I began to get worried at about 10:58.
Realizing there wasn’t much time left in the series, I wondered how Matthew Weiner would be able to conclude Mad Men in a way that made sense and was true to the characters he had developed over seven (really eight) seasons.
The resolution wasn’t perfect, but I think time will be kind to it.
Last week, I discussed what we might get from the finale. I noted one key scene in the penultimate episode, where Don appears to glean some stroke of inspiration from staring at a broken, old-fashioned Coke machine. I said that I thought that would lead to an epiphanic moment in the finale, generating one last spectacular (and redemptive) pitch at McCann that produced an incredible, iconic campaign.
We didn’t get to see the pitch, sadly, but the conclusion of the finale lets the viewer in on the secret: It is implied (although not certain) that Don creates the “I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke” campaign by tapping into both cutting-edge culture and his unique insight into human nature to generate work that is brilliant consumer marketing disguised as a meaningful message. Just as he has done for his entire career.
In the end, this is who Don is. His own humanity was, as it turns out, irreversibly damaged by his horribly traumatic childhood. Even literally assuming someone else’s identity wasn’t enough to repair the fractures in his psyche.
But that damage also left him with a savant-like gift for understanding the basic needs, desires, and weaknesses of other human beings—and humanity writ large.
That insight is the only true through line in the series. The show begins and ends with it, and most of what comes in-between is either an exploration of Don’s insight, or an exploration of the manifestations of the damage that gave rise to that insight.
When I think of my personal ranking of the four best television dramas ever, I find myself putting Mad Men at the top of the “also receiving votes” table.
The movie—which did take home the Best Picture Oscar for 1958—begins with a borderline-elderly, thick-accented Parisian breaking the fourth wall to explain that it’s the year 1900 and take the viewer through a tutorial on the courtship habits of turn-of-the-century Paris. After spying a very young girl running through the park, he breaks into an extra-creepy rendition of “Thank Heaven for Little Girls.”
Either way, I’m baffled by the critical acclaim this movie received, especially after watching An American in Paris and the vastly superior Singin’ in the Rain. Most of the performers in the film are passable—at best—as singers. Perhaps not coincidentally, many of the musical numbers include significant chunks of lyrics that are more spoken than sung.
That tradition carried on beyond 1985, of course—to the point where the WWF/WWE created a separate “wing” of its not-physically-real Hall of Fame just for celebrity involvement.
With the news that University of Oklahoma President David Boren would be expelling two members of the SAE fraternity for singing a racial-slur-laden song, there has been an expected uptick in First Amendment experts in the comments sections of the news sites and social media outlets I frequent.
David Letterman, Full Circle
I don’t know which fact is more surprising (depressing?):
1. David Letterman is older than Johnny Carson was when Carson retired.
2. I’m older than David Letterman was when he began hosting Late Night.
When Johnny Carson aired his final Tonight Show in 1992, I had recently turned 14. I was old enough to understand that Carson’s retirement was a big deal, although I couldn’t appreciate it on the same level that my parents could.
Letterman’s show was, in some ways, an evolution of—and a reaction to—Carson’s Tonight Show. Some of that was by design, as the Carson team specifically forbade Late Night from mimicking certain elements that would have made the program too similar to Johnny’s. For example, Letterman wasn’t allowed to do a lengthy, Carson-esque monologue, and Paul Shaffer’s “World’s Most Dangerous Band” could only be a four-piece, not a full orchestra like the Tonight Show had.
Coupling Letterman’s own creativity with the external pressure of Carson’s restrictions gave birth to the most innovative talk show ever, and the most innovative late-night program of any kind in history, with the possible exception of Ernie Kovacs‘ brief stint as the host of Tonight.
Letterman would be the first to admit that he could never be as good as Carson at what Johnny did best. Dave wasn’t nearly as charming as Johnny Carson was. He also didn’t have Johnny’s acting chops or more multifaceted background as a performer. To wit: Carson had begun his entertainment career as a young magician, of all things, but he later gained experience as a game-show host and possessed musical abilities entirely beyond the scope of Letterman’s more finite skill set.
But that was the point.
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