Wednesday, October 19, 2011
I grew up thinking the sixties must have been magical. Even when I was thirteen and studying Black Civil Rights at school, the romance remained; there seemed so much to live for because there was so much to fight for. I know now I was deluded; really just confused. I had thought of the late sixties as 'the sixties', plus everything had a wonderful and distracting soundtrack. I really thought this song was from the fifties until last night, when I finally saw The Help, and I've realised I thought much of what I see in Mad Men was fifties America. I think I need to do some more reading.
Anyway, we're almost through season two of Mad Men, and I have decided on a few things:
1. Don Draper is not a Man of Mystique, he is just Fucking Boring. This is a phenomenon we still see today; the man who is rude and controlling but gets his way (and his women) because we think there are Hidden Depths. Most times, there are not. There is just a moron with no original thought, or a nut-job who is paranoid, or, most charming, He Who Cannot Be Bothered. All three can take a running jump.
2. Why do we have to keep watching Don, and the re-establishing of things we already know about him, always in slow-motion? There are three (plus) interesting stories that we are being drip-fed at the same time! I want so much to know more about Peggy, Betty, and Joan. This may be because, as my boss gave as a reason for giving up on the series, there is no-one to side with, and I feel I can side with them because they are women. Whatever the reason, it's becoming very frustrating seeing so much of Don kissing and smoking and looking concerned when these three women are fascinating.
3. I've given up on my concerns about glorifying a time of oppression by dressing like the women in Mad Men. I'll think about it some more, but I think their clothes may not be any more oppressing than ours; at least that's what I've been telling myself when putting on my bright skirts and red lipstick and pinning my hair every day this week. And this can't be a bad thing: Christina Hendricks has been my inspiration to keep the four kilograms I've somehow (four tablespoons of sugar on my porridge) put on in the last couple of weeks. I don't have the boobs to balance the look, but I have hips and a bum that just weren't made for jeggings. Maybe I subconsciously think I look more attractive this way (I do seem to slink a bit more when I wear lipstick) but I think this is an Affirmation Of Nature and What I Am (the hips and bottom, not the lipstick, although I do stay within my lip-line; Momma didn't raise no clown). Please don't quote me when I'm drinking Pure Blonde and skipping breakfast in two months time.
(You'll want to mute this; Peggy Lee would roll over in her grave.)
Why didn't I get the boobs? Or the hair?
It would've been nice if I was a red-head. Yes, then nothing could have stopped us.