I have of late (but wherefore I know not) lost all interest in hunks. They say that if you are tired of hunks, you are tired of life. Well, I fear that I am tired of hunks. I am all hunked out. I have hunk ennui. I was once this newspaper’s foremost Love Island hunkist. I studied the Tao of the hunk, observed their hunky rituals and marvelled at their hunky moves. I was truly enthralled by these majestic creatures as they gambolled and frolicked by beanbag, firepit and pool.
A TV-reviewing Dian Fossey was I, scribbling in my notebook, observant of the hunks’ ecological adaptability and endeavouring, in my way, to gain their trust. I became a passionate advocate for the creation of hunk habitats in order that hunks could continue to pollinate our plants and create our delicious honey. (I was possibly getting hunks mixed up with bees here.) I argued that every neighbourhood should turn its parks into rudimentary wildflower “love islands” so passing migratory hunks might nest there.
“Fling a few beanbags around,” I advised. “Add some mirrors (hunks are very like budgies), a few weights, a watering hole, a small firepit (hunks are drawn to fire, believing it to be created by a wizard). Then text the hunks sporadically with arcane instructions and with added hashtags #hunklife #hunknation #dothehunklebuck. Explain to the police that everything you’re doing is for science and there’s nothing weird about watching people via night vision while they sleep.”
Yeah, I was all in on hunks. I believed they were our future. I would literally sing, “I believe that hunks are our future!” with a finger in my ear, like Whitney. And yet, somehow, somewhere along the way, I lost my zeal for these geometrically complex anatomical marvels. For the hunks of Love Island (Virgin Media Two and ITV2, daily) today seem like pale imitations of the Love Island hunks of yore. Where are the Chrises? Where are the Gregs? Where are the Mauras? Where are the Ekin-sus? They are gone. Hunks of a different age (last year, in Ekin-su’s case). These newcomers are but hunk-shaped shadows on the wall of Plato’s cave. They’re like hunky ashes in my mouth.
Patrick Freyne: My favourite corporate psy-ops of the season – or Christmas ads, as they’re called in the suburbs
Doctor Odyssey’s core message: just imagine Pacey from Dawson’s Creek holding you tight and saying, ‘Shhh, it’s okay’
Rivals: The thrusting bum is intercut with spurting soap and overflowing champagne. We are in safe, if filthy, hands
The 2 Johnnies – what you get if you feed Ant and Dec a Tayto sandwich after midnight – are taunting us now
In other ways, little has changed. Hunks and hunkettes still gather in twos and threes around the Love Island compound, analysing each other’s relationships in meticulous detail. They still drink from golden goblets like kings or from little sippy cups like toddlers. They still congregate around their beloved fire (which they fear and respect, having lost the knowledge of how to create it). They still sometimes dress up in fancy people-clothes for sophisticated gatherings before shedding them in favour of swimwear for more casual day-to-day activities (less chafing for delicate hunk skin).
Each year hunk couples who have been together for more than a couple of weeks begin talking like pensioners who run marriage-guidance courses
They still sleep in one big room like communists or Care Bears or bees (that’s probably where my earlier confusion came from). They still say unintentionally deep things. (“Is everyone a doughnut or is it just me?” Zach asked last week, and I have been pondering it like a mantra since.) But something is missing. Perhaps I no longer believe in love.
The hunks are, on paper, monogamous, like swans or prairie voles or boomers. Indeed, in this the third decade of the 21st century, the hunks are obsessed with heterosexual monogamy, despite the fact that each year it’s clear that monogamy is very difficult for them because of how hunky they are. Each year hunk couples who have been together for more than a couple of weeks begin talking like pensioners who run marriage-guidance courses. Yet few of them seem able to resist having their “heads turned” (this is hunk lingo) by an incoming “bombshell” (a new and virulent variant of hunk, not an actual explosive device). Indeed, most of the hunks have heads that can turn a full 365 degrees, like an owl or an action figure or Fianna Fáil’s position on anything. And yet, instead of revolving gracefully, inevitably and gleefully towards a sort of omnisexual, polyamorous love soup, the hunks continue each year to believe that monogamous hunk-on-hunk love is both possible and worthy of a cash money prize.
The series’ new presenter, Maya Jama, seems aware that the jig is up. She arrives into the villa in slow motion, her hair blowing in the warm Majorcan breeze. This is not an effect added in post-production. It’s just how Maya Jama walks. In fact, this footage is speeded up. In real life it takes Maya Jama 3½ hours to cross the concourse, and the hunks have to wait there in their couples until she arrives. That’s why they always look so shaken when she speaks. On Tuesday she wafts in like Jadis the witch to Narnia, introduces two new hunks to the delicate ecosystem and says, a little impatiently, “Make hay while the sun shines.” This is strange, because there’s no hay or labour of any sort, as Love Island is post-scarcity society. I think she, like the rest of us, just yearns for the hunks of yesteryear.
Actorly veterans
There are many hunks in the Marvel universe, most notably the trinity of Chrises Hemsworth, Evans and Pratt. However, Marvel also contains actorly veterans getting their mortgages paid off. So, whenever there’s a lull between explosions and two skilled actors are doing “a bit of acting”, I like to turn the sound down and do my own dialogue. For example, in the bit in the first episode of Secret Invasion (Disney+) where Olivia Colman and Samuel L Jackson share a scene, I dubbed in the following dialogue:
“I’ve done Shakespeare, but now I’m getting a really big boat!”
“I went from Brecht to indie cinema, but that didn’t get me a plane. Now I can afford to buy a plane!”
“You know, I’m probably now rich enough to legally murder somebody!”
“I’m probably rich enough to buy a three-bedroom house in Ireland!”
Marvel projects have two tones they like to employ across their flat, 2D metaverse. There’s the winky, protective ‘we know this is stupid’ tone and there’s the gloomier, riskier ‘we’re pretty sure you’re an idiot’ tone
In the actual script Samuel L Jackson plays Nick Fury and Olivia Colman plays… the Incredible Hulk? I don’t really know who she’s playing. It’s hard to know what’s going on in Marvel without doing a lot of revision. Marvel has somehow turned superheroes into homework. The gist here is that Fury is trying to stop two warring factions of secret lizard people from destroying the world (based, of course, on David Icke’s pre-existing IP).
[ Secret Invasion: The Marvel hero with a Dublin accent we did not know we neededOpens in new window ]
But it’s hard to feel excited about another instalment of this endless sprawl. It’s increasingly clear, with Marvel, that there’s no end point and no death (dead Marvel characters have a tendency to get better) and so no real consequences or stakes or consistency or roundedness. So Marvel projects have two tones they like to employ across their flat, 2D metaverse. There’s the winky, protective “we know this is stupid” tone and there’s the gloomier, riskier “we’re pretty sure you’re an idiot” tone. Thus far, this Marvel vehicle veers towards the second option.
My main note? More hunks. You kind of miss them when they’re gone. Surely Marvel legally owns the Chrises’ likenesses. Just CGI them in, you cowards.
