Hoarse whisperers

Around this time last year, a magazine reported that Nicole Kidman was working overtime, in a manner of speaking, to star in four films back to back; Moulin Rouge ("Historical musical with Ewan McGregor"); In the Cut ("Erotic thriller"); The Others ("Horror") and The Panic Room ("Psychological thriller").

Much water has flowed under the bridge since then, not least that the actress's marriage has broken down, and that Jodie Foster gave a riveting performance when she was cast in the lead instead of Ms Kidman in the latter film.

That having been said, the above must silence once and for all those of us who sneer at the fact that "the same people" appear over and over again in different television serials across the ether on local stations.

Let us, instead, examine the niceties which make up the plots, or excuses for, thereof (even the mere thinking about them makes one throw in the grammar book along with the towel, if not actually the baby with the bathwater).

There is a noise coming from the direction of the roof of one of the residences in this teleserial. Sure enough, the same ploy is applied to a situation in that one. This policeman is rough, so that one acts tough. And so it goes on.

Meanwhile, Uncle Angelo and nephew wolf down a cold plate of spaghetti without even acknowledging either provider. Mother and daughter get issued with a uniform of blue tops and black skirts for their tête-à-tête.

And now we will have our own Yes, Minister on the Station of the Nation, vying with the rest of the productions being churned out (see above) for the delectation of the various captive audiences who, come winter, find nothing better to do than plonking themselves down in front of the box.

Qeghdin Sew, of course, is an intentionally over-the-top series, and this is why two brothers just happen to have different political ideologies. Viva l-Ministru has, as the said politician, a general practitioner who inexplicably goes up -or is it down? - in the world.

Actors in soaps (and not only in Malta) often tell, bemused, how people stop them in the street, actually thinking they are, although in mufti, still the characters they portray on television.

Is there any chance that Dr Patrick Debono will finally provide the solution to certain niggling problems, the solution to which has so far eluded those involved because of a chain of inconsistencies, and, basically, a lack of respect for human dignity? Ah, it all depends on the portfolio he is given.

But the chances are that he will have to attend at least one "coffee morning" or "afternoon tea", kiss one baby, get into a fight, be bothered by sycophants, quarrel with an erstwhile friend, make a speech, judge a beauty contest, sponsor a street party in his jurisdiction, be gossiped about, slandered, and libelled, attend the village festa, cut a ribbon or two, go to Gozo/Taormina/Syria, and spout drivel as par for the course.

So, what's new?

Will he, courtesy of the scriptwriter David Pace, have the guts to go on the podium (rather than merely inside your ordinary radio studio, in front of a microphone reaching only a section of the populace) saying that he "sees" what a politician alleged last week about a certain sector of the public service (i.e. that unless you slip them a cool fiver, they won't do the work they are supposed to do?). Will he become embroiled in some scandal or other, and does his wife know who her real friends are, ditto his son?

Does anyone remember the bumph for Tlieta Kontra Tlieta, a serial that was supposed to run and run?

The rest of us catch up with the different versions of the news. England, France, Italy and the Benelux Countries retain as strong a segment of the incoming tourist population as they ever did. There was a minimum diminution in the number of visitors from other nations; we are satisfied that when all is said and done, we did globally better than other destinations.

Nah. The situation in the tourism sector this year was one unqualified disaster. This downward trend started well before September 11. Thousands upon thousands, i.e. a number in the region of 53,000, of would-have-been tourists preferred to spend their money at other destinations.

A woman, who was in Malta with her fiancée, residing at the house of friends, was killed shortly after her arrival in Malta as she crossed the road.

Nah. A young lady, in Malta with her boyfriend, presumably to study English and staying with a host family, was run over and died instantly. Representatives of a particular language school were on the scene of the accident...

With half an eye on the four different mixtures of pie fillings simmering on the burners, I was rolling out the pastry and listening to a radio programme in which the presenter and the guest seek to solve the problems of the world and her auntie - seeing that it's usually the females who participate in this kind of show.

One of the callers told of how her husband sometimes got drunk and "terrorised" their three young kids, and she was considering separation.

Further probing elicited the fact that he was, at other times, all in all, pleasant company, and she never wanted for money.

The consensus of the presenter and her guest (who later picked up the topic again, realising full well, although belatedly, that they had fouled up first time) was "Thank your lucky stars, lady, there are people worse off than you..."

Basically, the advice meted out was "make the best of it". An attitude that, unfortunately, does not help said wife, her husband, or even the kids, who were presented as being well worth the ultimate sacrifice.

Now if this case had been brought F'Idejn L-Imhallef, no doubt His Honour would have hauled the miscreant over the coals. Judge Judy would have gone even further; tarred and feathered him, and then ordered him to attend AA and Anger Management sessions till the cows came home.

And the other side of the coin is the karaoke spot in Kool! where two teams of a pair of girls apiece competed with If You Wanna Be My Lover...

Storja in Maltese is "history" as well as "story". Ah, so that is why the word was applied to a set of promises that never transpired, made to a particular section of the workforce, by Super One. The item, inevitably, did not even figure in Net's bulletin.

And there was I, fooling myself that the Emperor Nero had strummed his lyre as Rome burned. Last week I found out that the chap was actually called Herod, and that the instrument in question was a harp.