
Watching DVDs of Matthew Weiner's brilliant show, Mad Men lately and continue to find myself thinking about catharsis and what this country has just been through over the past eight years.
It has been pointed out by more keen observers than I, that a kind of illness had gripped the nation under the last regime and that amorality and unbridled cynicism in a society quite effectively trickles down... much moreso than money, for example.
Abu Ghraib is just one example of the corrosive and corrupting influence of a system that values power and power-grabbing above basic decency and humanity. (In short, the bad boys' attitude in the White House infected the world view of those young cadets serving in Iraq.)
Is it just me, or can Mad Men be viewed as a kind of opportunity for healing in a post-Bush era?
More than one of the fully-realized characters depicted in this early 60s world exhibit symptoms of the inner rot that often follows a loss of one's moral compass. Take the tormented and self-pitying Betty Draper, played by January Jones. All her rage comes from one source, her philandering husband, Don Draper, and yet, she manages some brilliant transferences. She tortures her little boy with her unforgiving gaze to the point of virtual psychosis. She's convinced he's a little liar (her words) and treats him accordingly every chance she gets. It's so much easier to torment a 5-year-old than to actually confront her husband about his abusive neglect.
In another fascinating and frighteningly real episode, she channels her rage at discovering her husband's infidelity not in the predictable manner one would expect -- having an affair of her own. Instead, she conspires to throw her riding pal into the arms of a young man who has been baldly lusting after her for weeks. In this way, she satisfies the need to destroy something without directly ruining her own marriage and the effect for the viewer is far more chilling. After playing matchmaker to these two married people and then hearing of the infidelity from her female friend on the phone, she turns icy and judgmental as though she could never have imagined the outcome and she offers zero pity for her so-called friend who, we imagine, may now have put her own marriage in jeopardy.
Another example of this sort of transference occurs in a character who is swiftly discarded after Season 2. The Head of Accounts, a guy known mainly by his nickname, Duck. He struggles with his own demons -- a broken marriage and his own alcoholism, which he has somehow managed to keep in check until the pressure of the game gets the best of him and he yields to temptation and falls deep into the bottle. What's so fascinating (and again, truthful in a way that television rarely is) is that the first gesture he makes toward yielding to the bottle is not to take a drink. It's a chilling scene in which he calmly walks his dog Chauncey out the front door of the office building at night, removing his beloved dog's leash, shutting the glass doors between them, and walking coldly away as his dog, left completely alone on a city sidewalk eventually wanders into the night never to be seen again.
The act of abandoning his dog is the first step he must take in destroying his own life. Having lost his wife and kids to divorce, the dog is the only creature depending on him for regular care. Unburdened, having sent his "best friend" off to an uncertain fate, he is free to embrace his demons with abandon.
This sort of stuff is rare on stage, let alone on the small screen. It's a testament to AMC, to Lionsgate and most of all to Mr. Weiner and his fabulous team that we get the pleasure of this sort of catharsis for a few weeks each year.
[for more on Mad Men, see Robert David Sullivan's most recent post.]