Among the joys of possessing a modicum of education is some entitlement to the occasional smug glow.

By long and devoted watching of ER and House, and paying a little attention in lectures along the way, I came to some grasp of what ‘v-tach!’ and ‘asystole!’ actually mean. Where I come from, terms seldom including an implied exclamation mark, as those may soon become defunct on the NHS.

Still, valuable lessons all, much like the hospital morgue etiquette and astoundingly lax security illustrated by Pathology. This 2008 medical chiller comprises a thoughtful, considered meditation on the nature of life and death, the human condition, and our primal nature…

Actually, bollocks it does.

Pathology rattles through its brisk ninety-odd minutes and flimsy, vaguely familiar premise (Flatliners had attractive young medics being too clever for their own good twenty years earlier) with all the flash and dash of a high-concept music video, and about the same consideration for plot, character development and dialogue. Or even consistency. Courtesy of director Marc Schölermann, a slick, if ludicrous Hollywood debut.

As per tradition on small and silver screen, Pathology’s gloomy hospital seems unusually populous with the beautiful and arrogant. Newbie Dr. Ted Grey (Milo Ventimiglia, Heroes, Gilmore Girls, Rocky Balboa, a music video or two) finds himself anxious to get in with the cool kids against his better judgement – a pack of amoral interns whose extracurricular activities include plotting the perfect murder, detectable by nary a scalpel, test-tube or microscope.

While under the tutelage of Dr. Morris (a lugubrious, heroically deadpan John de Lancie, Star Trek: The Next Generation), young Teddy leaves behind a pining, sweet natured intended (Alyssa Milano, Charmed). As per another set of well-worn movie traditions, her very gooey-eyed comeliness dooms her to something nasty. But, I’m getting ahead of the story.

She’s no idea when he falls in with shifty-eyed Sparknotes-Nihilist Jake and chums. Proof of how shocking this lot are? There’s bemusing knife play and bacchanalian revelry around toe-tagged corpses in the small hours. There’s flinging bits of liver at the nerds. More shocking, Jake’s girlfriend, Juliette and her wont to inappropriate toe fondling, make out sessions with a female friend in front of a crowd at any opportune moment. Oh, and Ted’s presence leads to a daft, sneering alpha-male stand off, which galvanises The Game.

The body count rockets until Teddy suffers an attack of conscience when Jake’s worrying tendencies culminate in a frenzied rampage. With a climactic explosion, Pathology completes the classic triad of celluloid teen-boy fantasy: blood, boobs, and boom!

But, don’t worry girls (and indeed, some of the boys). There’s sufficient expanse of Ventimiglia’s milky skin on show to divert you – not a stand in, not that I checked. Not at all. But, I digress.

The star’s lovely bottom aside, he can’t make Teddy real enough for the viewer to care what happens to him. The point, rammed home with a big, shiny cleaver, is of course that the fight for civilisation and morality is pointless, as we are all animals with the evolutionary imperative to kill, and only a thin veneer separates Ted from the monstrous Jake.

Because that’s, like, so deep, dude.

The screenplay doesn’t have the give required to convey Ted’s wrestle with his scruples, or even have him show a little vulnerability. We’re meant to believe he’s a good but ambitious man corrupted, but next to Jake the maniac, he comes across as wooden. Heroes, self-important tosh though it is, at least allowed Ventimiglia to play to his strengths as pale-and-interesting dreamer Peter Petrelli. The other cast members of Pathology get scarcely a look-in, little more than eye candy and bags of meat by turns, sometimes both at once.

Taken for the forgettable popcorn-fodder it is, Pathology isn’t the worst way to while away an evening – there’s skill in its sleek, moody glamour, and wheeling, nightmarish visions of the city by night. There’s the odd bit of grinding angry-white-boy music, if you like that sort of thing, but in all, sadly insufficient material to sustain the film’s pretensions.

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.