I was sick last weekend with one of the worst stomach flus ever.
I won’t go into detail, but on Friday, my mattress was my
death bed, my dorm room my own personal tomb and crypt.
Looking back, it wasn’t that bad.
Although I’d certainly rather be healthy than sound like
Don Corleone in “The Godfather” and feel like Mozart at
the end of “Amadeus,” there’s certainly an upside
to getting sick: I got to lie in bed and do nothing for a whole
day. Students pretend they’re sick all the time to get the
chance to put their responsibilities aside and do something else. I
watched movies.
My condition prohibited me from going to Blockbuster or even
other rooms around me for material, so I selected instead from my
collection. I’ve seen every DVD I own at least twice, most
more than that. And yet, every now and then, I rediscover a movie.
Although it’s not like watching it for the first time, it at
least reminds me of when I did.
The timing that goes into rediscovering a favorite is part
subtle art, part luck. You can’t have seen the film too many
times right when you discovered it (a friend of mine will never be
able to rediscover “Memento” because she saw it too
many times right when it was released). On the other hand, you
can’t have seen the film so long ago you’ve forgotten
how you reacted the first time you viewed it.
Not really wanting to concentrate too much, I started with
“The Producers,” a personal favorite. Written and
directed by Mel Brooks, “The Producers” is one of only
a few films in existence that always makes me laugh, regardless of
internal body temperature.
The progression of my film selections over the weekend
eventually began to parallel how sick I felt. I have no way of
knowing whether art was imitating life or vice versa, but as my
medicine began to kick in, I started watching “The Hudsucker
Proxy,” successfully transitioning from the frantic zaniness
of Brooks to the meticulously smooth Coen brothers project.
Next was “Lawrence of Arabia.” I needed to take a
nap.
I woke up feeling a little better but afraid I soon would feel
worse as my body remembered it was supposed to be sick. Unable to
appreciate my status for fear of its soon getting worse, I did what
anyone would do: I watched “Annie Hall.” Or maybe I was
unable to appreciate my state because Woody Allen couldn’t
appreciate his. At least he didn’t live in a city
“where the only cultural advantage is being able to make a
right turn on a red light.”
In the end, my fever broke, my stomach settled and my DVDs
returned to their places on the shelf. In terms of productivity,
the day was a total waste, but for someone who looks to find
real-life metaphors, it could have been worse.
Tracer’s fever broke at 103.7 degrees. E-mail him
about your highest fever at jtracer@media.ucla.edu.