Through style, sound, and setting, Matthew Weiner’s Mad Men depicts our biggest fear effortlessly: having the inability to improve.
By Juliana Sena
Don Draper (Jon Hamm) on the phone with his ex-wife (January Jones) in the Mad Men series finale / photo: AMC
Two weeks ago, a couple close friends and I spoke about the immense amount of change that we underwent and were currently undergoing in college. At one point within the conversation, one of them exclaimed, “I pity those who refuse to change”. The room was silent for a second as we all processed what had just been said. The silence was then broken by agreement, as one by one each of us nodded in approval and added our own two cents on the matter.
Humans are built to adapt– to learn and grow from their surroundings and mistakes. When you burn your hand on a hot stove as a kid, you learn to not put your hand on hot stoves again. These experiences shape who we are and who we become. Most of us will cringe as we speak of our high school selves– of our past traits and habits, our likes and dislikes. We mark our growth through our ability to change.
When my friend made her comment, it struck me that most people fear staying the same. We fear the idea of stagnancy. Remaining the same person as you once were, to us, is nothing short of failure. But what does happen when someone does not change? Or worse, what happens when someone refuses to change?
These questions capture the jaded beauty of Mad Men: the downfall of one man is his refusal to change as everyone and everything around him does. It’s easy to fall in love with the show. Its glamorized portrayal of the 1960s makes it digestible– creating a visually appealing scenery that opposes the polarizing and despondent tone of the 60s.
The opening theme of Mad Men sets the tone for the series– a businessman in the Big Apple loses control of his life. As a cartoon figurine falls from a New York skyscraper, “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2 plays in the background. The theme mixes classical strings with an upbeat, anachronistic drumbeat– a clear parallel to Mad Men’s central theme of evolution and leaving traditions behind. The figurine’s descent is surrounded by various advertisements from the 60s; this is a show about an ad man after all.
The cartoon figurine represents the stubborn and self-destructive protagonist, Don Draper (Jon Hamm). Matthew Weiner makes it evidently clear that Don Draper is an entity, not a person. Nobody knows who Don Draper is, not even the man himself. This is a setting stone for one of Draper’s key traits: deceiving elegantly and (initially) flawlessly. Scenes of client pitches and ad development show Draper dominating the room. But Weiner brings the protagonist’s tactics outside of the office too, as Draper uses his suaveness to hide his tracks– covering up his affairs and his origins.
But the genius of Mad Men doesn’t come from the focus on Don Draper and his secrets, it comes from the focus on Draper’s surroundings. Supporting characters juxtapose Draper’s attachment to what is familiar. Betty Francis (January Jones), formerly Betty Draper, has a transformative character arc as she embraces her identity outside of her first marriage with Don Draper. While it’s made evidently clear by the time of the pair’s separation, the shift in Betty and Don’s relationship is seen through subtleties during their marriage. This is where Mad Men’s artistic direction shines, with an impeccable eye for detail.
In the seventh episode of the second season, titled “The Gold Violin”, Betty and Don go on a family picnic with their two kids. In this scene, Betty wears a floral dress with a sweetheart neckline paired with pink nails and a pink lip. The outfit is very effeminate, delicate, and sweet. Two episodes later, in “The Inheritance”, Betty urges Don to leave their home– the “picture-perfect” family has split. Earlier in this episode, Betty is seen wearing the same floral dress from two episodes prior. Now however, the dress is accessorized with red nails and a bold red lip. Betty Draper is seen with a new-found vigor and, for the first time, is presented as a character with her own agenda. The deliberate shift from pink to red marks this growth– Betty Draper is not a girl, but a self-reliant woman.
January Jones as Betty Draper in the episodes,"the Gold Violin" and "the Inheritance" / photo: AMC
Mad Men’s attentive scripting continues in the seventh episode of the last season: “Waterloo”. Don Draper and Peggy Olson (Elizabeth Moss) prepare to pitch to a new client after the Apollo Moon Landing. Peggy Olson is introduced in the series’ pilot as Draper’s new assistant. In the office, she is conspicuous– her timidness and lack of style marks her foreignness to the job. There is more to Peggy Olson. She does not indulge in the feminine luxury of makeup and clothes and men– she wants more. While many see Olson as mad, Don Draper sees the truth in Peggy’s fervor. Draper soon promotes Olson to be the first female copywriter in the agency– the characters’ relationship is anything but rudimentary. By the seventh season, Peggy Olson is unrecognizable. Within the agency, she walks with a strong presence knowing that she not only belongs there but is needed– especially by Don. From being relentlessly bossed around by her superior, now Peggy finds herself in Don’s shoes– giving him direction and guidance. Her hair is styled in a chic bob and she is dressed in clothes that compliment her position of power and her beauty. Peggy is no longer seen as mad, she is seen as a Mad Man. “Waterloo” reminds us that not all challenges are ineradicable. Despite the countless events that fueled society’s cynicism, the sixties ended on a propitious note– “one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind”. And much like the moon landing in 1969, Peggy’s evolution gives the series a sense of hope and wonder. The show gives us comfort in knowing that not everyone and everything is like Don Draper.
Don and Peggy (Elizabeth Moss) watch the moon landing / photo: AMC
Betty Draper and Peggy Olson are only two of the many examples of Mad Men’s characters to undergo growth. In fact, the show makes it a point to evolve every recurring character through their own personal journeys, but especially through the political toils and metamorphoses of the 1960s. Again, Mad Men insists that Don Draper’s insidious decline is nothing more than a product of his obstinate character.
Much like my friend and her pity for those who don’t change, Mad Men shows no mercy for the Don Drapers of the world. But rather than a simple exclamation of the fact, Mad Men assiduously develops its characters to collocate what the ad man lacks. The series’ careful consideration of all aspects of its settings, characters, and style makes its production and storytelling unmatched. Through these elements, Don Draper in his steadfast sameness, transforms from the object of one’s envy to, as my friend exclaimed two weeks ago, simply an object of pity.
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