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| Don Draper c. 1960 and 1969 (above) |
Monday and Tuesday of this week I caught up with some of the Mad Men commentary from around the web. Having just witnessed a semi—season finale, the dissection and speculation out in the blogosphere was more intense than usual. I guess what struck me about the various round ups was how much it seems that there's an anticipation of - nay, a down right clamoring for, a sadly tragic ending to it all when the show comes back around for its last seven installments next spring. For a long time some critics have taken the now iconic Falling Man opening credits sequence on face value, as if it's some sort of omen for how the show will end. They are so invested in our anti—hero's demise that anything short of Don Draper falling head long from a skyscraper onto Madison Avenue, or into the La Brea Tar Pits (depending on which office he's working in), in their opinion will render the entire eight year run a waste of time. But I have a far different hope. Yes I, the one who usually rales against the contrived happy ending, am holding out for, if not happily ever after, a conclusion that leaves room for hope and redemption.
It's not terribly original to note that over the years every character, save one, has shifted his or her personal style to move with the sixties' fashions. None is more obvious than Harry Crane; in 1960 he had a crew cut, horn rim glasses and more times than not sported a tight little bow tie to go along with his grey suit. Harry was the very picture of a conservative business man. Beginning some time in 1967, and continuing in the timeline to 1969 he's let the hair grow out a bit (not hippie length, but pushing the envelope for an executive). His sideburns are getting to Elvis in Hawaii length and the suits and ties are bold and flashy. The horn rims have given way to big, thick black plastic frames. The 1969 version of Harry Crane would not be completely out of place in an Austin Powers' movie. While the other characters have undergone less dramatic shifts in style than Harry, all the women are in brighter colors and shorter hems, and the men are, to various degrees, letting their hair down. It's the swinging '60s and no one wants to miss out.
Then we have Don Draper, who has not moved a hair out of place since the Eisenhower Administration, much less changed his tailor. In a world of shifting fashions and social attitudes, Don is stubbornly standing athwart history, in his grey flannel suit, starched white shirt and black wingtips, yelling, "Stop!" But, of course it won't stop, and the big question is will the man who never really left the 1950's be able to adjust to the social changes that, while born in the 60's, will become permanent in the '70s. Most are putting their money on "NO," but I think the answer will be more subtle than that.
Don may be the same in many superficial ways, but I would argue that he is one of the few truly the changed people on the show. Harry may be rocking the latest hairdo, but he's still the same self important climber trying to make himself irreplaceable as he was when he convinced Roger that the firm needed a media department and he was just the man to head it up. Pete is still whiny, hypocritical Pete. Cutler is still a back stabbing creep. Joan has changed somewhat, but not necessarily for the better. Her experiences have made her vindictive and grasping (not that I can really blame her, considering the humiliations that she's had to endure). You could argue that Ted has lost his boyish enthusiasm. But Peggy is still insecure, struggling over her decision to take the road less traveled (for 1969), by choosing a career over a family. Most all of them, to one extent or another, are the same as they ever were, just more so.
Don, on the other hand has developed as a human being since the first time we saw him all those years ago. He may be holding on to the fashion sense of Cary Grant in a Wavy Gravy world, but we should be careful not to confuse the shell with the substance beneath it. The Don of Season One was nihilistic, hedonistic, and more than a touch sadistic. He proclaimed that life had no meaning, that "the universe is indifferent." As for love, the concept was invented "by guys like me...to sell nylons." There were chinks in his armor, for sure. He always had a deep, platonic love for Anna Draper, the widow of the real Don Draper, whose identity he stole. But beyond that he had no friends outside work, and even they were pretty disposable. He rejected his brother when he tried to come back into his life, and has never known how to be a father (though you could argue he does a better job at parenting their kids than his first wife, Betty).
But the Don of Season Seven really wants to save his second marriage, even if he doesn't know how to do it, and ultimately fails. He encourages Peggy Olsen, boosting her confidence at key moments, not brow beat her as in the past. He chides his daughter over her cynical response to the moon landing, telling her, in essence that, one: it's wrong headed and, two: it's a bad example for her younger brothers. He wants to save his job, yes for all the egotistical reasons a person in his position would have, but also because he sees that the present firm is something he had a large part in building. Whether he sees any cosmic meaning to life is open to debate, but he sees a deeper meaning to his own life, and for the first time he' doesn't see running away and reinventing himself again as the solution to his problems. So he stays, and he fights because he is invested, both financially as well as personally, in the firm. The Don of earlier seasons would never have felt personally invested because he didn't know who he was as a person. Not that he has all the answers now, but he has a much more developed sense of self; he knows he loves the work, he knows he's lonely, he knows the cynicism of his earlier years that cut him off from real relationships was a mistake. The only question now is what does he do about it.
Critics have made the same observations, but have seen his current lack of nihilistic hedonism as a sign of emotional impotence and a loss of identity. It's a clear sign that he's going to die, because he's half dead already. I think that this is completely wrong. Yes, the old Don is dead, as is Dick Whitman. But a new Don is emerging. This new man is never going to be confused with St. Francis, but he's no Marquis de Sade, either. What some critics are confusing with weakness is better thought of a character development. And that he's developing for the better shouldn't seen as a failure or some kind of sell out.
That's why at this point if the show does end with Don falling out a window, or having a big coronary, or getting shot by a jealous husband, it will be a disappointment. If he's not drinking as much, not sleeping around, and seems genuinely concerned about his co-workers it's not because he's "lost it." It's because he does understand that the old ways didn't work: business as usual cost him two marriages, left him with a terrible relationship with his kids, especially Sally, and almost killed him on at least a couple of occasions. The question is not will Don adjust, but how will he do it and to what degree will he be successful.
I'm not looking for some sentimental farewell next spring. But Matt Weiner is good at setting a mood, and a direction for his characters that leads to a logical, if unexpected end. At this point I think Don has come too far to simply fall backwards out a window. I don't believe that the opening sequence is an omen, but a metaphor. But if some insist on the point, remember: the titles end with our man lounging in a chair, cigarette in hand, not splattered on the street.
But the Don of Season Seven really wants to save his second marriage, even if he doesn't know how to do it, and ultimately fails. He encourages Peggy Olsen, boosting her confidence at key moments, not brow beat her as in the past. He chides his daughter over her cynical response to the moon landing, telling her, in essence that, one: it's wrong headed and, two: it's a bad example for her younger brothers. He wants to save his job, yes for all the egotistical reasons a person in his position would have, but also because he sees that the present firm is something he had a large part in building. Whether he sees any cosmic meaning to life is open to debate, but he sees a deeper meaning to his own life, and for the first time he' doesn't see running away and reinventing himself again as the solution to his problems. So he stays, and he fights because he is invested, both financially as well as personally, in the firm. The Don of earlier seasons would never have felt personally invested because he didn't know who he was as a person. Not that he has all the answers now, but he has a much more developed sense of self; he knows he loves the work, he knows he's lonely, he knows the cynicism of his earlier years that cut him off from real relationships was a mistake. The only question now is what does he do about it.
Critics have made the same observations, but have seen his current lack of nihilistic hedonism as a sign of emotional impotence and a loss of identity. It's a clear sign that he's going to die, because he's half dead already. I think that this is completely wrong. Yes, the old Don is dead, as is Dick Whitman. But a new Don is emerging. This new man is never going to be confused with St. Francis, but he's no Marquis de Sade, either. What some critics are confusing with weakness is better thought of a character development. And that he's developing for the better shouldn't seen as a failure or some kind of sell out.
That's why at this point if the show does end with Don falling out a window, or having a big coronary, or getting shot by a jealous husband, it will be a disappointment. If he's not drinking as much, not sleeping around, and seems genuinely concerned about his co-workers it's not because he's "lost it." It's because he does understand that the old ways didn't work: business as usual cost him two marriages, left him with a terrible relationship with his kids, especially Sally, and almost killed him on at least a couple of occasions. The question is not will Don adjust, but how will he do it and to what degree will he be successful.
I'm not looking for some sentimental farewell next spring. But Matt Weiner is good at setting a mood, and a direction for his characters that leads to a logical, if unexpected end. At this point I think Don has come too far to simply fall backwards out a window. I don't believe that the opening sequence is an omen, but a metaphor. But if some insist on the point, remember: the titles end with our man lounging in a chair, cigarette in hand, not splattered on the street.
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| Harry Crane c. 1960 (above) and 1969 |
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