Television worthy of the big screen: obsessive ad men and their (justifably) mad women
This is the first television series I've seen that feels like a theatrical movie rather than another jittery, overly busy, manipulative made-for-TV video series, with frequently good acting wasted on formulaic, or non-existent, plots (the "criminal minds" of the series by that title are the writers) relying upon sensation, violence, and cheap digital effects to hook and maintain the viewer's interest. Moreover, the characters in "Mad Men" are not cardboard stereotypes but multidimensional and complex. But perhaps not as much as they would like to think. Women viewers need not feel guilty about watching "Mad Men" on the basis of the following features designed to attract a large female audience: the compelling if not magnetic quality of the flawed but strong and reassuringly handsome lead, John Hamm, who plays ultra-cool ad man Don Draper (he's got the right charisma to anchor an entire James Bond movie series); the representation of women in the 1960's, a period that requires a woman to be at once a "toy doll," a "perfect housewife," and of course, an unquestionably competent secretary, who has nothing but time on her hands to perform her duties with unfailing mechanical precision, always ready with the proper smile or facial expression at the proper time (or risk being fired, and without the ceremony offered incompetent male employees). Needless to say, the women who "succeed" are those who are, by the unspoken requirements of their subordinate position, academy-award winning actresses, capable of either a. landing a man who is a paid ticket to a suburban castle with charming children (and servants to smooth out life's ruffles) or b. miraculously carving out a place where they are recognized for their actual abilities, talents and individual potential. The slights inflicted upon women on a continual basis are subtle and cumulative. Like the series itself, the duplicity required of women to succeed, or simply to survive, in the work place becomes manifest gradually, requiring the viewer to pay close attention to the smallest details of dialogue and "mis en scene" (by contrast, most television series make NO demands of their viewers because there's "nothing to look at": in the overwhelming majority of television dramas the moving camera and shock editing is relentless, continually loud and intrusive of the home spectator's viewing space: in television, it seems, "overstatement" rules, giving the viewer no room for choice let alone interpretation. The medium behaves as though its only mission is, as quickly and as surely as possible, to "captivate" a witless audience that will think and feel as the camera and sound-track dictate. "Mad Man" is, by contrast, an imitation of a far more recognizable life, one offering inscrutable, even dangerous "games" to every individual who's in the job market, desperate for a good job with benefits and opportunities for advancement but damned if he allows the urgency to show. Moreover, the series is undeniably, from its first smoke-filled shots, a "period piece" that represents the '60s as some of us will certainly (if reluctantly) remember those years. But it's more than a disturbing view of the past: it's a critique of the unexamined life and, necessarily, of the life of commercial television in the present age of "late"-capitalism, when even the most under-educated viewers are becoming increasingly aware of the unbreachable divide between the haves and the have-nots, between those who exploit and profit from the desires of the American consumer and those suddenly made aware of the high cost of the American Dream and its increasing distance from the vast majority. You may need to pick up the series for rescreening if, to select a chapter at random, you missed the following in Episode 7, "Red in the Face": The subtle collusion between Don and the elevator operator to assure the unforgettable climax of Roger's humiliation. Notice Don's brief business with him both before and after the oysterfest, and notice the expressions on Roger's and Don's faces at the end of the episode. Besides such details, consider the overaching design of the episode. The theme is male predators, survival of the fittest, and misplaced hubris. Roger will hit on Betty Draper, and the pathetic Pete will do the same with the store clerk who refuses to refund in cash his returned chip and dip. Both come up empty-handed, though both try to sustain their moment of heroism. Pete's sitting Peggy down on a couch to hear his story of gutting a rabbit and eating it in view of the fair damsel is parallell with Roger's stories to the overly appreciative (in Don's double-standard view) Betty. Then we have the chivalric subtheme of Betsy playing the fair princess to the unlikely 8-year-old knight whose mother's negligence leads to his coveting a lock of Betty's golden hair. It's a rare moment when Betty is both the object of adoration and an empathetic mother who reaches out (which she can't do with her own family). But just as Don blames her for Roger's bad behavior, the suddenly possessive mother of the wandering knight takes offense at Betty's gift. As usual, she's sent back to the psychiatrist, though the planting of the rifle as Pete's new toy will take its rightful place in the story when Betsy takes a gun to the neighbor's pidgeons. It's a moment of rage that is long overdue. Along with the examination of the pressure-cooker capitalism, the series is especially concerned with the roles demanded of (and therefore "played by") women. The seeds are being planted throughout the entire first season, but the fully realized force of the objectification and belittlement of women (nothing so obvious as "harassment") will culminate in a chilling, unforgettable and appropriately titled episode, "A Night to Remember," in the 2nd season (episode 8 from the 2008 season). The episode is a cinematic tour deforce, thus far the most ambitious chapter in a series that seems to be reinventing itself as it goes along, always improving. This particular segment is like vintage Robert Altman in its cross-cutting among the three women who have received the most attention. The time, historically, is the days immediately following news of Marilyn Monroe's suicide, and each of the three women--Joan, the queen-secretary who is herself a combination of keen intelligence in an hour-glass figure; Betty, the manipulated, blonde showgirl/perfect housewife/showcase trophy of Don Draper; Peggy, the innocent "country girl" who has wised-up sufficiently to the ways of men to play their game, attaining power to make decisions that will influence consumers throughout the nation--each of the three will receive potentially shattering epiphanies, showing them the emptiness of their programmed existences in a male-run world that expects of them only compliance along with adoration beyond any they themselves might receive for their physical attributes. The realizations of all three occur in a breath-taking "tour de force" of characterization. The potent mix of minimalist but thoughtful script-writing, artful directing, and "parallel" editing allows the viewer to receive the full force of three separate "actions" (actually, internal "epiphanies") occurring simultaneously. The series is uncomfortably faithful to the period, not only in its portrayal of male-female relationships in and outside the workplace but in the continuous gauzy veil of smoke thrown off by chain-smoking characters along with the ubiquitous portable bars in the offices of hard-drinking executives (just a few examples of the irony of the ad squad coming under the influence of its own subliminal messages). Most of the action is internal yet highly appealing to the eye, taking place in an office space that seems both capacious and capable of showing the viewer surprises and new discoveries with each episode. The colors are richly saturated--crisp and vibrant technicolor (not the faded, irridescent reds, blues, and greens that would replace them beginning in the late '60s and continuing throughout the 1970s), with a brightly lit, crystal clear, sharp resolution and a camera lens with revealing "depth of field" that takes full advantage of the big flat, high definition screens that have begun to dominate domestic space in just the past 5-6 years of the new millennium; the camera work--with striking angles but steady shots of sufficient duration to allow the spectator to see each crucial detail--has the professional sheen of a bonafide "auteur" such as the admired 1950s "Hollywood" director, Douglas Sirk. Frankly, I had all but "given up" on television--except for the talking heads on MSNBC and the mindless reality shows like "Pawn Stars" and "American Pickers." Most of what passes for television drama is manipulative and "busy" to a degree that the viewer is placed in the paradoxical position of having nothing to look at. Viewers are denied the "freedom to see" on their ever larger, higher definition screens. Everything of importance to the sponsors and filmmakers is magnified or grossly overstated, then thrown in the spectator's face by the hyperactive videocam and "shock" editing. But this series, sponsored appropriately enough by American Movie Classics, is the most refreshing, ground-breaking television drama since "All in the Family." We should all hope that it represents a new beginning rather than an anomaly, unique and distinguished as it is. Read more