ME & JACK - MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH DVDS AND JACK BAUER
It is a truth universally acknowledged, or at least it should be, that
a single girl in possession of a rapidly expanding DVD collection, at a
pace that is directly proportionate to her rapidly dwindling interest
in most matters social, must be in need a life.
In my defense,
this questionable situation arose from the worthy decision not to get a
television at all. It was a determined effort to embrace the joys of
simple home-making upon taking up residence in my new apartment. Gone
would be the days of slack-jawed sloth, passively absorbing that one
sided mantra from the box in the corner, with its empty offerings of
superficial news coverage, ad breaks, inexcusable reality shows, ad
breaks, Law & Order repeats, ad breaks, ad breaks, ad infinitum….
Instead,
productive time would be spent engaged in energetic knitting,
strawberry jam-making and committed bath scrubbing. Or, at the very
least, snuggling into a cosy armchair with cup of tea (read glass of
shiraz) and a copy of Wuthering Heights. I was looking forward to it.
Mine would be a life of purity, an exercised brain, a polished
apartment …
This Thoreau inspired idyll lasted a very slow week.
Then a friend called to say she had an extra television (with built in
DVD player, no less), which was taking up too much space in her
apartment. Was I interested? Was I, what. She arrived home from work
that day to find me sitting on her stoop with a cart.
In
shameful recognition of such a swift about turn, I vowed not, under any
circumstances, to sign up for cable and swore that the interloping
device would remain switched off and blank-faced most days in favor of
more erudite pursuits. It was simply a comfort to know it was there,
ready to fill the silence with chatter any time I got lonely, or tired
of making home-fresh bread without something better to do while I was
buttering it.
Plugged in, switched on and reception, to say
the least, was fuzzy. Not too many channels either. Damn. Turned it
off. Picked up a book. One thing for sure, I could not succumb and
order cable in less than forty-eight hours, when doubting friends were
already placing bets. So with nothing much to do at home, I decided to
take a brisk walk and savor the lively street-life of my neighborhood.
A
few stone-kicking moments later, the lights of Hollywood Movies on
Roosevelt Avenue appeared like a flickering oasis of visionary heaven
in the distance. Brief hesitation, a furtive eye cast homewards and the
decision was made. A decision quickly followed by a sprint across the
boulevard so fast and focused, it sent three cars swerving into
lampposts and a small terrier catapulting towards the flight path of a
Jet Blue on its way to La Guardia. (The dog survived but refused to
walk outdoors before teatime again).
Movies, after all, are
works of art and art is culture and culture is good. I would only rent
DVDs that were educational, with proven artistic merit. Oscar winners.
The classics. Documentaries about historic events like the war or the
mafia or Alcatraz. Independent movies adorned with the Sundance sticker.
Anything that involved subtitles, clearly. As I made my way across the
aisle towards Foreign Film, the section marked "Television" got in the
way, forcing me to come to an involuntary halt.
Enter Jack
Bauer. After all, I'd heard that “24” is Emmy-award-winning, critically
acclaimed - like a form of literature on screen. So I gathered up the
first few episodes with the excuse that at least it would keep me out
of the pub. And by Hour Three of Season One, I was in love.
It
might be regarded as somewhat unhealthy to embark on a passionate
relationship with a fictional federal agent (particularly one living on
the right side of the Fox Channel) but that’s exactly what I did. In an
intense, all consuming affair that lasted about a month, I tore through
five 24-episode seasons of torture, explosions, nuclear attacks,
assassination attempts, shoot-outs, kidnappings, guns and terrorists,
all on DVD and all available to rent in bulk. Home from work, candles
lit, patching callers directly through to voicemail and I would
submerge myself in Jack’s world for hour after hour after hour after
blissful hour.
Looking back, it is slightly disturbing to
think that in the time it would take Jack to kill 87 bad guys, fly a
plane into the desert, save Los Angeles from a plutonium bomb, jump out
of a plane in a parachute, lose his daughter, find his daughter, become
estranged from his daughter, reconnect with his daughter, then torture
a traitor who used to be his girlfriend when he was separated from his
now dead wife, I would have sipped several glasses of cabernet and
perhaps risen from the sofa once to open the front door and pay for the
pizza.
And now, all five seasons exhausted, it’s no bad thing
that Jack and I are on a brief hiatus. Laundry will be done, friends
appeased and dust bunnies evicted. At least until December 2007 when
the “24” Season Six is finally released on DVD. Meanwhile, I’m on the
rebound with Boston Legal – which brings an element of quirky, black
humored relief from all that grim torture and the dark, grey rooms of
CTU. Best of all, Alan Shore knows our little fling will end in
December when Jack’s back and he’s cool with it. Copy that.
