IS IT OR ISN'T IT?

IT'S NOT ABOUT

the COFFEE

               (stupid! ) 

Whether you take yours straight, strong, or flavored with a flourish of creams and chemicals, there's one thing you might not have seriously considered at all: though java has earned a robust reputation for tenderly tweaking our dopamine reserves, it's not ALWAYS about the coffee, per se.

Still, as I bemoan my increasingly frequent status as one besieged by the latest round of power outages, the earlier hours I endured were very quick to remind me that repeatedly reheating my own cup of java is truly exasperating 'sans microwave'.

Yet, there were no microwaves in 1969, and what we did not 'know of', similarly failed to faze us in the least.

 Keep thinking 1969...The opening scene of Season 7's MadMen made its debut last Sunday night at 10:00 PM and we ardent fans sat poised. We waited (and wanted) to be fed our elixir of evolving characters so keenly colorful that they've become seamlessly embedded within our own malleable psyches... much like mental pabulum.

Mid-way or so through the first episode of what is purported to be this Emmy-award winning show's last and final season (Boo-Hoo), we viewers got a frenetic foretaste of Olson's angst. Lead female protagonist 'Peggy Olson' is rapidly becoming uncomfortably self-aware in the company kitchenette. Earlier on, there was a casual reference to her being made 'chief coffee maker', though it's patently clear she's still an emerging copywriter fast on the rise. There's an ongoing ad-agency merger (of sorts) and last year's concluding episode witnessed a less than amicable 'un-coupling' between her and upper level ad-man, Ted Shaw. But where can she run to in that tiny little kitchen when Ted suddenly walks in to assemble his morning toast? Quick thinking has her bellowing for Stan to promptly bring the can of roasted coffee beans; yet really, it's her Oscar-worthy attempt at distraction: i.e., look important ... appear preoccupied ... feign disinterest.

Hence, was anyone utterly surprised, later on, when Stan offhandedly quips that , "I really don't believe that your request had anything to do with coffee". Ugh! This gratuitous observation from the likes of Stan, one whom we've been led to assume all along is about as intuitive as a brazen baboon.

 Yet, perhaps therein lies the subtle core premise (or thread, if you will) that informally ties the various Madison Avenue characters together vis-a-vis Episode 1/Season 7. You know, something along the lines of "things aren't always as they seem... (skim milk masquerades as cream)".

                                          *********************************

Case in point: immediately within seconds of this season's opener, old-timer Freddy Rumsen delivers an inspiring monologue extolling the virtues of a certain wrist-watch. As I attentively gazed into his shopworn face and eyes, I also found myself emotionally congratulating his character for a 'phoenix-esque' resurrection of sorts. Admit it, he's the benevolent underdog we automatically cheer for and only wish well. However, near hour's end, a completely different scenario was coyly unfolding  as the truth tumbled in a quasi free-fall from Freddie's very lips: we had been covertly duped; the creative genius behind the "Swiss watch pitch" was Don Draper; Rumsen was merely his convenient mouthpiece while the former nursed a mandatory work leave. Don, on the other hand, shocked the hell out of us only minutes before last season's curtain call. In all honesty, I suspect he was letting us share in his childhood narcissistic injury and lick at his cavernous psychological wounds in sheer empathy. For those savvy enough to 'get it', this moment of vulnerability also allows him to thoroughly explain the nascent seeds of his NPD and subsequently validate the 'why' of his malignant behavioral traits without us totally despising him.

Then there's his child-wife, Megan, who has recently set up home in the Hollywood canyons (howling night-time coyote included) in an effort to reconcile the complexities of their bi-coastal connection. But there's this definite nagging uncertainty that hovers under the marital covers. Looking very 1969-ish at every turn, this ersatz Yardley make-up model, forever adrift in baby doll attire, wears her insecurities (especially regarding her incessantly philandering hubby) as flawlessly as her micro-minis. When Don wishes to 'celebrate', Megan demurs, "citing nervousness", even though her true issues are essentially those of trust and lack thereof. Nevertheless, to fully articulate said issues might also force her to finally confront them. In the end, denial seems far less terrifying. Alas... They shall remain unspoken. Though in doing so, Megan has, in point of fact, betrayed herself.  

Season 7 also finds Peggy Olson assuming the role of land-lord (? land-lady), though the latter is obviously fraught with unwelcome baggage. When a tenant's young child berates her about a defective crapper, Peggy quickly postures that she is above dealing with trivial insanitary matters (who would stoop so low?). She seriously needs everyone around her to bow down in deference  to her ever-increasing responsibilities via Madison Avenue; to have her hands possibly sullied at this point is literal anathema. Luckily there's a maintenance-minded brother-in-law who comes to her emotional rescue in rectifying the troubling toilet. Yet, soon after his departure, Peggy has a  bleakly brutal, prostrate meltdown. Is it that Peggy secretly senses she is not 'all things' to 'all people' that prompts this face-smack-down-on-the-floor scenario? Or perhaps it was the culmination of too many mundane nuisances, juxtaposed against her keen ambition within the creative arm of the Ad World, that finally got to her? Yes, Peggy, life has clay feet and it's easy to feel marginalized (particularly with a new boss who's highly immune to your natural charms).

Of course, preternaturally voluptuous Joni just can't seem to garner the appropriate degree of

R-E-S-P-E-C-T. In fact, Aretha Franklin could well have included this character's dilemma amid the words of her well-recognized and vigorously iconic tune. Prospective clients treat Ms. Holloway as a serious case of "mammary steal" (vs. subclavian steal for you medical types). Contrariwise, Joan feels compelled to gingerly chomp at the bit in order to prove that she can flex her cerebral cortex just as deftly as any other ad man (or woman). All the while cutting her business teeth on the footwear account, she inopportunely encounters a quintessential cad who callously dampens her budding brio with suggestive overtures. To make matters worse, Kenny Cosgrove tosses a few rejoinders that insinuate she's still wet behind the ears when it comes to knowing the 'ins and outs' of accounts. Having said that though, Joan has proven previous to this that she merits our gentle consideration as the 'commensurate survivor', thus  leading me to  suspect we've not seen the last of her valiant efforts in signifying her inherent worth.

Roger Sterling, on the other hand, has never
 engendered our respect.

The tacit implication is that this cunning gray fox was born with a silver spoon snug between his un-erupted incisors. The sorry litany of his actions reeks of unrepentant entitlement, unrequited greed, and the occasional foray into sociopathy. Clearly, the show's writers have not been hesitant in pointing to his gilded upbringing as a major source of the intensely self-absorbed demeanor that follows Mr. Sterling 24/7... without apology. On the very subject of apology, his daughter Margaret seems entirely sincere when she extends an olive branch his way as the two of them enjoy an elegant brunch at her behest. Yet good ol' Roger appears miffed: is she possibly asking him for an apology of sorts? He has absolutely nothing for which to apologize! Moreover, even if she thinks he 'should' [apologize], make no mistake about this: he won't! At this point, I'm sure that many long-time viewers were weighing whether Roger Sterling is, in fact, even capable of genuine love; i.e., given that he obviously cannot put his personal needs behind those of his very own flesh and blood. Meanwhile, [back home] his private domicile has devolved into a depraved youth hostel; his king-sized bed, a refuge for profligate pleasures of the flesh. Nestled within the confines of the headboard and footboard, lay the dissolute image of Dorian Gray, embodied by none other than Roger Sterling; the latter has "known many" [as clearly depicted by the capable lens of the director's cameras]. Remember the book he penned, "Sterling Gold"? As of now, the eponymous author appears on a collision course with 'sterling mold' if he doesn't remedy his degenerate debauchery. However, I do enjoy this character's occasional attempts at self-effacing false modesty. His pulls this off with an aplomb that co-worker Pete Campbell could never muster. Though, in truth, it may simply be that Campbell lacks the requisite measure of calculated guile. Pete 'strives' for astuteness but always seems to come up short. The difference is: Roger does not suffer fools gladly; Pete, on the other hand, is only too glad NOT to be made the fool.

But in the end, as the closing curtain draws its imperfect silhouette around Peggy, pummeling her apartment's hard wooden floor in the manner of a frantic schoolgirl, there's another figure that hides in the gathering gloom. We watch as his trembling hands cradle an amber glass bottle and attempt to draw an indelible mark on its sloping side; next, he studies the level of noxious liquid that has sunk lower and lower since only hours prior...and the talented camera filming the scene makes sure we 'see' what this advertising genius (temporarily put out to pasture) already 'knows'. In a metaphorical sense, the swirling abyss of liquid is his life...and everything he holds dear...and it's sinking fast. But it's not coffee. If life is to ever carry on in a normal fashion, all denial must ultimately cease and desist: liquor is not coffee... just as coffee is not [always and forever] about "making coffee". Head held hopelessly in hands, Don Draper appears totally and completely LOST on that cold January balcony. The hazy overlay hints at a subliminal subtext between smoke and mirrors and the escapades of various characters that have paraded their wares for six straight seasons. "I'm a man, yes I am, yes I am" sounds good on paper; still, as the smoke slowly settles in the mythical land of Oz, the closing scene is set to the strains of the 60's hit Set Me Free and it takes on a haunting quality... and that shadowy figure 'of a man on top of an ice cold balcony' silently weeps. This man who once appeared to "have it all" has come exceedingly close to "losing it all".

YET HE CHOOSES NOT TO JUMP.

[But don't kid yourself...he can't!

We're still awash in prime time!!!]

                                                            written by L.P.-G.