Nowadays, saying that Mad Men is a great television series, arguably the best in the medium, is a cliche. In the same way that people bestowed praise on The Sopranos (a show for which this program's creator, Matthew Weiner, wrote), they're doing the same for this 1960s'-set drama taking place in the world of advertising in New York City. By not having HBO for so long, and almost wanting to avoid the hype, I always got a little annoyed at the fact that every year at the Emmys, The Sopranos would walk away with some gold. With Mad Men, I get kind of crushed if it doesn't win. Now I know what it's like to watch one of the hip shows, one of the zeitgeist-y shows.
But none of that matters. There are some shows that tap the zeitgeist that I just don't get. I loathe Glee, and I've been in and out of intrigue with True Blood, a show whose first season was probably the best it's ever going to be at attempting to visualize the trashy novel you read at the beach on vacation. But Mad Men, despite getting numbers that would be anemic on any broadcast network (The Walking Dead, AMC's new series, got more than twice the viewers on a given night), is a seriously brilliant TV series. The stories are usually compelling, though some are more intriguing than others (but isn't that how it always is?). What works so well with this show is twofold: the performances (and, in connection, the multilayered characters) and the unexpected bouts of humor.
That the show is a visual feast should go without saying by this point. A show about the 1960s, set in the era, featuring very specific references, doesn't work if it doesn't look the part. OK, it might survive for a while if the ratings are high enough, but critics wouldn't go crazy for a show that fails at being an accurate portrait of the decade. So, yeah, this show is visually sumptuous. But that's almost the norm now; I can't praise the show for doing what it always does so well, because...it does it so, so well without ever trying to show off. In each season, including the fourth (possibly the best of the series so far, but I don't know for sure), the acting has been top-notch. The first season introduced pretty much everyone to Jon Hamm, the square-jawed prototypical male known as Don Draper. Draper is, through his actions, a spectacularly unlikable person. He's not Walt from Breaking Bad, but his charm belies his mostly horrendous deeds. Adultery is like second nature to Don; it's not that, at least originally, he doesn't love his wife. He does love her. But she only has one part of his heart, and he needs some satisfaction. Hamm manages, by being so charming and intelligent in his choices, to make Don a compelling antihero we still want to root for.
Hamm is one part of the excellent ensemble, though. There's Elisabeth Moss, as Peggy Olson; Moss and Olson have grown so much over the first four seasons that it's kind of shocking to see how much she's grown since the first episode, when she was a bright-eyed new secretary. The times have changed, and in "The Suitcase," a mid-season duet between Don and Peggy, Moss has moments of high and low emotion (and Hamm gets to shout the immortal comeback, "THAT'S WHAT THE MONEY IS FOR!"). Only after three-plus seasons, as other critics have pointed out, could this episode even exist, let alone work as well as it does. John Slattery, Rich Sommer, Jared Harris, and more have all been excellent, trying to keep Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce together as an agency while trying to contain or maintain Don as an employee, not just a force of nature. It's hard not to see the ensemble of Mad Men as the best television has had to offer in many years, if only because there are so many actors on the show, and they never fail. Even January Jones, whose character is almost thankless to play, does an excellent job of playing a child in an adult's clothing, as Don's frustrated ex-wife. Finally, Kiernan Shipka, as Don's oldest child, Sally, was amazing this season. Shipka had to play so many different notes; child actors can be so awkward, but at no point does Shipka's performance ring false.
Last, the humor. It's hard for a person's death and the aftermath to induce gales of laughter, but I dare you to not laugh your head off at the dark, dark humor surrounding the shocking death of Miss Blankenship, the secretary installed at Don's office after dire circumstances cause him to need someone at his desk who won't tempt him sexually. Blankenship is, in fitting the description, decrepit. Her death is sudden, and the frantic attempts by the office folk to hide her from a prospective client is great silent comedy punctuated by the following line: "That's my mother's!" This is the kind of dry wit that permeates Mad Men, a show that manages to balance the blackest drama with even the tiniest bit of a laugh, just to alleviate things, to give us a moment to breathe. The fifth season of Mad Men should be coming sometime next year, and I eagerly await its return. When it's on, and when it's off, it maintains its hold on being the best show on television.
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