Murphy, Go for More Than Laughs

Situation comedy feeds our narcissism. We like to watch ourselves: When the baby boom was in full swing we tuned in to follow Lucy Ricardo’s pregnancy. In the middle of the women’s rights movement, Maude decided to have an abortion. When women started to hear the snooze alarm sound on their biological clocks, Murphy Brown had a baby out of wedlock. Ellen--the character, not the celebrity--has just come out of the closet, about a quarter-step ahead of the actress who portrays her.

Edith Bunker once had a biopsy for a lump in her breast, but it turned out to be benign and she went back to being a lovable ditz. Just what we wanted to hear.

Now comes the news that Murphy Brown may once again hold a mirror up to her audience. TV Guide reports a possible new development in Murphy’s life in her 10th and final season.

She may have breast cancer.

Is this funny yet? Situation comedy usually lags a blink behind real life, since we find it easier to laugh with a little bit of hindsight; it deals in reflection, not revolution. But breast cancer research and treatment are in a period of chaos--new research and treatment headlines, annual funding skirmishes and lots of contradictory messages. Scientists regard the activity with optimism, as the scramble that precedes enlightenment. Patients are not equally pleased by the turmoil. There seems very little to laugh at.

So the producers of “Murphy Brown” face an intriguing challenge: Do they mix it up or play it safe? Candice Bergen has proved that she can wring laughs out of anything from drying out to labor pains--the question is not whether she will be funny but what she will be funny about. Will Murphy discover her illness at an annual mammogram, or will she find it by accident, a month after a seemingly clean X-ray, the way so many women do? Will she realize that even the best health care money can buy is no guarantee of a cure? Will her managed-care provider (even major corporations have abandoned indemnity insurance) reimburse?

Truth, in this case, is rougher than fiction. They might have to dig into the past for funny stuff--safe-haven jokes about how much that mammogram hurts or sci-fi barbs about radiation. Wigs are always good for a laugh.

They are in the perfect position to do more. This will be the final season. Renewal is not an issue. The show’s writers can address the anger and frustration and fear felt by the 44,000 women who will be diagnosed this year, rather than condescend to them. Many of those women possess a wicked sense of humor about their fate. In the midst of confusion, a good laugh is a great release.

Not everyone is ready to get that close to the subject. About a month ago, I was confronted in a bookstore by a woman who did not want to buy my book about the war on breast cancer. When she saw it, and me, she held up her fingers in the sign of the cross and backed away. If Murphy Brown gets breast cancer, you can bet that that woman will dive for the remote control. But I believe her to be in the terrified, dwindling minority. Most women are desperate to leave the last generation’s legacy of silence--and shame--behind. They want to talk about it, as long as that talk is honest.

Women have already heard plenty of one-liners when it comes to breast cancer, though most of them elicit only a rueful snicker from survivors who know they are not true:

“I’m sure it’s going to turn out benign.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, dear.”

“We got everything. You’re cured.”

Aristotle observed that writers of comedies must “accommodate themselves to the wish of the spectators.” By that definition, much of the history of breast cancer has been a comedy: people being told what they wish to hear, at the expense of progress. If the makers of “Murphy Brown” can veer toward a theater of confrontation, just a little, they may find an eager, impatient audience.