Glenderful's Shit List: Harry Hamlin

Listen up, kittens—landing on Glenderful’s Shit List isn’t about who’s got the tightest bum, the hottest Insta, or a spot on Kendall Jenner’s speed dial. It’s about aura. It’s about legacy, nerve, and a quiet confidence that makes lesser men sweat through their linen and leaves you throbbing with reverence. This isn’t a bad boy versus gentleman cage match—it’s a vibe, a Glenderful-certified je ne sais quoi that hits like a fever. And today's inductee? He’s not chasing trends or playing the bad boy. He’s the man every bad boy prays to age into: Harry. Freaking. Hamlin.

Back in the Reagan era—think shoulder pads, Aqua Net, and a world too scared to say “gay” out loud—Harry Hamlin was a Greek god in human form. Pasadena-born, Yale-educated, with a face carved like a Hellenic statue, all sharp jawlines and cheekbones that could cut glass. In Clash of the Titans (1981), he moved like perfection in motion, a hero etched for vases, untouchable yet begging to be touched. That mouth, a precise line holding secrets, promised everything and gave just enough to keep you hungry. Fast-forward to now, and time hasn’t aged him—it’s sculpted him. The jawline’s softened into a strong, elegant curve, the silver hair a corona of light renouncing vanity for raw presence. Those lines around his eyes? Not wrinkles—etchings, proof of a life lived deeply, thoughts spun in quiet rooms. He’s not a flawless plaster cast; he’s a bronze god, darkened by time’s touch, his patina telling a story no pristine surface could. This is beauty in collaboration with time, and it makes you want to trace every line with your fingers, your lips, your everything.

Let’s set the scene for the TikTok crowd who think rainbow flags on Netflix are just Tuesday. It’s 1982. Reagan’s in office, the AIDS crisis is brewing, and gay men on screen are punchlines, predators, or tragic victims—never lovers, never human. Enter Making Love, a major studio film from 20th Century Fox about a married doctor (Hamlin) who realizes he’s gay and leaves his wife for a male novelist. Every A-lister in Hollywood—Michael Douglas, Richard Gere, all of them—passed on the role. It was career kryptonite; playing gay would make you “unbankable,” “confuse” your audience, mark you as “one of them.” But Harry Hamlin? He read the script, saw a human story, and said, “Fuck it, I’m in.”

This wasn’t some indie art flick—it was mainstream, a radical act when allyship wasn’t a hashtag but a career death sentence. The film tanked commercially—too raw, too real for Middle America. Critics sneered, and Hollywood punished him. The leading-man roles primed after Clash of the Titans dried up. He was branded, ostracized, his phone stopped ringing. But the community? They never forgot. Four decades later, fans still approach him, tears in their eyes, saying Making Love gave them the courage to come out, to exist. Hamlin didn’t just act—he stood in the fire and normalized love when the world wanted to vilify it. That’s not just courage; that’s a legacy that makes you want to drop to your knees in gratitude.

At 74, Harry’s not chasing relevance—he’s defining it. Standing 6 feet tall with a size 10 shoe, he’s a blend of Ivy League polish (Yale, dual B.A. in Drama and Psychology, plus an M.F.A. from the American Conservatory Theater) and primal edge. His breakout as Michael Kuzak on L.A. Law (1986–1991) snagged three Golden Globe nods, and his Mad Men guest arc earned an Emmy nomination. Named People’s Sexiest Man Alive in 1987, he’s still serving looks and gravitas. Now, he’s cooking up a storm on In the Kitchen with Harry Hamlin, hosting dinner parties like your sexy professorial neighbor who could recite Nietzsche while undressing you with his eyes. His new podcast with Lisa Rinna, Let’s Not Talk About the Husband, is cheekily named because, honey, everyone is talking about the husband.

Off-screen, he’s hiking three miles daily, climbing mountains, and devouring books on AI, consciousness, and spirituality like he’s prepping to teach Philosophy of Desire at Yale. His diet? High-quality fuel—lean cuts, veggies, no Ozempic nonsense—rooted in post-war family habits of savoring every bite. He’s not just living; he’s thriving, a silver-lit god among statutes, radiating elevated masculinity that makes you want to crawl into his orbit and beg for a taste.

Harry Hamlin doesn’t need to trend—he is the trend, the original, unbothered blueprint for integrity and heat. When Hollywood said, “Don’t,” he did, choosing principle over profit and empathy over ego. That 1982 kiss wasn’t just a scene; it was a political act, a middle finger to bigotry that cost him but built visibility for a community fighting to be seen. His vibe now? Pure patina, a collaboration with time that deepens his allure. He cooks, he hikes, he thinks, and he carries that quiet storm of a man who’s faced the world’s rules and rewritten them.

To be in Harry's presence isn't a privilege—it's a fucking honor. You don't get to flinch. You shudder and take it. You sit there, a desperate beggar, praying that his shit and the glory of his genius, that raw, fucking nerve, somehow rubs off on your sorry-ass life.

You don't just nibble—you devour. You moan, swallowing the essence of a man built on courage, grace, and pure fucking edge. Harry Hamlin isn't just on Glenderful's Shit List. He's the communion wine and the wrath. You don't just get to eat Harry's shit—you have to fucking earn it. Challenge accepted!