Okay, Mad Men, you didn’t ask, but you should have. I’m not a girl who’s going to leave when you don’t get the promotion, or your jokes gets stale and your stories repeat, or when Don is less hot, and Roger’s lost his power and Peggy’s outfits are not quite so cute. I’m with you guys. Let’s talk it out, let’s work through it. Let’s admit, though, we might have a problem.
First, cards on the table: Daniel Mendelsohn. His review (I read it late, over a year after he wrote it) well, it rattled me. What I’m about to say I might very well not have said, in fact, if his critique hadn’t happened, but it did, I’m who I am — old teachers, pets, boyfriends and critics all shape me for better or for worse. And here are some issues I have, with last night.
Betty’s cancer scare — introduced, heightened, milked and resolved in 30 minutes — felt very soap operatic. Don’s emo chat with Roger felt very, um, lame. Peggy should not be wearing loose-fitting cotton shirts, and she wouldn’t, that felt very dumb. Megan should not work with her husband because it feels very Jabot Cosmetics, where everyone on Young and the Restless always worked whether they wanted to or not. We get that Don’s too cool to hang with Harry; wait, or is he? White Castle and pot looked more fun than a grump.
The funny Michael Ginsberg did not, so quickly, need hint of sad backstory introduced, and Betty was right to eye-roll Henry. No man on earth who lands a trophy wife, and who is wealthy and handsome with a big beefy job, is going to unconditionally love her when she’s fat. Except maybe Johnny Sack, who was sweet to chubby Ginny in that upstanding mob man way, right up to the end.
Oh darnit, Mad Men. When you make me wait two years, I think it’s fair of me to expect a lot and be a bit off-put when it seems like you don’t care. Wine and dine me before Sunday and maybe I’ll let it go.
There. Mondays are unforgiving.