In my 38 years on this earth, I’ve
smoked exactly two cigarettes. And I
wouldn’t even count those two as being smoked; I lit them up for comedic effect
amongst friends, blew on them, but to quote that sage wit/ladies’ man from
Arkansas, I did not inhale. I’ve been
legitimately drunk four, maybe five times.
All over a woman. Or women, for
that matter. Such a classic and clichéd male
response. I didn’t drink at all until I
was 22, and then only on very rare occasions.
Four years ago, I returned to my teetotaling ways, possibly due to the
long shadow that my late father (who was an alcoholic, and smoked for 40 plus
years…but a great dad and human being as well) cast, but mostly because I never
much liked imbibing and I wanted to rededicate myself to outliving my
friends. Okay, in all honesty, the rise
to world fame of pro wrestler CM Punk (who espouses the straight edge lifestyle
both in his career and regular life) served as my main impetus. But that’s another story for another day.
Yet for someone who takes such
little interest in the classic vices, I’ve devoted a good chunk of the last six
years of my life to a television show that has done more to portray the
seductive and destructive glamor of these accoutrements than any other work of
modern mass media.
In many ways, Mad Men has been the unlikeliest of cultural
institutions of this so-called new Golden Age of Television. Pitch the show’s premise (advertising
executives struggle to stay relevant as the ‘60s progress, vintage bad behavior
is indulged) without any of the finer details and you have what sounds like a
fairly plodding story arc. It’s built
around a sub-sociopath of a main character who’s not a cancer-riddled meth cook,
or a mob boss in therapy, or an alcoholic cop chasing a deadly drug gang. He chain smokes (a somewhat radical concept
in the modern tobacco-phobic media environment), drinks himself to oblivion on
a regular basis, cheats on his wife, and lives a generally reprehensible and
self-serving existence. His wife begins
as a victim, but is then revealed to possess the stunted psyche of a little
girl; she becomes a cold enigma as the show progresses. The second-billed character is a neophyte
secretary who serves as audience proxy, but she too becomes a much colder,
pragmatic, and distant character as the show goes on. Her romantic interest is an Ivy League weasel
who makes the show’s lead look downright wholesome. The comic relief bosses are a pair of Ayn
Rand worshipping, rabid capitalists who really only care about the bottom
line. And the younger supporting
characters are generally feckless drones in a cutthroat environment. A death happens here and there, but the most
radically dramatic moments usually involve an office argument.
As more than one of my friends
has said to me “Mad Men is so
depressing.” Or “I made it through
Season 1, but by the time I got halfway through Season 2, I hated everyone
except for one of the secretaries.” Or “Boy,
it looks great, but does anything actually happen?” The
West Wing this ain’t. But Matthew Weiner’s
fin de siècle epic has never been too concerned with likeable protagonists and
satisfying audience expectations (a lesson he learned well in the writers’ room
of the final few seasons of The Sopranos.) And it’s been this dedication to the purity
of his storytelling pursuit (along with singlehandedly reviving mid-century
fashion and that distinct strain of Rat Pack-style cool) that has propelled the
show into the pantheon of great filmed entertainment…and I’d argue into the
pantheon of great art.
My connection to Mad Men began partway through its
run. And much like Don Draper’s best ad
pitches (which are carefully cloaked bit of self-analysis), it came out of desperation. In my former life as a high school English
teacher, I made my bones for quite some time teaching elective courses at the
Junior and Senior level. The workload
was often challenging, but I could also rest assured that, more often than not,
I was getting the cream of the crop enrolling in my courses…or the students who
actually liked me. It was all generally
fun, but then the day came, early in 2009, when the department decided to
reorganize teaching assignments. Up to
that point, I had successfully (or stubbornly, depending on your viewpoint)
avoided dipping below the Junior level, but I was left with little choice but
to take on a section of Sophomores in the next year. I was none too pleased, and in my imagination
I pictured this as the final straw.
Because, you know, I could never debase my brilliance by teaching
Sophomores. Ah, the stories we tell
ourselves.
Faced with this new challenge, I
took solace in the fact that Sophomore year focused on American Literature, which
I had taught when that subject was settled in a year-long Junior class several
years hence. So I could drag out some of
the old warhorses that I still knew and loved.
But how to mix things up? My
answer came when I finally broke down that spring and watched the first season
of Mad Men on DVD. And then it all clicked.
The year before, I had created a trimester
course in which the class read David Simon’s classic non-fiction tome Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets
while watching Seasons 1 and 2 of his HBO masterpiece The Wire. My aim was to
combine the literary chops of an English course with the sociopolitical musings
of a history course and the formal and cultural analysis of a good art
course. The regular homework entailed
writing weekly two page essays that drew analytical similarities between each
week’s episode(s) and the assigned reading.
For a good deal of the term, most of the students were fairly befuddled
by this requirement. But they enjoyed
watching McNulty fight crime in a drunken, womanizing haze. And, as most people do, they loved Omar’s
modern day Robin Hood act. So it all
evened out in the end. Some of that
first crew still reminisces fondly about our time together. One or two probably still want to kill
me. Such is life.
As I watched Mad Men’s maiden run, I realized that this could be fertile ground
for reimagining the Homicide/Wire
course for the Sophomore level. I
already planned on teaching Fitzgerald’s The
Great Gatsby and Tim O’Brien’s In the
Lake of the Woods, two books whose themes and tropes overlapped so heavily
with those of Mad Men that I figured students
would have an easy time seeing the connections (my hopes turned out to be
slightly inflated…and some call me a cynic!)
And Matt Weiner’s story, while complex in so many ways, was also highly
accessible on a plot level; these Sophomores wouldn’t have to immediately dive
into the deep end of the story pool like they would with The Wire.
And so, I designed a winter
trimester plan in which the Fitzgerald and O’Brien books took the place of Homicide, and Season 1 of Mad Men served as the main viewing
requirement. We would watch one episode
a week (two episodes during a few weeks) and then students would take that week’s
reading and draw analytical similarities between it and the episode(s) they
viewed. The dreariness of Ohio winter
seemed like the perfect time to change things up a bit, and watching a season
of this modern classic of a drama the perfect vehicle. When we finished each episode, I’d take
questions from the students, clear up any confusion about plot points,
etc. We’d discuss character development,
the historical relevance of certain plot threads and events, and I’d try to
hint at some connections they could draw on for that week’s essay.
I ran this curriculum for that
first section of Sophomores, and continued to do so for three more years with
the entire Sophomore class. Some of them
probably thought I was a bit crazy. The
true believers among them thrived in such an environment. Others grew to despise those weekly essays
with a white hot fury. Still others
probably thought that my nights were spent in a Clockwork Orange-style
contraption, visually mainlining loops of a soused Don Draper hooking up with
unattainable women. At the very least,
many enjoyed the exploits of Don, Betty, Peggy, Pete, Sterling, Cooper, Midge,
Midge’s dirty beatnik lover, Rachel, Sally in the plastic bag, and creepy
Glen. And sometimes in education (and in
life), you have to take the small victories.
‘Cause in the grand tally, a victory is still a victory. Unless you’re a character on The Wire, where all victories are pyrrhic
at best.
This coming April 5th
marks the beginning of the end for Mad
Men, as the final seven episodes start rolling out to the world. I’ve been thinking a lot about the show and
the impact it’s had on my life. About
the young people who might have gained even the smallest insight on life by
thinking about the connection between Don Draper and Jay Gatsby. About the former colleagues whom I clashed
with over the supposed pedagogical appropriateness of watching an entire season
of a television show in school. About the
deep satisfaction and existential thrill that I always derived from the whole
experience.
A month ago, I convinced myself
that in the lead up to the final episodes, I would run through the entirety of
the show from the beginning, writing a new essay for each episode. That turned out to be highly improbable. And the writing would have probably caved in
around Season 3, from the tight deadline alone.
But I’m prepared to embark upon this endeavor in compromised form
nonetheless. So in the few weeks before
April 5th, I’ll be diving in once more to that first season and
penning an essay for each of its 13 episodes.
Some of this literary journey will feature insights into the show
itself, examining old happenings anew and reflecting on how they eventually
played out in the dramatic arc of this fictional universe. Some will feature stories from my adventures
teaching the show to Sophomores.
Hopefully, all of it will be, at the very least, somewhat
entertaining. Or amusing. Or as amusing as a show about encroaching
dread and obsolescence can be. After
all, in my final run of teaching this curriculum, a small group of students
would occasionally serenade me at odd moments with the iconic “Doo doo, doo doo”
melody of RJD2’s Mad Men theme. Something that can produce that type of
advanced level goofiness can’t be all bad, right?
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