Cultural Reflections on Mad Men 4.07 by Pearson Moore

Turn THAT into Gel-Coat:
Cultural Reflections on Mad Men 4.07
by Pearson Moore



It is the most famous photograph in the history of sport.

But who knocked out Sonny Liston on May 25, 1965? The newspapers the next day said the victor was Cassius Clay. The man standing in the photograph simply referred to himself as "The Greatest". But his friends called him by the name we all know, the name he adopted fourteen months before: Muhammad Ali.

This week saw a cataclysmic fight. Not between Duck Phillips and Don. Not between Sonny Liston and Muhammad Ali. Not between Peggy Olson and Don. The fight this week was between Don Draper and Dick Whitman, and the clash occurred in the immediate vicinity of a frightening black box--the telephone on Don Draper's desk.

The winner, this week at least, was Dick Whitman. His prize was the offer he rejected five years before. But this time the young woman's hand in his meant much more than it had in the autumn of 1960. More even than the Clio encased in glass. It was neither romance nor lust, neither comradeship nor trust. The prize this week was simpler than that: The prize was hope.

The Problem



The art director, Salvatore Romano, framed the problem four seasons ago:

"So we're supposed to believe people are living one way and secretly thinking the exact opposite? That's ridiculous."

For four seasons we've been addressing the problem from one facet and then another. Possibly the most compelling aspect of Mad Men is that the protagonist has already figured out the answer. He knows the deep desires that drive consumers to purchase, and the yet deeper needs that guide our hearts. He knows they're distinct, knows Lieutenant Donald Francis Draper's purple heart and the Clio award carry not the smallest fraction of significance next to Anna Draper's acceptance and overwhelming love.

Both awards are stolen. Donald Francis Draper died in Korea; Peggy Olson from Brooklyn had to die to produce the work that earned the Clio. Donald Francis Draper was buried as Dick-from-the-hills Whitman. Peggy Of Brooklyn was buried alive, with her unwanted son, with Father John Gill, so Peggy Of Manhattan could make good on her own brand of illegitimacy on Madison Avenue. Dick, in his gleaming superman Don Draper persona, appropriated both medal and award to his undeserved litany of accomplishments.

Both awards are stolen--or are they? Lieutenant Draper had a commission and therefore a future. Dick Whitman was a conscript, a go-nowhere uneducated yokel, bastard son of a prostitute from some agricultural backwater. But Lieutenant Draper was dead. When Dick stole Draper's identity, what sin was committed? No one would miss Dick Whitman. And what sin in claiming the Clio for his own? Much truth was contained in Don's heated dressing-down of Peggy. "Everything to you is an opportunity. And you should be thanking me every morning when you wake up, along with Jesus, for giving you another day." In abandoning her family, in abandoning her own flesh-and-blood baby boy, how could she be said to have earned any social accolades, least of all an advertising trophy?

The 800-Pound Gorilla



Throughout the episode I found myself waiting for the punch line at the end. One of the two, either Don or Peggy, was going to have a Samsonite epiphany, I was sure of it. Their ad would not feature Samson or a rugged explorer. It would focus on a gorilla in a cage, doing nasty things to a Samsonite suitcase. I knew the Samsonite commercial would have to be considered one of the best ads of the 20th century, along with the cinema-quality Macintosh ad from 1984, and who better to create the masterpiece than Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce? My wife remembered the famous Samsonite commercial, too. I don't know who she thought would win. My money was on Peggy. She's climbing up the ranks; what better way to show her mettle than by dreaming up the most noteworthy commercial of the 1960s?

There were a few problems with my analysis. First, the commercial was not created until 1970. Five years is probably a bit too long to wait for Peggy's epiphany. Second, the animal in the ad was not a gorilla but a chimpanzee. And finally, a critical flaw: The Samsonite commercial my wife and I both remembered so clearly was not for Samsonite at all. It was for Samsonite's major competitor, American Tourister.

We were not alone in our revisionist recollection of advertising history. Apparently some type of cultural mass hypnosis is in effect. The Wikipedia entry for Samsonite notes that "the public" remembers the ad as being the creative work of Samsonite ("... the branding has elided in the public mind from American Tourister to Samsonite.").

I have to believe my wife and I were not alone, at least among those over fifty, in expecting the gorilla commercial to be SCDP's coup de grâce. In fact, after the Lyle Evans affair of two weeks ago (Mad Men 4.05, "The Chrysanthemum and the Sword"), I wonder if the confusion was another instance of Matthew Weiner playing with our minds. This reference may be a bit obscure to casual viewers, but those who follow Mad Men with rabid attention know all about the Lyle Evans incident.

Entire articles have already been written about it. Weiner knew, in this post-Lost age, that every utterance of his characters would be scrutinized and googled and discussed ad infinitum. So two weeks ago he gave Roger Sterling a throw-away line, something that would never have been discussed or even noticed before 2004, when Oceanic Airlines Flight 815 crashed, and television changed forever. Now would-be writers, even unknown pharmaceutical chemists like me, are employed for lavish sums to analyze every nuance, to squeeze the last drop of significance from every scene. Well, most of that is true. Except for the "employed" part. And except for the "lavish sums". I don't receive dollars--or even pound notes--from Dark UFO. I do have flexible story deadlines, which is a great perk. But a few engraved portraits of Queen Elizabeth, suitable for careful folding and placing into a wallet for safe keeping, would not go unappreciated...

Two weeks ago Roger spoke of "Dr. Lyle Evans" in reference to the visit of Honda representatives. The reference didn't make sense, and the clear expectation was that the most dedicated viewers would seek clarification through Internet research. This is of course precisely what we did. We came up with a librarian, from Saskatchewan. Now, Saskatchewan is one of my favorite provinces, but I didn't recall Roger Sterling expressing fondness for Western Canada, and it didn't seem likely he would have met a librarian there even if he did make the occasional hunting trip. Roger told us this week, on the tape Don played late at night in his office. Dr. Evans was the surgeon who performed an "unnecessary orchiectomy" (removal of the testicles) on Bert Cooper.

It was Matthew Weiner's joke on us. Perhaps the Samsonite work this episode was another joke. But I believe the true significance of the Samsonite motif centered around the scene in the diner and the spectacular centerpiece of the episode--the only scene in Mad Men in which Don Draper's face has turned beet red.

Ready to Go at Any Moment



Anna's visit occurred sometime early on the morning of May 26. Don heard the noise, and awoke from his alcohol-induced stupor on Peggy's lap. Anna said nothing, took a few steps into the office, smiled at Don, turned around, and exited through the door. She was ready--she'd packed her bags. I wonder if she was not already enjoying her well-deserved paradise. She walked effortlessly, without the limp that had been the only visible sign of her tremendous suffering. She was Don Draper's own Bernadette Soubirous, the only woman ever to peer into his soul.

She carried the suitcase, the one of the episode's title. "A man has to be ready to go at any moment," Don's Uncle Max had told him. Anna was always ready, even when her family kept the truth of her condition from her. She had pluck, true joie de vivre, and a bright, cheery sense of humor. "I'm going to attend UCLA Medical School tuition-free," she said, laughing as she informed her family she had decided to donate her body to science. It was so Anna. Saint Anna. The only person in the series who knew her own worth, the only person meriting Don's emulation and devotion.

Anna's proclamation was unspoken, but it was the loudest and most important statement of the episode. "Yes, I'm that important," Mark told the waiter at the restaurant. He is important, but not for reasons the waiter would have understood--not for reasons even Mark would understand. Anna's visit had a purpose similar to Mark's interaction with the waiter.

Her speech was short, simple, and essential to the plot of our favorite program:

Don Draper, she said (without so much as opening her lips), you are that important. To you I come, at the very moment of my death, because you are that important.

Turn THAT Into Gel-Coat



The confrontation over the Clio was one of the best scenes in four years, and I think it began to illustrate Matthew Weiner's thesis for the episode.
Don: You don’t have to be here.

Peggy: I do have to be here. Because of some stupid idea from Danny, who you had to hire because you stole his other stupid idea because you were drunk.
Don: Don’t get personal because you didn’t do your work. And by the way, I know it kills you, but guess what? There is no Danny’s idea. Everything that comes in here belongs to the agency.
Peggy: You mean you.
Don: As long as you still work here.
Peggy: Is that a threat? Because I’ve already taken somebody up on one of those tonight.
Don: Relax.
Peggy: You know what? Here’s a blank piece of paper. Why don’t you turn that into Glo-Coat?
Don: Are you out of your mind? You gave me 20 ideas and I picked out one of them that was a kernel that became that commercial.
Peggy: So you remember?
Don: I do. It was something about a cowboy. Congratulations.
Peggy: No. It was something about a kid locked in a closet because his mother was making him wait for the floor to dry, which is basically the whole commercial.
Don: It’s a kernel.
Peggy: Which you changed just enough so that it was yours.
Don: I changed it into a commercial. What, are we going to shoot him in the dark in the closet? That’s the way it works! There are no credits on commercials!
Peggy: But you got the Clio!
Don: That’s your job! I give you money, you give me ideas!
Peggy: And you never say thank you!
Don: That’s what the money is for! You are young. You will get your recognition. And honestly, it is absolutely ridiculous to be two years into your career and counting your ideas. Everything to you is an opportunity. And you should be thanking me every morning when you wake up, along with Jesus, for giving you another day.

Was the boxer's name Cassius Clay, or was it Muhammad Ali? Did Clay win the fight, even though the referee didn't begin the count right away? Is the ad man's name Don Draper, or is it Dick Whitman? Did he deserve public recognition for the Glo-Coat commercial, or should he have presented the award to Peggy?

Does it matter that American Tourister came up with the most memorable television ad of the 1970s? Most people in the company's largest market remember the ad as a Samsonite creation. And in 1993, in the final insult to the venerable suitcase company, American Tourister was acquired by Samsonite. So what good did the famous ad accomplish, when the public gave credit and ultimately ownership itself, to American Tourister's main competitor?

What are Peggy and Don accomplishing in their Samsonite labors? Samsonite is going to live long and prosper, even without a memorable ad campaign. They're going to leave their competitors in the dust. Perhaps it is destiny. Maybe Samsonite uses better materials. Maybe they just got lucky. Regardless, the question remains: What deeds of value and significance merit destroyed relationships and a sleepless night in an executive's dark office?



I believe this is Matthew Weiner's answer: None of it matters. Climbing the corporate ladder is only a means of attaining the highest rung, where one climbs onto the roof, takes a running leap, and ends up falling into the canyons of Manhattan, which is the image we see every week as the show opens. The bifurcation of human beings into private selves and public façades is a sham, a piling on of vanities, a falseness and disappointment that strikes the depths of who we are, and must inevitably lead to our own destruction. We must create deep fractures and fissures in our truest selves in order to segregate for public consumption the false self, the self that is "living one way and secretly thinking the exact opposite".

These are the fissures that must damage and wound us if we are to succeed in acquiring the poisons--the power, the adorations, the wealth--that our fractured selves tell us we need.

Peggy seeks power, even in preference to a relationship with Mark. She needs to know she belongs, so she seeks dominate, even when it means destroying the very relationships that provide for her a place in this world. Power is better, she thinks, far superior to being her mother's child, her son's mother, because with the majesty and dominance of office and title she orders society to her liking, she subsumes the world to her every whim. Peggy's family is to her a millstone around her neck because they impede her from climbing the ladder, from achieving the control she believes will force society to create a place for her.

Don seeks sex, even over his marriage to Betty. He needs intimacy which is love, so he seeks sex, seeks to touch that which no one has touched before, and believes that in this taking he achieves the intimacy his soul cries out to secure. He takes a woman's virginity, conquers her, pops her cherry, "defiles" her, lives for the hunt and the conquest, as if these are signals of his human worth. As if they can satisfy longings of the heart.

If Don and Peggy are truly successful in their mad ambitions, these poisons must eventually kill them. We see Don take that running leap into oblivion every week before the show starts. If the intro splash lasted a few seconds longer we would see a second figure, in calf-length dress, taking the leap immediately after him.

The Threat



He is in command, the 1960s incarnation of Tom Wolfe's Master of the Universe. His posture is silent but bold assertion, his demeanor is sober yet forceful presence, every glance and gesture imbued with authority and substance.

He stands at the apex of power in the economic center of the country that rules the world. Yet his office is barren. And beside him, on the floor, is the most troubling element of the composition. He waits for a call, we think. Is he called to even greater conquests? Does he anticipate distinctions of privilege? Or does he wait with anxiety, fearing the coming bonfire of the vanities? Does cold, empty office reflect his inner self? Is the impersonal, mechanical telephone the only means that remains to connect with other human beings?

The telephone, more than Samsonite luggage, more than cigarettes and booze, was the central prop in this week's episode. Peggy used the device to end her relationship with Mark so that she could pursue her pretensions to power. Every time the phone rang, Don's face turned white. His face showed greater fear of the telephone than we have ever seen in the features of calm, cool, collected Don Draper.

Now we understand the genesis and significance of the Season Four poster. Don is not waiting for a call. He places the telephone behind himself, on the floor, out of view, because he cannot bear to make the call me must make. In this office he is Master of the Universe, impervious to any event. On the telephone, across three thousand miles of copper cable, is a force of nature rendering him fragile, weak, and incomplete.



He stares at the phone, knowing he must pick up the receiver, dial zero, and ask the operator for long-distance connections to Los Angeles.

Why did Anna Draper ever forgive this man for assuming her dead husband's identity? If we find it difficult to understand the muddled and chaotic motivations of the Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce gang, how much more difficult it becomes for us to make sense of the pure and selfless motivations of this woman of unassuming power and radiant dignity. How does one embed into the context of our fragmented and uncaring world the reality of a woman whose only purpose is to spread good cheer, intimacy, and love? People like Anna exceed the limits of our feeble comprehension.

Anna is not friend to Don. They are not friendly toward each other. She is not lover. Her lips may have touched his, but Don has never tasted her tongue, never touched her in those places he so callously claims in every other relationship he has known. She is not soul mate. "Mate" assumes a contribution from each member of a couple. They are no couple, and Don contributes nothing.

Anna is Don's only connection to Dick. She is neither wife nor mother, neither advisor nor therapist. There is no distance between her and Don. She connects with him at every level--in fact, she is the glue holding Don together. And thus the impossible telephone call. Don cannot make the call, because when he does, everything holding him together will come undone.

The Torch is Passed



A torch was passed this week, from a dying woman in Los Angeles to an up-and-coming copy writer in Manhattan. Who died? Peggy asked. "The only person in the world who really knew me."

Peggy had good intentions in what she said next. But more than that, and crucial to future episodes, she believed in what she said, and thought herself somehow capable of shouldering the responsibility concomitant with those words. "That's not true," she said, caressing Don's back with her palm.

Peggy has a good heart. But she has not the strength of Anna Draper. Facing hardships more difficult than anything Peggy has had to face, Anna Draper raised a family and helped everyone around her deal with her husband's death. Peggy cannot even face the reality of the now four-year-old boy awarded by the state to her mother's care. She can't bear to see him, touch him, cannot summon the strength to hug him and wish him pleasant dreams. This wretched condition reaches beyond the sadness of our hearts. The thought of Peggy's twisted, confused sensibilities and what she is doing to herself and her poor, motherless son is heartbreaking. "That's not true, Don. I know you." No, Peggy, you don't know Don. You don't know your son. You don't know yourself.

Don made the same bold assertion Peggy had made five years before in the very first episode. But the meaning was different. He does not approach her as lover. She does not accept the touch of warm fingers curling around her own with thoughts of sleeping her way to the top. She has talent; she has no need for the Joan Harris school of feminine advancement. But neither is this the embrace of equals or the affection of comrades. In taking Peggy's hand Don is expressing hope. He believes he might find someday in Peggy the person who can repair the fractures and fissures he has created, the person who can render him complete. Perhaps neither of them is aware of the truth. Probably they cannot see the sufferings ahead of them.

But on this Spring afternoon, on this bright and cheery day in downtown Manhattan, a man has hope. The episode did not end with Don Draper taking the hand of Peggy of Manhattan. The story this week concluded in a much more profound manner. For you see, the man who took the woman's hand was Dick Whitman, and the fingers he touched belonged to Peggy of Brooklyn. There is hope.

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