Toward the end of Season 4 (which I wrote about here), I could feel Don’s inexorable march toward Megan (Jessica Paré). No matter how much I respected his affair with the smart, charismatic Faye Miller (Cara Buono), I could see that he (Jon Hamm) doesn’t really want intelligence or self-possession from a woman. Megan is the perfect woman of her day — that sculpted face, the unusual mouth (she almost seems to try to hide it every time she speaks), the way 1966’s brashly colored, leggy clothes fit her.

In marrying the handsomest, most talented, and sphinxlike man at the agency, Megan feels like she won a lottery. But this is a lottery with rules forged during 1958, not 1966. How much do I love the way the show displays her conflict?

She’s going to have to decide, isn’t she? She’ll have to reconcile herself to the fact that her marriage is the only thing that lifted her out of the secretarial pool into copywriting, but that’s just the beginning. Does she take herself seriously enough to be a copywriter? Does she have the stomach to take risks the way Peggy (Elisabeth Moss) did? Can she work alongside that new husband of hers, that man who doesn’t take her seriously as a colleague?

It’s becoming clear that her options are terrible. If she gives up on the office, her options look bleak — most of them are reducible to the kind of wifeliness that broke Don’s first wife Betty (January Jones), and seems to have broken Roger Sterling’s ex-secretary trophy wife Jane (Peyton List).

One thing’s for certain: she can’t have it both ways. That song and dance near the end of the first episode of Season 5 — the French sexpot number that took what was merely a bad judgment call in arranging a surprise birthday party for Don, and turned it into a disaster for her ability to appear professional in the office — oh, it crystallized Megan’s naïveté and her downfall. She can’t be sexy around her co-workers anymore. She can’t be respected as an artistic talent. Don refuses to understand her need for respect and a degree of autonomy at the office. She damn well sure doesn’t want to be just a wifey.

Who knew she’d be in such a tiny box?

No wonder, when she’s furious with him, their fights would take on such histrionic, BDSM proportions — all about control and submission. It’s the one place where (sometimes) Megan can control the outcome. But at the end of one of them, as he grasps her around the waist and holds on like an abused child, the director forces us to imagine her face while we watch his. For we suspect she cannot believe she sold out her youth and promise to win a prize that’s already broken.

I’m not saying the show will cease to use Don and, to a slightly lesser degree Peggy, as its centerpieces. But Megan is perfectly drawn. Nor is her struggle only a vestige of the 60s. I’ll bet a lot of office romances today put women in similar positions unless they are (unusually) the more powerful and highly paid partner in the relationship.

I’ll bet that even some of my students face this dilemma — drawn to believe they can both find love and career advancement via that powerful man, only to find the love conflicted and their careers confined. And, as with Mad Men, that guy believes he’s the center of the story. Oh, Megan.

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I didn’t hate this movie.

Granted, it’s hard not to feel slightly snarky about it. These people are just so well-heeled, with such glam Manhattan apartments and wardrobes and invisible jobs that seem to pay for all of it. Who hasn’t seen that before?

But that’s not my real problem. I wanted to like it more, because it’s written & directed by Jennifer Westfeldt and features the excellent co-star, Adam Scott (also: great supporting cast, lifted straight outta Bridesmaids). My real problem is with Westfeldt, who shouldn’t direct herself but in insisting on doing so, and empties the film of real feeling for her character.

Westfeldt is now so well known as the longtime partner of Mad Men‘s Jon Hamm that people have forgotten that she co-wrote and directed the pretty good film, Kissing Jessica Stein, back in 2001. Say what you will about the old-saw tropes of 1) Westfeldt as the pretty but neurotic woman and 2) the storyline in which straight girls “try out” lesbianism for a while but reassuringly return to men in the end. (Someday we will laugh so hard at the way Hollywood loved this narrative in the 90s.) It was still a pretty good film and I had hope for this 30-yr-old female director/screenwriter.

Eleven years later … well, let me just say I wanted artistic growth; instead this film feels like a sitcom. Everyone is perfectly pretty and likeable and edgy enough to meet some kind of minimum industry standard.

Adam Scott makes a nice leap from the small screen (he’s so good in the series Party Down, as well as Parks & Recreation) and the rest of the supporting cast (Maya Rudolph, Jon Hamm, Chris O’Dowd, Kristen Wiig) inhabit their roles with that effortless ease you’d expect from actors accustomed to being in front of the camera.

But then there’s Westfeldt. She feels so self-conscious, almost to the point of fading out of view. As a director she gives her co-star much more time to develop than she gives her own character. During a key point in the story — when she’s had a baby and is dieting/ exercising madly to get back into shape for dating, so she can find “the one” (I know, I know, just bear with me for a sec) — she seems to recede entirely into a placeholder. Like her character, Westfeldt seems so preoccupied with looking like she’s 29 rather than her real-life 42, so eager to dodge the humanizing and humbling close-up, that the film gets weaker all around. Is this what happens to a beautiful and talented woman whose male partner rises up to Sexiest Man Alive status?

Yet there are moments when she reveals a delicate presence onscreen that could blossom under the right director — such that as an actor I’d like to see her truly develop into a 40-something actress who feels comfortable in her own skin.

More important, if she took herself offscreen and focused on her writing and directing she could do something less self-consciously awkward and more weighty. Toward the end of the film she directs Adam Scott in a nice series of scenes toward a building passion that feels real and moving. But she doesn’t give herself the same generosity. It’s as if she can’t see herself onscreen as a character — she only sees herself in the mirror, and she’s anxious to make us believe she’s still wrinkle-free.

Jennifer Westfeldt: be your own woman, either as an actor or director. We need you to do something more than fluffy rom-coms; but if that’s your métier, you’ve got to be committed to the genre. Don’t make me write another review that begins, “I didn’t hate this movie” — because I think I really will hate the next one.

Viewers of “Mad Men” are a tetchy lot, quick to express outrage at the show’s hairpin plot curves or that odd episode that didn’t seem to scale the heights one expects.  Not me.  This show sings to me — and I found this season especially riveting, with its emphasis on an emerging proto-feminist anger — especially by Peggy and Joan in the agency’s offices, and an even more deep-seated anger expressed by little Sally Draper suffering back home with her mother, Betty.  Which leads me to address two (related) kinds of criticism:  those who say the show glamorizes rather than observes the easy sexism of the 60s, and those who say it displays a fetishistic concern with period detail — detail that emphasizes style over cultural criticism.  SPOILER ALERT:  I’ll discuss details from Season 4 — and I’ll warn you again when I get to the season’s final episode.  

The show has only one true protagonist, Don Draper (Jon Hamm), the brilliant ad man who exhibits fleeting attractions to smart women but ultimately opts for far less challenging game.  Yet the story of Don helping to elevate Peggy (Elisabeth Moss) from secretary to copywriter is mirrored in the show by the growing emphasis on Peggy’s interior life, such that she’s become the show’s full-fledged Number Two.  This season Peggy has taken on new degrees of responsibility, even oversight of other male copywriters.  Moss shows extraordinary acting gifts in tracing that transformation:  for the first time this season we see her begin to feel comfortable in her own skin (and clothes:  she finally seems to be able to afford outfits she actually likes), and we find her navigating her career with far more physical assertion than in earlier seasons.  Sure, she’s still stuck with inferior men, but no one’s surprised by that scenario.  When she arrives at Don’s office to argue about a pitch, she’ll put her hands on her hips in a way that indicates how much effort it takes to challenge him, and how important it is that she do so.  More than any other woman on the show, Peggy Olson explores what it means to be a woman in a man’s world, and it’s never easy.

It’s not easy because she’s surrounded by utter jackasses on her team of writers, who posture their male fraternity before her with alternate fun and aggression.  (This post is hereby dedicated to Anita Hill, who’s still being harassed 19 years later.)  One of them, Stan, insists that she’s repressed and ashamed of her body, so she strips down to her awful 1960s bra-and-slip set — and then down to nothing — to prove herself and get the upper hand in their work relationship.  But if Stan is an obvious boor, the cutie-pie freelancer Joey is an even more insidious problem.  Joey resents it when the fantastically curvacious executive secretary Joan Holloway (Christina Hendricks) displays her managerial power over these boys, so he sketches a cartoon of Joan giving a blow job to a male employee — and he posts it on the wall for Joan and Peggy to find.  Joan dresses them down unforgivingly, but Peggy is still incensed.

Despite a chorus of whiney male pleas that “it’s a joke!” Peggy fires Joey, who spits back at her, “Y’see, this is why I don’t like working with women.  You have no sense of humor.”  Nevertheless, firing him feels like justice to her and a triumph for both women, such that at the end of the day when she enters the elevator with Joan, she looks up hopefully and says, “I don’t know if you heard, but I fired Joey.”

Joan, patronizingly:  “I did.  Good for you.”

Peggy, shocked:  “Excuse me?”

Joan:  “Now everybody in the office will know that you solved my problem and that you must be really important, I guess.”

Peggy, shaking her head:  “What’s wrong with you?  I defended you!”

Joan:  “You defended yourself.”

Peggy:  “Fine.  That cartoon was disgusting.”

Joan:  “I’d already handled it.  And if I’d wanted to go further, one dinner with Mr. Kreutzer from Sugarberry Ham and Joey would have been off [the account], and out of my hair.”

Peggy:  “So it’s the same result.”

Joan:  “You want to be a big shot.  Well, no matter how powerful we get around here, they can still just draw a cartoon.  So all you’ve done is prove to them that I’m a meaningless secretary, and you’re a humorless bitch.” 

Moments like that make it all the harder for me to understand the criticism by some that the show glamorizes the sexism of the 60s.  The show doesn’t make sexism sexy (except to some, um, throwbacks); rather, as Stephanie Coontz claimed recently, it looks unflinchingly at the sexism of the era and shows how it affected real-life women without losing its subtlety or getting preachy.  In fact, I don’t see how any working woman today could watch that scene between Peggy and Joan without thinking, “I’ve been there.  Wait:  what year is it?”   Journalists have written about how the sexist world of “Mad Men” is still alive and well in some business worlds, and not just due to the gender pay gap.  It’s also worth noting that the show has a relatively high number of female writers, producers, and directors, especially after Season 1.  This record is not without highly notable glitches, as when creator Matthew Wiener fired the Emmy-Award winning, Peggy Olson-esque writer Kater Gordon a year ago, claiming patronizingly (and obscurely) that she had “reached her full potential.”  Still, the record is impressive:

  • Season 1:  5 of its 13 episodes were written or co-written by women; 1 episode was directed by a woman.
  • Season 2:  9 of 13 episodes written or co-written by women; 3 episodes directed by women.
  • Season 3:  10 of 13 episodes written or co-written by women; 6 episodes directed by women.
  • Season 4:  6 of 13 episodes written or co-written by women; 4 episodes directed by women.  

The show isn’t just a workplace drama, of course.  Even though Betty Draper’s role was diminished this season, the show revealed chillingly how angry and dissatisfied she is, and how much she has replaced Don with a paternalistic new husband who chastizes her and demands that she behave.  In fact, when Betty (January Jones) confesses to her friend Francine that they’d had a fight the night before, she says, “I misbehaved.”  Her deep-seated childishness and awful petulance have roused bitter hatred among fans, but I can only express my admiration for Jones’ pitch-perfect, icy performance.  Betty is trapped inside the hell of her own small-minded expectations; to get out of it would mean jettisoning everything she ever learned as a child, everything she witnessed at her mother’s knee, every lesson that taught her that sulking gets you what you want.  Of course she’s not a sympathetic character — in that respect she’s much like Sandi McCree’s perfect performance as De’Londa Brice in “The Wire.”  Things are not going as Betty had been led to expect, so heads must roll — as in this horrific scene only available at AMC.com.  You can just imagine what it’d be like to have such a woman as your mother.  Or, rather, we don’t have to imagine, because 10-year-old Sally Draper emerges as a complicated character in her own right this season via extended conflicts with her mother.  And what an actor Kiernan Shipka proves to be in that role.

These are hardly the only ugly things shown by “Mad Men.”  We see the execrable Pete Campbell rape an au pair in his apartment building, yet he experiences no consequences.  In a parallel moment, Joan’s husband rapes her to remind us that there was no such thing as “marital rape” in the 60s.  [SPOILER ALERT:  I’m coming close to discussing the season finale now!]  Viewers are made irate by these scenes, but they seem to feel that by showing them the series is endorsing such violence.  (Which reminds me of a story I heard recently:  a university professor is getting hate mail from parents because she teaches a class on the history of witchcraft — which, parents believe, amounts to advocating witchcraft.  Remind me never to teach a class on the history of slavery — and just imagine a world in which no one teaches students about the Holocaust for fear of appearing to endorse violent anti-Semitism.)  During the final episode of this season, Don abandons the first worthy girlfriend he’s had since the divorce — the lovely, savvy consultant, Dr. Faye Miller, who had seemed to be a true partner for him — and he gets himself engaged to his secretary instead.  It’s one of the creepiest sequences of scenes they’ve ever shown:  after several episodes of finally coming to grips with his lies and self-deceptions, Don makes one of those 180° turns back toward self-delusion, just like Roger Sterling (John Slattery).  Heartbreakingly, a critic at my beloved Bitch website decries this as an endorsement of Don’s choice.

So how can anyone mistake the show’s darkness for glamor, you ask?  I’ve decided after much scholarly consideration (hem hem!) that it’s not the show’s obsession with getting every single detail right, though I know some complain that that obsession is overly distracting.  Rather, it’s the way the show is filmed.  Every shot establishes a scene that seems so stilted, so self-consciously staged, that it attains an air of surreality and demands close attention as if it’s being shot via microscope.  This is as far from neo-realism as you can get:  it’s a kind of theatricality we don’t see elsewhere on TV.  A scene in the back of a cab erases all New York City street noise to focus up-close on the micropolitics of the end of a date; a scene of Don alone drinking in his perfect office evokes the quiet desperation of those men in grey flannel suits.  After four seasons, we’ve grown accustomed to the show’s visual style, but we shouldn’t overlook it:  it’s so important as to nearly constitute a character on the show.  The show’s filming should remind us, constantly, that we are being asked to look on these scenes with a particular set of eyes; it should remind us to see every scene as a subtle, and often horrible, analysis of a world of men and women that lacked the language of feminism.  These scenes emphasize deep divides between people, a profound loneliness, and the way certain kinds of architecture and design might make the world cold rather than warm and homey.  “It’s lonely in the modern world,” the blog Unhappy Hipsters reminds us — “Mad Men” is doing the same in narrative form.

In this positive review don’t accuse me of abandoning my blamer credentials, for I most certainly aspire to the wicked keyboard stylings of Twisty Faster — and it’s not that I don’t have my own criticisms of the show.  But it deserves quick and firm defense against the most facile interpretations.  Even after four seasons, I’ve never seen anything like “Mad Men” for its subtle writing and dead-on historical accuracy.  Now I just need to teach a class on it.