Despite the distinct lack of coalfaces, it’s a tough life being TV-land’s Mr. Handsome.
There comes a point when it leaves the burdened actor with two possible routes. The Patrick Dempsey – as demonstrated by L’Oreal’s current barnet-for-hire and likely eternal bland romantic hero until the moisturiser stops working and botox beckons. Or, The George Clooney Model – for the bachelor-about-town with impeccable comic timing, an ear for a story and an eye to his long-term prospects.
The above examples do make me wonder if heir apparent to the throne, the fragrant, tousle-haired Simon Baker (The Mentalist, The Guardian), quite knows the mire he’s getting into. I like to think that he does, based, somewhat spuriously, on the knowing twinkle in his best performances that straddles the very thin line between endearing and smug. At present, since society hates pretty, situational-blond men who can kick a ball/dance/sing/act a bit, he’s little choice but to make frequent use of that oft-remarked-upon smile.
But, would The Mentalist work without Simon Baker’s charm and perfect dentition?
After all, it follows a tried-and-tested formula, which consists of making the viewer feel gratifyingly clever by allowing us to play along Cluedo-style with a flawed, magnetic genius like Patrick Jane (see every screen incarnation of Sherlock Holmes, House, Eleventh Hour). It gives us comedy value by providing an upstanding, blinkered, if well-intentioned boss for our hero to be at constant loggerheads with (the youthful Robin Tunney), before she becomes a believer. Then there’s the variably lunk-headed team of mere mortals comprising the obligatory pretty, idealistic one (Amanda Righetti), the brawny, hotheaded one (Owain Yeoman), and the stony-faced, occasionally sanctimonious one (Tim Kang) . Just in case anyone expects fully rounded peripheral characters, the purpose of the team is to dispense with the legwork, Patrick Jane being gleefully skittish when fists or bullets start flying, and to look suitably impressed/disgruntled when our hero plucks the solution to the mystery out of the ether.
They’re so often put out with good reason, since the implication is that this set of California’s finest can’t solve the simplest of crimes without outside help. In this instance, a fraudulent psychic and adept cold-reader that now spends his time debunking myths and consulting for law enforcement following a family tragedy. Because watching quiet, competent well-adjusted professionals going about their business doesn’t make good drama – the closest we get is The Bill, or the reliably dour A Touch of Frost. In fact, The Mentalist is less CSI and more Midsomer Murders, given the jocular tone and minimal gore.
Nothing wrong with keeping the blood off-camera: part of the enduring appeal of a murder mystery, regardless of format, is its stripping of a horrific, complex act down to a reassuringly neat puzzle to solve over a cup of tea. The Mentalist, with its sunshine, silly title (I did have brief visions of a mustached and sideburned Victorian entertainer who solves crimes – alas, no dice) and blunt edges, nears the apex of that idea, surmounted only by the cartoon buffoonery of Psych and the ever-comforting Murder, She Wrote.
The Mentalist tweaks the maverick formula just a little by having Baker’s character insist that he’s just a touchy-feely Ordinary Joe with a knack for ‘paying attention’, and keeps the grudging mutual admiration between him and his lovely boss to a tiny, teasing frisson restricted to some crackling exchanges that seem to consist of Patrick Jane wrongfooting her with his…twinkling. With luck, there’s time for a quick role reversal in a twenty-odd episode run.
There’s little of the protagonists’ personal lives and almost no workplace fraternisation, which would be refreshing if the mysteries were a little more memorable. Unlike House, The Mentalist’s hero appears puckish, if not completely benign, nothing like the ugly, twisted psyches currently in vogue for cop shows, except for the intriguing titbits of a longer story arc.
I’m not certain the show wouldn’t hang together without Baker, but a lesser actor might struggle making Jane remotely watchable, given his propensity for flirtatiousness and inappropriate, teeth-grinding flippancy as a substitute for gallows humour (betting on seducing the grieving widow at a funeral – really?), and his uncanny success rate. I gave a little cheer during a recent episode, when a frazzled suspect landed a long overdue, crunchingly literal blow for mediocre folk everywhere, exasperated by Jane’s cheery, Teflon-coated I-know-something-you-don’t air. I’m only human, after all.
Aside from the strange urge I get to bookend any mention of Simon Baker with ‘…who you may remember from such forgettable films/police procedurals/earnest lawyerly goodness as…’, I find myself hoping he can turn the inane magazine polls, chat show appearances and the inevitable speculation on his sexual proclivities to his advantage and do something surprising.
