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Comforting madness.

By Jonathan Bradley

8 August 2010

Moderate spoilers ahead, depending on how much of the show you've seen.

When the fourth season premiere of the AMC drama "Mad Men" went to air three weeks ago, the show seemed to shift from highly acclaimed TV series to genuine cultural phenomenon. The premiere was launched with a Times Square party. Banana Republic mimicked the show's style in its window displays and offered its customers the chance to win a role in the series. Leading man Jon Hamm's face seemed to crop up everywhere and his character is being touted as a model for modern masculinity. Sadie Stein at Jezebel argues that the show is the new "Sex and the City," observing that, "people talk about Mad Men who don't watch it. There's enough cultural saturation that we've come to feel a collective sense of ownership, whether someone's seen the show or not."

Last Sunday, the New York Times ran an article by Katie Roiphe arguing that the Mad Men appeal lies in its portrayal of moral abandon in contrast to modern stuffiness:

The phenomenal success of the show relies at least in part on the thrill of casual vice, on the glamour of spectacularly messy, self-destructive behavior to our relatively staid and enlightened times. As a culture we have moved in the direction of the gym, of the enriching, wholesome pursuit, of the embrace of responsibility, and the furthering of goals, and away from lounging around in the middle of the afternoon with a drink.

It's a silly article, stuffed with clichés about Whole Foods and organic milk, and it confuses counter-culture artistes with conservative businessmen like Don Draper. (Better is Maureen Dowd's meditation on the differences between Holly Golightly and Betty Draper, published the same day.) But Roiphe's article isn't just a vapid take on modern life, it's a poor reading of the source material.

Mad Men's phenomenal appeal (beyond smart storytelling, of course) lies in its distinction from the modern world, sure. But for mine, its success lies not in its comparative recklessness, but in its staidness. In an America still in the midst of Great Recession uncertainty, the show presents small, contained worlds that are easily understandable and controllable. The aesthetic is a stylish nostalgia, where men look dapper, women look pretty, and all is warm-hued. The world of Mad Men is an insular one; exterior shots are few and far between, and the characters seem to transition from home to office to restaurant to bar without needing to venture out in to the wider world. Though the show is known for its New York setting, there are no shots of skyscrapers or city lights, downtown traffic jams or subway entrances. The entire thing exists in an artificially-lit, hermetically sealed otherworld.

Unlike the bare-knuckle capitalism of "The Sopranos," on which Mad Men creator Matthew Weiner previously worked, Don Draper's world is one of gainful, steady employment, where status is marked easily and incontrovertibly by neat suits, neat haircuts and liquor served neat. Even now that Don is divorced and is a partner in his own fledgling agency, he retains the trappings of upper-middle class success he's enjoyed in seasons previous. The problems of the show's characters are the stuff of domestic drama, and reassuringly distant from the greater uncertainties of contemporary America.

Mad Men is a show for these times, all right. But it's a salve for the hard times, not a vessel for the frission of vice. No wonder America loves it.

Tags: Amc, Don Draper, Mad Men, Matthew Weiner, Television

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