Mad Men: "Meditations in an Emergency"

At last we come to the temporary end of Mad Men, which has become my favorite drama on television. Though it means nothing in and of itself, my appraisal is that Season 2 surpasses the brilliant inaugural season, transforming a deeply real portrait of what has become of the American dream into a meditation on America's quest for meaning on the cusp of its most volatile period. Spoilers for Season 2 to follow.

We open the season as we should, in front of a mirror, instantly presenting two overriding themes: appearances and self-reflection. "Maidenform" also opens with a mirror montage, and the season itself is mirrored with the doctor's office scenes--opening with Don told he has high blood pressure and closing with Betty discovering she's pregnant--and Frank O'Hara's Meditations in an Emergency.

This season's most gripping drama has been the plight of the Drapers' marriage. The first half sees Don's affair with Bobbie Barrett, and the second half follows Don's soul-searching after Betty forces a separation. Bobbie's brashness turned off a lot of viewers, but Matt Weiner put it best: "She's not Rachel Menken." We all fell in love with Rachel Menken last year, but it's a darker time for America and Don, and a woman that brings out his uglier sides is required. "This is America. Pick a job and then become the person that does it." Melinda McGraw stole nearly every scene she was in as Bobbie, believable even in her wilder moments and the catalyst for this season's existential crisis.

With a show that casts such a wide net, it's difficult to distill the overarching themes or stories--like searching for a unifying theory of everything--but one certainty is that Betty Draper consistently riveted as she grew into a fallible human being. January Jones has always had a knack for the passionless housewife mores, but she broke my heart in "The Wheel" when she reaches out to Glen. "I can't talk to anyone. It's horrible. I'm so sad." Living that life is one thing; recognizing its limitations is doubly tragic.

By 1962, Betty had managed to suppress her growing need for independence, mostly because she hadn't been forced to change and was willing to trade confronting Don's transgressions for a more involved husband. But Jimmy Barrett sets her back on that path by forcing her to admit what they both know. "A Night to Remember" is a devastating showcase for Jones, as she wanders the house like the ghost she's always been, and even though she can't find a single hint of wrongdoing, she already knows the truth. She can't go back.

She thinks of herself as a balloon that will float away without Don, painfully acknowledging her helplessness. But as she discovers, she isn't the same caged bird she was in 1960. She's on the other side of the glass from the mannequins now. She doesn't reconcile with Don because of his letter, but rather because she's proven to herself that she is capable of independence. Not that her adultery was necessarily good, but Betty needed to assert herself as a force capable of independent action. Weiner has referred to her arc this year as adolescence, which thrills me for Betty's future. She rebels to mature, and maybe now the Drapers have a shot at a real marriage.

Duck's merger is the other prominent marriage of the season, and that alliance also comes together in an unexpected way. Like Don's Birdie, Duck is having trouble learning to fly. At first I thought he might actually present a credible alternative to the entrenched conservative ideology at Sterling Cooper, but soon enough he was goading Pete into capitalizing on his father's death. But Duck doesn't like what he sees in the mirror, or his dog's eyes, so he gets rid of the mirror instead of changing the reflection. By the end of the season, he's reverted to the alcoholic ways that presumably got him fired from Putnam, Powell, and Lowe in the first place, but he manages to keep it together just long enough to negotiate the merger.

Mark Moses is such a valuable asset to the show I hate to think he's gone already, but that meeting apparently sealed his fate. At the very least, I doubt he'll be the new president of Sterling Cooper. Even without that outburst, Duck Phillips is no Freddie Rumsen. He can't operate on the sauce, and eventually he'd be fired anyway. So Don sits back and calmly informs him of his thoughts regarding the merger, provoking Duck to bury himself. Provide your own joke about Duck's goose being cooked.

While we're on the subject, Freddie Rumsen will be missed. He recognized Peggy's talent back when she was just a lowly pair of boobs, and during the guys' crude jokes about the Relaxiciser, he always made sure to include Peggy. Despite peeing his pants and sleeping through a meeting, Freddie Rumsen is a decent guy, and "Six Months Leave" was a heartfelt sendoff. Like all conclusions this season, Freddie's departure was steeped in anxiety. "If I don't go into that office every day, who am I?" Who knew the guy who played Mozart on his zipper had such a capacity for existentialism? On second thought, that absolutely explains his alcoholism.

Identity has always plagued Don Draper. In fact, it drove the entire first season, matched in importance only by the question of the American dream. We come to understand much of who Don Draper is, but we never really get a grasp on the American dream. People used to come to this country for freedom, and after we industrialized the dream was opportunity. By 1960, I suppose it had a bit to do with being who you want to be and having a happy, comfortable life with your family, which Don and Betty realize by "The Wheel" is hollow.

So the second season is spent searching for truth. Peggy's story sums this up best. She foreshadows her beautiful revelation to Pete by telling him to be honest about losing the Clearasil account. "People respect that." Then she takes a page from her own book and admits--as much to herself as to Pete--that she had his baby and gave it away. I hate to wax cliche, but the truth shall set you free.

One of my favorite scenes from the series is when Kurt announces he's gay to the junior staff of Sterling Cooper. Joan has never been nonplussed until that moment, looking to the others to see how to react. Poor Peggy, thinking she was going on a date and then freezing self-consciously, before playing it supportive (I remain impressed at how perfectly Peggy interacts with her coworkers). And Sal, eyes watering, thunderstruck at the simplicity of the act, stands frozen next to Ken, the object of his infatuation. Kurt wasn't about to be lured into the trap of posturing we've seen throughout the show, and he doesn't appear to be at all concerned that this will affect his reputation. For him, coming out wasn't about bravery; the truth was a simple necessity.

For Don and Betty, truth is about finding meaning in their lives, hence Don's dive into European art films and Betty's fantasies of Fitzgerald. Betty realizes what passes for her life is ultimately empty, and Don, deprived of his constants, is forced to really examine his place in the world. Joan gets what she's always wanted only to realize its limitations, and she gets a taste at a more pleasurable life only to have it taken away. In response, Roger convinces himself of his happiness drowning in easy money and a younger girl. Sal gets a look at the freedom of honesty, Pete grows up a little, and Peggy finds peace. The mad men and women are encountering truth to varying degrees of success.

None of this would matter if the show weren't expertly written and acted. Praise for Jon Hamm is getting annoying at this point, except that he continues to dominate. This year also prominently followed January Jones, who matched Hamm the whole way, and Bryan Batt as Sal did more with silence than I thought possible. It's to the show's credit that my biggest complaint is not getting enough time with favorites like Joan and Roger, although I can't think of anything I'd cut to make room.

The production design is as impeccable as the performances, and here are a few of the highlights: the soundscape of the hail hitting the car during Don's first tryst with Bobbie, Bobbie's hairstyle during Jimmy's apology dinner, Betty's Valentine's Day dress, the overcast lighting of the finale, and the anachronistic use of "The Infanta."

While we're listing favorites, some of my other favorite scenes from the season: Joan and Roger discussing Greg in "For Those Who Think Young," Joan ridiculing Paul's poseur ways, Peggy's flashback in "The New Girl," Bert Cooper calling an innocent bysecretary a cow, the kids sneaking into Cooper's office to see his painting, Ken coming to dinner with Sal (and Kitty), the cold tension between Roger, Joan, and Don in "The Inheritance," Roger giving Peggy Freddie's office, and the understated and warm reunion between Joan and Don in the finale.

A sense of impending doom masterfully surged throughout the latter half of the season, beginning with Betty's ghostly image kicking Don out, building as Paul heads to Mississippi and Don and Pete sit through a military presentation, and coming to a head with Joan's rape and the Cuban Missile Crisis. The dread shadowed much of the conclusion so that, as in life, while hopeful endings are possible, we're not remotely certain they'll come to pass. Duck's scheming blew up, Don and Betty reconciled, and Pete and Peggy came clean, but we have no indication that Season 3 will reveal sustained growth.

One glimmer recalls Anna's appraisal of Don: "The only thing keeping you from being happy is the belief that you're alone." We've seen so much isolation on the series, but in the final moments, Don reaches out to Betty, one of the few genuine connections on the series to date.

Now we have to wait about a year until we can return to Madison Avenue. If we jump ahead again, 1964 brings us deeper into what we think of as the '60s, post-Kennedy Beatlemania coupled with the Voting and Civil Rights Acts and the Vietnam War. I think it's safe to say Betty will rock the feminine mystique while Kurt and Peggy rock out to the Beatles at Shea Stadium. It's going to be a long wait.

Don-o-Lantern

Happy Mad Men Season 2 Finale! I am either shivering with excitement or jacked up on caffeine. Either way, can't wait for tonight!

UPDATED: This one's based on "The Mariner's Revenge Song" by the Decemberists. Happy Halloween!

The Elitist Strikes Back

In his review of Synecodoche, New York, the new Charlie Kaufman movie that is currently limited to towns with actual culture, Owen Gleiberman destroyed whatever movie cred he once had. I'll let him do the talking:

"It's a hallowed ritual of film culture. An artist makes a movie that is so labyrinthine and obscure, such a road map of blind alleys, such a turgid challenge to sit through that it sends most people skulking out of the theater--except, that is, for a cadre of eggheads who hail the work as a visionary achievement. It happened in 1961, with that high-society puzzle obscura Last Year at Marienbad, and in 2006, with David Lynch's through-the-looking-glass bore Inland Empire. Now Charlie Kaufman, the brain-tickling screenwriter of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, has directed his first movie, Synecdoche, New York (he also wrote it), and yes, it is one of those "visionary" what-the-hell doozies. Prepare to be told that it's a masterpiece."

Putting aside the fact that his argument rests on movies with a 93% and a 69% on Rotten Tomatoes (hardly minority opinions), Gleiberman's prophecy seems to have come true. Except, that is, when you look at the actual numbers--62% of critics gave it a positive review, which counts as fresh. I still think Gleiberman's right, and critics are just disproportionately elitist relative to the general population.

Since I have yet to see Synecdoche, New York for myself, I have no opinion on it, except that I'm less excited to see it (which may actually work in its favor, if I ever get around to it). But I am fully qualified to question Gleiberman's critical faculties based on his dismissals of Last Year at Marienbad and Inland Empire, not to mention his general disdain for intellectualism.

Gleiberman says these kinds of movies are always a "challenge to sit through." I like challenges. If it's not worth thinking about, it's not worth watching. He says these kinds of movies frustrate all but a "cadre of eggheads." Far be it for me to question the great and talented Owen, but is he saying only a small group of smart people "get" these movies? Is that such a bad thing?

Not every movie can have the mass appeal of Beverly Hills Chihuahua or Max Payne, the box office champions of the past month. Some movies aspire to be more than shoot-for-the-middle time-wasters; they require a more intellectual audience. Sorry, is that elitist?

Last Year at Marienbad is not impenetrable. For one, it's intentionally open to whatever interpretation an audience member chooses, according to director Alain Resnais, but further, it's not a traditional narrative that even requires an interpretation. As we wander the halls and explore the baroque forms, who cares what the "plot" is? Just behold Resnais' gliding camera and that haunting organ. Leave the intellectualizing to those East Coast elites.

Of course, some of us eggheads actually do care to interpret. Otherwise, it's like the movie talked at you rather than to you. Where Gleiberman was put off by a dreamy story that doubles back on itself and refuses to allow easy interpretation, many of us were entranced by a mis-en-scene that questions the very language of film. Like the ornate decor of the hotel, narrative structure is manifestly unnecessary. Resnais illustrates connections between the mind's realms of memory, dream, and imagination that temporarily overwhelm the viewer's conceptions of what art can do. At that moment, everything seems possible. You wonder why you're just now discovering what you knew as a child. For me, it was like reaching a Koopa castle, pleasurably challenging, and afterward, I advanced a level. (And they say our generation has no culture!)

I hesitate to call the New Wave classic surrealist, but it certainly takes a page from Dali and Bunuel's book. Inland Empire, on the other hand, defies all classification except for surrealism. Such blatant disregard for the rules all other movies obey is understandably aggravating at first (I'm guessing Gleiberman's not a fan of Magritte or Cocteau). For Lynch, disorientation is key to succumbing to his nightmarish schemes. But lack of comprehension does not entitle the critic to dismiss.

In cases like this, I think the intellectually honest thing to do is to admit you didn't get it. Maybe you can suggest that there's not much to get, but again, you can't be sure because you didn't get it. That doesn't mean not taking to the film is an incorrect opinion. It just requires a caveat.

(To be fair, Gleiberman did admit he stopped trying to figure out the movie. He then gave it a D+.)

Moreover, suggesting that you're right because, even though some critics love it, you made room for them in your argument is weak. You want to give the film a scathing review? Attack it on its own merits. When critics give it glowing reviews, you can attack those too. But writing off their positive reviews before they've been written betrays willful ignorance. You're acting like a Republican.

Chuck Klosterman has this theory that a certain segment of the population--let's call them a cadre of eggheads--are Advanced. Sorry to make you feel inferior. Cue Klosterman: "When a genius does something that appears idiotic, it does not necessarily mean he suddenly sucks. What it might mean is that he's doing something you cannot understand because he has Advanced beyond you."

So maybe, just maybe, Resnais, Lynch, and Kaufman have Advanced beyond Owen Gleiberman. I don't subscribe to Advancement theory--it annoys my democratic principles--and its circular "logic," but misunderstood art is a time-honored tradition. The Gleibermans of history are just playing their parts in the grand scheme. Hey, that's a synecdoche. Small world.

Who is the Real America?

Yesterday at a rally, Vice Presidential nominee and former SNL comedian Sarah Palin shed some light on the real America: "We believe that the best of America is in these small towns that we get to visit, and in these wonderful little pockets of what I call the real America, being here with all of you hard-working, very patriotic, um, very, um, pro-America areas of this great nation."

The secret's out! Small towns have a monopoly on patriotism!

I guess now all the cityfolk can go back to being lazy, and, um, very, um, anti-American (to be fair, the Repubutante may have been implying cityfolk aren't anti-American, just mildly American). Which reminds me of Senator Obama's stump speech in New York last week, where he declared the following: "You know, I've been all across this thoroughly underwhelming nation of ours, and I have to say, I find the best of America, the unprecedentedly opportunistic, reside right here in the most un-American hotspots."

It's true. Cities just smell gross, you know? A hint of curry wafting through the steamy urine, mixing with the unmistakable stink of poor people. I much prefer the cool, crisp air of the country. What is that sweet nectar, is that hay with the slightest hint of molasses? No, it's compost. Mmmm, tell me more about this compost you speak of.

Governor Palin has it exactly right. Countryfolk are just more patriotic, as evidenced by my gaudy array of Americana on everything from my house to my apparrel. Yes that is a reenactment of the Nativity made up of Support Our Troops and Freedom Isn't Free magnets on my pick-up. Good luck finding a single American flag lapel pin in the cities.

Now I'm not racist, but black people could learn a thing or two about patriotism. First, slavery happened like 300 years ago, get over it. Second, since you have all these special rights now that racism is over, the least you could do is show some respect by getting a job instead of scamming the welfare system. As long as you don't take advantage of affirmative action.

I didn't mean to rant. I'm just sick of going to pick up my welfare check for my pregnant teenage daughters and running into all these gang-bangers with their belts around their knees. These people wouldn't know a hard day's work if it was right in front of them. That's why I like the small towns whose racial composition more closely resembles a Klan rally than the average American cross-section.

My favorite thing about Governor Palin, though, is that she's not afraid to take a stand. Even though the majority of this country supports moving in a liberal direction, she knows that's not the real America. She doesn't need to pander to her audience. She just claims the majority of voters are anti-American. Now that's what I call a maverick!

Friday Night Lights Season 3

Julie: Dad, I only eat free-range eggs.
Coach Taylor: Honey, that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Eat your damn eggs.

Friday Night Lights is back! Three episodes in, I'm very pleased with how the season is fleshing out. We've only got ten more this go-round, and then we'll likely have to wait until May for any shot at renewal. If this turns out to be the end, they're going out strong. (Note: I talk about the third season without spoilers apart from references to where everyone is at the beginning of the premiere.)

In its first season, Friday Night Lights became a cult favorite because it regularly transcended the limitations of the network and genre. This was no mere teen drama, nor was it standard network fare. It was a show about community, and despite all rising tension, the series was deeply optimistic.

And then Landry killed a guy. The second season is much derided for the murder supblot, and justifiably so. But it wasn't just a single strand pulling the rest down. In Season 2, nobody talked to each other. Subplots didn't connect, new characters were written in and out based on plot requirements rather than character motivations, and the angst was rarely anchored by community hope.

It's easy to write off the season, but despite all that, it delivered regular moments of greatness. The Taylors were given range-stretching material and they all rose to the challenge. In Season 1, I felt Aimee Teegarden was one of the more limited actresses, but she grew more natural over the year, and in Season 2, Julie believably tackled conflicts with her mother, father, and ex-boyfriend. The other star was the dependable Brad Leland as Buddy Garrity. While Scott Porter was busy being ignored by the writers, and the rest of the kids were having sex with each other, Brad Leland was constantly creating a nuanced portrait of a father who's trying to do right.

With the Taylors at the center of the show I knew I'd never quit watching, but I was a little less enthused as Season 2 wore on. We ended on some high notes, but The Strike cut the season short, and NBC executives were urging fans to watch 30 Rock instead. Because when it comes to network television, there's only room for one quality show with low ratings.

Thanks to DirecTV (and probably divine intervention), FNL was renewed for 13 episodes. Even with these cost-cutting measures, Scott Porter and Gaius Charles were going to be written out, each getting four episodes to say goodbye. I don't approve of the decision from a creative standpoint, but giving them four episodes to say goodbye is above and beyond what I expect from television execs.

Now comes Season 3. From the premiere, it was clear the show we fell in love with was coming back. We weren't quite at Season 1 highs--we still aren't--but we're close. The characters communicate, subplots intertwine, and everyone's pretending Season 2 didn't happen. I guess Santiago didn't get the four-episode retirement package. As long as it means no mention of murder, Carlotta, or The Swede, that's just fine by me.

As always, the Taylors are front and center. Coach Taylor is still scrutinized after each decision thanks to resentment over the TMU fiasco and the losing season that followed, and there's a rising star freshman quarterback breathing down Matt Saracen's neck. Tami Taylor is now principal, a controversial decision from a writing standpoint that is introduced so naturally in the premiere that all my worries were immediately quelled.

And Julie is simply rocking her relationship with Matt. I've enjoyed their scenes the most thanks to her restrained, natural delivery. She's so much more mature now, and it's such a joy to see her taking steps toward rekindling with Matt. At the end of the second episode, they share one of those classic FNL moments just standing there. In lesser hands, the scene would be cheesy or trite, but with these two it's beautifully real.

We have yet to hear from one of my old favorites, Jason Street, but Smash is undergoing his farewell arc as Coach Taylor prepares him for a walk-on interview. Apparently Smash had an injury last season from which he's recovering, and Coach Taylor is desperately searching for something positive in his life.

Landry is still on the football team, which is still an anathema to Season 1 Landry, but thankfully he barely participates in the game scenes, so I can pretend he's still too good for that. But he does get some warm, funny moments with both Matt and Tyra, so it's business as usual for Dillon's favorite felon.

Lyla, Tyra, and Tim--better known as the implied seniors who were changed to sophomores to suit the writers--are preparing for their futures. Tyra, especially, is desperate to leave Dillon, and who can blame her. Her mother and sister are living frivolous lives of no consequence with Billy Riggins, and Tyra is thirsty for meaning in her life. Meanwhile, Lyla and Tim are back together much to Buddy's dismay.

But this show isn't about the plot. It's about the relationships. Every episode so far, I've come away with the warm smile I recall from Season 1. Of course there are some rough patches, unnatural dialogue and some scenes with Minka Kelly. But the misses are vastly outweighed by the hits. They really brought back the humor, and you can't help but enjoy your time in Dillon.

Season 2 was suffocated by emotional extremes, but the writers seem to have regained their knack for nuance. Not every step in a romance involves a kiss. Sometimes two characters just engage each other. And as many of the main characters have shown, feeling conflicting emotions is the most human of experiences.

I'm confident in the rest of this season because the writers have already shown they recognize the problems with last year and are working to correct them. The community is back, and even through tough times, people live on hope. Thirteen episodes are going to go by way too fast.

Life, uh, finds a way

In case you haven't heard, a blacktip shark has undergone parthenogenesis. Or for you laymen, virgin birth. Apparently shark parthenogenesis has happened once before on record, in May 2007 to a hammerhead shark. Why isn't this front-page news?

Before I freak out, here are the facts: These sharks were caught as pups and raised in captivity from male sharks their entire lives. Sharks normally have 4 to 6 pups at a time, and in each case only one female pup was born. The pups were shown to have no male DNA.

According to wikipedia, parthenogenesis has been observed in sharks more than twice, but I have not seen this confirmed by legitimate sources. Possibly because the other examples supposedly happened in Hungary, where science is more about being close and getting done early.

Wikipedia also begrudgingly reports that there are no instances of parthenogenesis in wild mammals on record. But it goes on to detail several examples of induced parthenogenesis among mammals in the lab. A South Korean fabulist (he's a part-time scientist/part-time liar) by the name of Hwang Woo-Suk even created human embryos via parthenogenesis.

And they say we're gonna blow ourselves up.

I, for one, am much less concerned about the fate of humanity. At the same time, I am unable to comprehend this phenomenon. A female shark just decided to get pregnant and made another female shark from her own DNA! I find this offensively anti-men.

Maybe some lady 2000 years ago really did magically have a baby without a sperm donor.

Admittedly, these instances of shark parthenogenesis are flukes; we have no evidence that they would have ever happened if the sharks were left in the wild. Nevertheless, two sharks at least have reproduced on their own! I think today I'm going to try extra hard to move that book with my mind.

Now that male sharks are empirically unnecessary for reproduction, maybe they will civilize. Soon there will be whole cities of sharks who read the New York Times and get gay-married to each other.

Which reminds me: Good news, lesbians! You can be biological mothers without going anywhere near a sperm bank. Sorry, anonymous fathers!

Okay, I know human parthenogenesis doesn't really happen. But I also know beneficial evolutionary mutations occur upon environmental imperatives. So maybe, one day when we need it for the survival of our species (for instance, when Y--The Last Man becomes reality), we will be able to wish pregnancies into existence too.

By then we'll be spread across the galaxy like little sperms propagating our species. But as any sitcom wife knows, it's good to have a backup plan.

August Sander is so last century

Welcome to Mid-October catch-up time! Like you, I've spent the past week uncovering the fascinating connection between pluralism and democracy in Bolivia while making time for obsessive news-mongering and compulsive fact-checking and daily Dow-updating. Or maybe it's just me.

Now that you've clicked on it, I've lured you into a photography post with absolutely nothing new of note. God, I'm clever.

Last week, esteemed photojournalist Veronica Hansen went to Las Vegas to try to capture the city in portraits the way German photog August Sander portrayed the scope of the Weimar Republic in his collection People of the 20th Century. Check out her results in two parts.

I'm forever grateful to her for turning me on to August Sander. Granted, I'm a card-carrying Germanophile, and black-and-white photography blows my mind-grapes, but I love Sander's work. He wandered across Germany a few times in the early years of the twentieth century, but focused People of the 20th Century on his hometown of Cologne. Still he discovered a diversity of lives, and he divided his cultural portrait into seven volumes: The Farmer, The Skilled Tradesman, The Woman, Classes and Professions, The Artists, The City, and The Last People, which refers to those who might otherwise be forgotten or ignored.

Here are eight portraits by August Sander:

This one's called Young Farmers, and it's from 1914. Am I the only one who gets a little thrill thinking that this photograph was taken the summer Franz Ferdinand was assassinated? I wonder if these kids were swept up in the ensuing war. I'm also fascinated by this culture of walking. It shows up in several of Sander's portraits, but seeing these sharp-dressed men with coolly dangling cigarettes stomping through mud is contrary to everything I've been taught by MTV. Lucky for me, My Super Sweet 16 revolutionized the concept of entitlement.

This is one of my favorites. She's sitting down and smoking, but is far from relaxed. She's hunched forward, she's holding the arm she's supposedly smoking with, and she doesn't look particularly comfortable. Also, the shadow is rather telling.

I'm very curious to see more female portraits by Sander, since the few I've seen have been mostly limited to carnival scenes. Don't you love the way she's toying with the beads on her pants while trying to look relaxed leaning on that cart? And what is her expression?


More walking, only this time by an old man who needs two canes and could probably benefit from some seniors aerobics and/or bingo nights.

This is the man I want to become, partially because he reminds me of Scheitz from Werner Herzog's 70s movies. He appears to be about my height, although I'm not remotely as foppish (though who knows how I'll be in forty years?). Still, doesn't he look fabulous? It's all in his slightly off-balance top hat (I've been meaning to get one of those) and that dainty little stance with his hand on his hip. Again, look at that trail he's on. Rock on, old man.

What gets me here is the emptiness. Much as I love the subject's grim stoicism, and of course his impeccable fashion, his setting is eerily deserted. At the risk of repeating myself, I wish I could climb inside of Sander's portraits and walk around with these people.

I'm not positive, but I'm guessing he's one of The Last People. Aren't those stairs just perfectly unfair? Still, as with most of Sander's subjects, this man conveys a certain amount of pride.

Ah, dressing kids up is an ancient pastime, but it takes on a radically different tone given Germany's historical context. Otherwise it's practically out of a Norman Rockwell painting. But you can tell the kid's not completely comfortable by his expression, and the way his hands are simultaneously relaxed and awkward. Last, that shadow creeping up the wall just pushes the mood to a darker place.

I leave you with a quote from Sander that reminds me once more of German auteur Werner Herzog:

"We know that people are formed by the light and air, by their inherited traits, and their actions. We can tell from appearance the work someone does or does not do; we can read in his face whether he is happy or troubled."

The Best of Both Worlds: Quality Entertainment

In this week's EW, Stephen King discusses "the big difference between what you think is great and what you actually like." I quoted that only to show how King implies the two are mutually exclusive, as if art can't be populist or you can't actually enjoy a period drama. My estimation of his critical faculties plummets further upon reading his assessment of the best drama on television (Mad Men is "just soap opera with a great retro feel"), but he really outs himself as a pedestrian TV-watcher announcing the show he can't miss is Prison Break.

I've enjoyed most of what King has written in his one-page humorous columns in EW, and I get the feeling he does truly enjoy the show he deems the greatest, Breaking Bad. But calling Mad Men a soap opera? That's a deal-breaker.

Maybe he doesn't actually watch it. I keep hearing about its slow pace, even from admirers of the show, but I have yet to find an episode boring, meandering, ponderous, or other code-words for "I know I'm supposed to like it, but I don't." Or maybe he meant opera. Because, I can understand the suggestion that Mad Men is a classical work of art thematically interested in exploring the range of human experience without resorting to the lowbrow tropes of, say, most modern television.

Maybe it's because of the timing, but the dichotomy also takes on a political bent. Mad Men is the favorite of the liberal elites, while Prison Break is for Joe Six-Pack. By extension, AMC is highbrow and FOX is for the masses. Actually that's pretty accurate.

I can get behind his original thesis, of course. For instance, Citizen Kane's great and all, but I prefer Mr. Arkadin, whose noirish intrigue is more to my tastes. But when it comes to television, the shows I can't miss are the great series. Arrested Development, 30 Rock, The Wire, Mad Men--these are my reasons for watching television.

There are exceptions, shows that are supposed to be great that I don't love, but the difference is, I find the popular assessment of the shows questionable. In my opinion, The Sopranos is a good but not great series due to its inconsistence, and I liked but not loved it. Lost, too, is an entertaining work at its best, but never particularly authentic in its characterization, and you get the feeling they're trying really hard to make it all mean something when all they really care about is cool visuals.

How do we determine which shows are great? It seems to just permeate the collective unconscious, the popular critical opinion infiltrating our mechanisms for evaluating cultural works. Everyone knows The Hills is vapid before watching a single vignette, just as we all know Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is sappy without having to actually sit through Ty Pennington's hour-long PSAs. And it goes without saying that HBO has produced the three greatest dramas in history, even if you've never seen any of them.

But to know the difference between the collective opinion and our own is important, and I have several criteria. For one, the great shows establish coherent and cohesive tones for their universes--in other words, a show's atmosphere must be defined and consistent. For instance, Arrested Development and 30 Rock have more leeway in the realm of kookiness. But when The Office goes too far overboard, it's more noticeable, because the show is supposed to be grounded in the boring milieu of cubicle life.

As for characters, I expect them to be appropriate to the show's universe. The Wire ought to have multi-faceted black and white characters on both sides of the law who are capable of moral good and evil. Meanwhile, How I Met Your Mother demands occasionally wacky but usually grounded young people facing their 30s, and they get extra slack for romanticism.

Similarly, I expect adults on drama series to behave like recognizable adults (ahem, ABC's entire lineup...seriously, every show), although a soap opera obviously has more room for melodrama. And Stephen King, you want to talk soaps? Look no further than one of your favorite shows, Lost. And Prison Break, for that matter.

I appreciate a fair amount of thematic spelunking in my shows. I still believe the best commentaries on the Iraq War come from television, specifically The Wire, Battlestar Galactica and Arrested Development. Spaced and The Sopranos have little in common except a dedication to exploring the idea of family, and both are powerful statements. On the other hand, Grey's Anatomy and 24 have little to say about life, and as such are mostly forgettable.

It's not fair, but the best series must maintain high quality throughout their runs. If Veronica Mars were cancelled after Season 2, it would rate even higher for me, although Season 3 wasn't nearly bad enough to sink the series as a whole. Part of the reason there are so many brilliant, but cancelled shows is because they weren't given enough time to let us down. Thus, Firefly and Freaks and Geeks are among the best television offerings in history. Meanwhile, everything from Scrubs to Weeds is losing overall status due to diminishing returns.

Personally, I believe in factoring in a show's experience, because it's impossible to dismiss. Some of my favorite shows have heightened enjoyment because 1) I grew up with them or 2) My friends are as into them as I am. It's not a make-or-break issue, as I'm the only person I know who watches The Middleman, but it certainly can help my reaction to a series.

And then there are other personal quirks that contribute to my appreciation of a show. For instance, I'm a fan of film noir and teen dramas, and therefore predisposed to enjoy Veronica Mars. I also love space exploration (Star Treks, Battlestar Galactica) and westerns (Deadwood). Of course, it's long been my opinion that a great series (or movie, or book, or what have you) can lure you in without appealing to your interests. To cite two recent examples, who would have thunk I'd care about a meth-dealing cancer patient or an ad agency from the 1960s? Not I, but they are among my favorite dramas currently on television.

This all sounds too East Coast intellectual, as if I'm not relaxing and letting a show entertain me. But that's my point. The shows that entertain me the most are these quality series. I couldn't get through 24 because it's all surface, and I have a feeling the same is true for Prison Break. Mad Men is my escapism. Battlestar Galactica is about as action-flick as I get.

Of course, everyone should figure out for themselves why they like what they do rather than take the word of the media elite. Despite his dismissal of Mad Men, I don't begrudge King his Prison Break. Everyone's got their Hills.