What is it about television that makes relatively sane woman fantasise about men they wouldn’t want to share a postcode with in real life? Ladies and gentlemen, the defence calls DCI Gene Hunt.
Philip Glenister seems to be a nice enough bloke and a talented actor, but unless he’s wearing Gene’s cowboy boots I’m not interested. As Cranford’s Mr Carter he was very watchable, but despite being shod in much nicer footwear (and occasionally getting to ride horses) he didn’t get my pulse racing.
Sam Tyler famously, and accurately, described Hunt as an “overweight, over-the-hill, nicotine-stained, borderline alcoholic homophobe with a superiority complex and an unhealthy obsession with male bonding”. But still I harbour fantasies of being rescued from various types of badness by DCI Hunt.
For all his brutality, racism, sexism and homophobia, he’s still the good guy and a charismatic, and occasionally tender, one at that. Despite her troubles, I’d gladly step into Alex Drake’s very pointy shoes.
Perhaps I’m no different from my five-year-old daughter who wants dinosaurs to roam the earth again. The reality would be terrifying, but because it can never be more than a fantasy, the imagined adventure is thrilling.
Posted by Jo the Hat