Jack Klugman, a.k.a. Quincey, M.E. is something of a hero of mine, I must confess. I admire him of course for his forensic skills, solving outlandish murders each and every week with nothing more to go on than the evidence provided by the victim’s dead body. Which would be tricky enough without the added challenge provided by the fact that, due to the archaic and repressive regulations governing family TV in the 1970s, the cadaver in question never actually appeared on screen. Now that’s quite a trick. There’s also his admirable sense of personal style and his impressive ability to SHOUT! Mostly, though, I just admire him for his sheer goddamned manliness. Whenever he shares a scene with Garry Wahlberg’s Lt. Monaghan the screen lights up with an easy masculine banter reminiscent of an older, fatter and awesomely uglier Robert Redford and Paul Newman. He was a man’s man, so confident in his manly manliness that he wasn’t afraid to show that, god damn it, he cared. A kindly old uncle for the troubled modern world, Quincey’s passionate sense of moral outrage exercised itself on issues-of-the–week from Killer Pot to Killer Punk Rock to Killer Premarital Sex.
Sinster social agenda? What sinister social agenda?