When you’re running a fever of 102 and have been bed-ridden for the last 4 days, you find out just how helpless you are. Basically I could just sit, stare and hope someone would bring me nourishment and water when I needed it.

Oh, and I had a remote and a television with access to over 500 channels. Sounds great, huh? Well, it became more of a mixed bag than I presumed it would be as I found a shocking scarcity of passable programming to throw away my time with. Then again, when you’re as delirious as I was, you certainly can’t be held accountable for all the decisions you make. So, in an effort to come to terms with how I spent my weekend, I’ve decided to share with you a few of my movie watching experiences during my prolonged illness.

End of Days: Boy, Arnold really stretches himself to the limit here. I’ve seen some puzzling facial expressions come out of him before, but the mere density of contorted grimaces he wields in this film takes the prize. Now, I was in and out of consciousness throughout this, but I think I managed to pick up a good portion of the storyline. Apparently every millennium or so, Satan inhabits a male body and attempts to find a worthy mate to impregnate. She will then go on to bear the antichrist and thus bring about the apocalypse. This has to occur “in an unholy hour,” which, since this film was made before New Year’s Day 2000, means just before midnight on New Year’s Eve 1999. My gosh, first Y2K, now this.

Now, the movie winds down to this supposedly intense conclusion in which it’s something like three minutes to midnight and the Prince of Darkness still hasn’t sealed the deal. I hope he’s either quick in the sack or not planning on enjoying it. Not that it matters, since Arnold will stop him anyway. Which leads me to my biggest issue with the film. Arnie’s adversary is Satan, an eternal being with supernatural powers, but he insists on unloading clip after clip of ammunition into him. What’s he planning on accomplishing here? It didn’t work the first forty times, why would it matter now?

Kill Bill, Vol. II: I regret my initially tepid response to this film. I’ve since warmed up to it. Watching it again, I was struck by what an astounding performance David Carradine’s pulled out of this. Why he didn’t win an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor baffles me to this day. He wasn’t even nominated! Wait a minute, who did win that year? Oh, that’s right: Morgan Freeman – for basically narrating Million Dollar Baby. They could have just retroactively honored him for his work in The Shawshank Redemption, handed the award off to Carradine and called it a day.

The Fog: This one was a real winner. It actually contained one of those sex scenes in a shower shot in the early nineties, softcore porn style. You know, using crossfades in which the two lovers grope at each other a lot, but no real intercourse appears to take place. To make matters worse, the guy in that scene is the actor who plays Superman on Smallville. Yikes! I have to hand it to the makers of this film, I thought nothing could outdo the original’s inability to entertain, but turns out I was wrong. Kudos, however, to the makers for including the obligatory abundance of female characters who appear to posses a natural aversion to putting on pants at appropriate times. In addition, I found it particularly amusing that the first few attacks by the fog pirates, involved them knocking on doors and having their would-be victims answer them like it was nothing out of the ordinary. “What that’s ominous knocking? Someone must be at the door. Hello. Is anybody out there?” All I’m thinking is: c’mon you’ve never seen this happen in a movie before?

Flirting With Disaster: I caught the last half hour of this fucking movie like three times during this weekend. It sucks, since it looked pretty damn funny. The really shitty thing about this is that now when I finally do rent it I’ll already know what happens. It just won’t be as good. Unless, this fever, in it’s final cruel attack on my body, lays waste to my short-term memory and I can no longer recall what happened in the final 30 minutes of Flirting with Disaster. That would be the final and greatest gift this sickness could bestow upon me.

Most Haunted: Okay, so it’s not a movie, but it is my new favorite show ever and currently the only reason to watch the Travel channel. What they do is take a few nutjob psychics, pair them up with a panicky British woman and a couple boom mic operators and camera men who continually pretend to be pushed, poked or touched by unseen ghosts and throw them into a house that’s supposedly haunted. They wield their night-vision cameras and claim to be communicating with the spirits of the house. Sometimes one of the psychics gets possessed and stomps around like a madman in a terrifically obvious display of overacting. What irks me about the whole thing is that most paranormal investigators will admit that of the numerous times they have visited sites of hauntings, the likelihood of witnessing anything supernatural is extremely rare. Yet this bumbling bunch of nitwits lumber on into a place and are treated to every manner of spectral manifestation possible. Suspiciously, none of this actually gets caught on camera. Feasibly I could orchestrate the same exact thing if I shut off all the lights in my apartment, got a camera, and screamed like a maniac, swinging the camera violently around every time I think I hear or feel something.

The Brothers Grimm: I really wanted to enjoy this movie. The artistry of the sets really was enough to draw me in. However, the film lost a lot of momentum going into its third act in which the brothers just wouldn’t stop bickering back and forth. And all those goddamn references to the fairy tales got a little grating. I did find Heath Ledger’s performance particularly strong. You know, I don’t think we’ve given him enough credit. If only he could pick better roles in the future, maybe he could aim for the Academy Award once more.

Can’t Buy Me Love:Have you ever seen the movie Can’t Buy Me Love? I haven’t. Well, at least, until now. Oh, it’s an appalling little 80s romantic comedy that’s about as unfunny as it is philosophically unsound. Amongst all the most cringe-inducing scenes there’s one that stood out as the most unpleasant. Ronny, the nerd-turned-heartthrob wants to keep in touch with the current dance moves so he can impress everyone at the school dance. After imploring his brother to flip the channel to American Bandstand, he quickly memorizes the much-needed steps and hurries off to put them to use. Assuming he can even retain information learned that quickly, his moves, as we soon find out, are not what they appear.

Luckily his kid brother sticks around to see the host return to find out that – Wait a minute! That’s not Dick Clark. It’s some black guy! That’s right, it’s the African Cultural Hour on PBS. Nothing wrong with that, right? But the film takes a nasty turn when we witness the brother’s response to this revelation. In the most patronizing, mocking tone he can muster he loudly exclaims “African Cultural Hour!” Then breaks down into derisive laughter. Yeah, real funny. Look at those people’s goofy looking dance. In a film of such foul, degenerative morals, this moment stands out as the most egregious. No wait – I take that back; did I mention that the younger brother is played by Seth Green? Ugh. I need to start watching better films.