My parents refuse to watch Mad Men. "I lived that already," said my mother. Neither of them feel affection for the early '60s — for my mom, it reminds her of being unhappy in high school, and for my father, it reminds him of being unhappy at Caltech. When I watch the show and marvel at the feminist themes, my mother is painfully reminded that women were not "allowed" to wear pants, or pursue careers, or talk to their doctors about their sex lives. To this day, my mother supports Planned Parenthood because it was the only place she could go as a young woman to get birth control with no judgment.
My folks can wax nostalgic about the later 1960s — liberation, man! — despite the fact that my dad was at UC Berkeley during all the excitement, and was such a physics nerd that he didn't even notice the tear gas.
And now Mad Men is about to end. The first episode of the final season begins on Easter, which is perhaps supposed to be a metaphor for Don Draper's descent from dapper douchebag to drunken-dapper-displaced-douchebag who's about to be thrown into a whole new decade. You were cool in '63, Don, but in '73? Squaresville.
The final season has been cut into two parts, with The Beginning, which aired at this time last year, and now The End Of An Era, which starts on Easter. AMC has perfected the idea of stretching shit out as long as possible.
As for me, I remain a fan of the show, though not rabid like some folks. Strangely, it is the commentary on womanhood that most interests me. I say "strangely" because I went to Mills College and overdosed on feminism. I got sick of it. But I guess it has always been a part of me, down deep; a sleeping giantess. When Peggy moves up the ladder, or Betty is valued purely by her looks, or Carla struggles with not only being a woman in that culture but also being black, well, my cognitive pinball machine goes full tilt. I love it.
And nothing makes me more depressed than seeing young women today who say they don't "need" feminism, as if it's a bad word. This is still a man's world.
Pimps and johns still walk while women and young girls get rounded up and arrested. A black male became president before a white woman did. Thirty women can accuse a famous man of rape, and people will call them all liars. So when I watch Mad Men, I'm relieved things have changed, yet am reminded that we ain't fully there yet.
The other big part of the show for me is its portrayal of alcoholism, which is subtle despite the depiction of everyone drinking whiskey at every turn. It's subtle in that there really is zero commentary on the fact that everyone drinks at work. This actually hasn't changed much in 50 years — the tech workers have happy hours and happy lunches, and probably a few of them even have happy breakfasts. The idea that good-time drinking is a normal part of life still abides.
The shame in drinking seems to come when you admit you have a problem and get help. You can be a total lush and tipple till you topple, but tell the world you can't handle drinking anymore, and you are suddenly viewed differently.
We saw that last week, when Jon Hamm admitted to going to 30-day rehab for booze. Most people rightly pointed out the irony, since his character, Don Draper, desperately needs a 12-step program. "Jon Hamm breaks his silence" was the header on both People.com and E!, as if he had been abducted by some bizarre sex cult and was finally ready to tell his story.
Other outlets blamed the pressure of playing an antihero, citing James Gandolfini's substance problems in the wake of playing Tony Soprano. There are certainly similar things that contribute to someone becoming addicted to alcohol, but it happens across every single culture and class. I guess we haven't really grasped that as a society yet. We are still in 1963, and Mad Men might show us how far we have come, but it also underscores how far we have to go.
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