In a big year for comic book characters on the big screen, none were bigger or more swoonsome than Christopher Michael Pratt, the swaggering prince of twinkle-eyed handsomeness who brought boring '70s obscurity Star-Lord to thrilling, sexually stimulating life in this year's Guardians Of The Galaxy, and briefly made us feel alive again in this numbing, disconnected modern hellscape of free wi-fi and gluten free brownies.

As is our long-standing tradition here at ComicsAlliance, we name a "sexiest man alive" every year without fail. Previous winners include Harry Hamlin, Mark Harmon, and two-time winner Namor McKenzie. This year there was never any doubt that our winner was going to be Peter Quill himself, Chris Pratt. Because Chris Hemsworth was in literally nothing. NOTHING. Sometimes it's really hard to get out of bed, you know?

Why did we choose Pratt? It could be because of his winning smile and his boyish sense of humor. It could be because of his devotion to his hilarious and talented wife Anna Faris. It could be because he found the joy and humanity of the once paper-thin Peter Quill, turning one of comics' most generic Aryan adventure heroes into a zeitgeisty blend of charm, goofball humour, stunted adolescence and sweet, sweet abs. It could be literally just the abs part. Or it could be that life is a constant struggle against futility and dread, and for one brief flickering moment we could pretend that he was smiling just at us, and believe that there was a reason to go on. But as paragraphs like this must inevitably end, it was probably a combination of all of the above!



Pratt was the star of two of the biggest and nerdiest movies of 2014; not only Guardians Of The Galaxy, but also The Lego Movie, in which he was just as funny and charming, but less overly sexual, except in the standard way that all Lego minifigs are hypersexual and teasingly come-hither. Can you believe they make those things for children?

When Chris Pratt isn't laughing and smiling and making us fleetingly happy, he spends his free time fishing, restoring vintage cars, and staring angrily at pancakes, because he's not allowed pancakes any more. You don't get to be the erotic fixation of a generation of driftless souls and also eat pancakes. We need his hunger. We need his misery. He must deny himself pleasure so that he can provide pleasure for us. Otherwise what is it all for? His secret tears are the sweet nectar that sustain us through the darkness.

No pancakes for you, Chris Pratt. You're an actor. Act happy. Dance, damn you. DANCE FOR ME.

It is winter now. The nights are long and cold, and there won't be another blockbuster superhero movie until the spring, after the first green flush of nature returns to the blighted land for the crows to pick; after the ice cracks on the river, sending a gurgling burst of pure and glistening goodness down to the clashing grey rocks of a churning sea. The cycle turns ever onward, death into life, life into death, and we cling to our Guardians Of The Galaxy Blu-rays and wail to a deaf and hateful God. Why? Why this suffering? Why this life? If you were ever real, oh God, why do you turn your warm light away from us now? What is this unhappy accident we call existence?



And in those dire moments we may pause for just a moment, to watch a gif of a shirtless Chris Pratt frowning at a robot, or to hope that some day in a better tomorrow, Marvel will shoot a scene where Chris Pratt and Chris Hemsworth are in the same room.

Perhaps Chris Evans will be there as well?

And then, and only then, we might forget the pain for a moment.

Here are some pictures.