Busted Teeth in La-La Land: A ‘Mad Men’ Finale Recap

Don Effin' Draper

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Shame on me for still having any faith in Don Draper. I guess this is what you get when you place even a thimble’s-worth of trust in a serial-philandering identity thief.

But f*ck, Don… Megan? The secretary with the picket fence jutting from her mouth? The girl – emphasize girl - you’ve spent a combined three nights with? Don’t you know you can’t plug a dam with your finger, or more feebly, that plastic-looking “heirloom” you pawned off as an engagement ring?

Look, I like Megan. She’s hot. She speaks hella French. Loves the kids. Pulls off a see-through nighty like nobody’s business. Girl’s got some phone skills, too, and I can live with the teeth issue (that, by the way, was such a 32-tusked elephant in the room that Matty Weiner actually felt the need to address it…).

Problem is… Lord, what isn’t the problem? The entire trajectory of season 4 pointed to some kind of ambiguous redemption for Mr. Draper: something that, for the coming 9-month layover anyway, would give us something to grasp on to - to hold up and say, “See! He’s not just a cowardly asshole!”

Redemption, most obviously, took the form of Dr. Faye, who by all accounts was the perfect woman for Don – beautiful, confident, loyal, got her own career, not afraid to have fun in the backseat of a Manhattan cab. Of course, she got the shaft (no pun intended) after she let her reclamation project spend a week in Los Angeles with his secretary. Bad move, Faye.

The One That Got Away

The five of them (Don + Megan + 3 children… men are scum) sure looked the part, and per usual, the finale practically popped off the screen. The shot of Draper strutting into Bob’s Big Boy in Burbank stood out in its impeccable Americana sheen, but the rest of Cali – all decked out in palm trees, plaid suits and itty-bitty yellow polka dot bikinis – held up remarkably well.

As did SDCP, which one might have expected to land some monster account or reach an equally massive Chapter 7 tipping point. Instead, we settle for irresolute middle ground and probably, too, just a few lines of reflective explanation when we’re jettisoned back into Madison Ave’s new cancer-combatting kingpin.

I think most, like me and The Suze, anticipated one of two finale cameos: either Sal to salvage Lucky Strike via forbidden love or Conrad Hilton to save Don with a hotel empire and a swift kick in the ass. No luck. But hey, at least we got the buzzkilling heroin addict the episode before.

Bummer.

Speaking of which, I fully expect Betty to be in the full throes of a divorce proceeding by the time we re-up for ’67. I never thought I’d say this, but Henry – the guy that carried on an affair with a married woman and then stole the husband’s house – is way too good for her. She’s a child, say the not-so-veiled allusions… but she’s also a bitch. And if I’m Sally Draper, I’m planning my escape — preferably to a deserted farm in upstate New York.

The other hit-you-over-the-head life maxims were these: 1) Life for work is no life at all (Ken’s lone contribution) and 2) “There is no fresh start,” courtesy of the surprisingly lucid Henry.

There’s also that whole thing about “fake the abortion if you accidently get impregnated by your ex-flame when your husband’s in Vietnam so said husband thinks he’s coming back home to his own child and thus has some reason to wake up in the morning even when he’s just had his leg blown off.” But that doesn’t really fit into a maxim.

So there. We’ve skipped most of the racial strife (because, erm, there is none?) and dodged Beatlemania with a tossed-off reference to Shea. I’m sure other things happened in 1965, but I’m still stuck on Don. Turns out he’s no different than anyone else – just a really horny f*ck-up trying to find his way in this world.

Maybe next year, Don. Maybe next year.

- Robbie