruminating over plot points and performances and feeling superior over less progressive (heavy irony) societies. "Oh yes, yes, it was very moving," the toffs would say. "It's so terrible what's happening in South Africa. So unjust. Someone should do something. Like not play Sun City. Mmmm, what are in these canapés? They're so yummy!"

* * *

Now my head is clear, my cough seems to have settled down, and my scalp doesn't hurt every time I think. Could it be that the Dayquil/Nyquil cocktail has finally done its magic? Or could it be that there's nothing like watching a poorly executed political drama to rev up the ol' bitch batteries and restore my sense of well-being?

Whatever. All better now. Time to watch more TV.