Mad Men, page 26
Regardless of our current interpretation of the 1950s, however, one cannot overlook the conformity that infused the era’s advertising. Leafing through magazines from the decade reveals a striking focus on glamour, novelty, sparkle, and exhilaration. It seems as if advertising served as a kind of mass lobotomy, ramming these ideas into consumers as a way of inculcating the positive messages coming out of a postwar, happy, healthy United States. Advertising’s message—happy, happy, buy, buy—matched the relentless optimism of the mass exodus to the suburbs where new homes awaited, ready to be filled with shiny gadgets for upwardly mobile families as they pursued the American Dream.
Given the ideological unity among the growing legion of white suburbanites based on acquiring goods aimed directly at them by America’s consumer goods industry, the companies and the ad agencies they hired created images that equated buying things with a life well-lived. Unlike today, the phrases “keeping up with the Joneses” and “suburbanite” were not necessarily negatives.
In portraying Betty’s day-to-day life, the show excels at revealing her insulation from what seems like the rest of humanity. Early in the show, tucked away in the suburban enclave of Ossining, New York, she is far removed from the frenetic vibe of New York City. When Don returns home, often far into the evening or late at night, he rarely brings her into what he experiences, most likely since much of his life is wrapped tightly in lies and deception. She seems to yearn for basic adult interaction, but he certainly does not want to be tied to explaining his days. Betty can expect little—a peck on the cheek, quick question about her day, and her husband’s beeline for the whiskey cabinet.
Although college-educated (Bryn Mawr, anthropology) and multilingual (Italian), Betty stews with the other housewives out in Ossining, but her barely educated husband enjoys the superstar career in the Big Apple. As a matter of fact, the idea that Betty might continue working after giving birth is laughable, if not outright ludicrous. When she attempts to get back into modeling, she cannot overcome the stigma of being a mother and Don’s wife. It is clear that her successes will only come via his hand.
According to Laurel Cutler, a former typist at J. Walter Thompson in the late 1940s and a suburban wife, Mad Men’s picture of life for women in this age is true. She explains, “What most impresses me is how extraordinarily accurate the details are, and it’s as dead-on for the wives in the suburbs as it is for us in the office” (qtd. in Giges 2008). Cutler later rose up the ranks to serve as creative director at McCann Erickson during the era portrayed on the show.
Betty and Don initially follow the prescribed roles society would have them play in the 1950s. He is the dominant male breadwinner, while she raises the children. Her life centers on the home and his on the office. On the surface, one would assume that the Draper clan is winning in the postwar race to fulfill the American Dream. Weiner calls Betty part of America’s “wasted generation,” at the time the best educated in the nation’s history, yet doing little on a daily basis beyond childrearing and minor household upkeep. The Drapers, for example, have Carla to watch after and entertain the children (qtd. in Trachta 2013).
Advertisers and marketers capitalized on the conspicuous consumption habits of the new suburbanites, eager to provide them with the technological innovations and other gadgets designed to make life more enjoyable. These young people filled their homes with consumer goods and brought children into the world at a quick clip, thereby ensuring the capitalist machine would continue to thrive. The transition from radio to television amplified the advertising message, blurring the line between nightly entertainment and selling goods and services. The ads urged people to live a specific lifestyle, which reinforced their desire to conform and adapt to newfound wealth and the leisure time that went with it.
Camelot to Kent State
Betty Draper evolved gradually in the 1960s, a slow path from bored housewife to the more enlightened student she becomes in the last season. Her protracted evolution is akin to the changes in another fabled Betty—the iconic Betty Crocker, the symbolic representation of Gold Medal Flour. Turning what stood as essentially a company logo into an internationally known brand demonstrated the growing power of advertising and mass media in the twentieth century. Betty Crocker, like a real-life celebrity, soon starred around the world—on a national radio cooking show, in recipes and cookbooks, and later endorsing other food products.
Created to provide a human response to consumer inquiries about cooking with flour in the early 1920s, “Betty Crocker” existed solely in name for fifteen years. During that period, the company expanded the use of the brand name, first for a string of cooking schools and then on radio. As consumers grew to trust the brand name, company executives decided to give the moniker an actual human face. In 1936, she appeared as a nondescript female, close to middle age and sporting a red turtleneck sweater.
The plan to grow the brand and turn the logo into an icon worked. Reportedly, by the end of World War II, some 90 percent of American women recognized Betty Crocker. It was reported that the “First Lady of Food” stood second in the nation in terms of familiar women, behind only First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt. Based on the extensive recognition, the company loaned out the Crocker visage for a number of socially conscious programs, from ration programs on the war home front to healthy eating projects. Later, when television exploded onto the advertising landscape, Crocker appeared on numerous shows.
Over time, Betty Crocker gradually transformed, mirroring the zeitgeist of the era. For example, in 1955, she was pictured as a slightly older female, with gray highlights and a representative housewife’s blouse. A little fuller in the face and a bit friendlier than the 1936 model, the new Betty could have stood in for many of the nation’s middle-class housewives. Neither a grandmother nor a spry young newlywed, this Betty exuded the confidence of the era and the respect for heritage as typified by Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower. The logo reflected the conservative age.
It is the 1965 Crocker image that most closely resembles Betty Draper, not necessarily in looks—one with dark brown hair and the latter a classic blonde—but in attitude and grace. Emerging from the Camelot era, the new Crocker is a sophisticated woman. Gone are the red sweater and frock, replaced by a smart blazer that looks as if it could have been pulled from Jackie Kennedy’s closet. Like Betty Draper, the new Crocker is smartly sophisticated. Her hair flips on the ends exactly the way it should and she accessorizes with a string of pearls. The two Betty figures also share a fresh-faced glow and vigor that makes them look younger than perhaps they should. The younger Draper accentuates her youth with longer hair than Crocker’s, still sporting a kind of long bob. This version of the advertising icon is completely in line with the television character and the mid-1960s era. It is as if one could simply walk into the kitchen of the other and strike up a conversation over a cigarette flittingly held and swung about, punctuating their sentences, as they commiserated about their analogous lives.
The change the Crocker image experienced provides an example of how advertising firms got smarter in the 1960s. They implemented new technology and built research capabilities that enabled them to better understand what American consumers wanted, desired, or hoped to buy. One of the primary criticisms the leaders of Sterling Cooper & Partners have against the McCann conglomerate that eventually gobbles them up is that it has a large and expanding research department and an advanced computer system, which attempts to capitalize on making advertising more scientific, something few of the senior SC&P execs believe is possible or warranted. For them, advertising success is built on creativity grounded on filling the client’s specific need. The sci-fi element of using computers to do the hard research labor seems otherworldly to creative leaders like Don Draper.
Three synergistic areas converged in the 1960s that made advertising a more ingrained part of American culture. First, people in general were smarter, more educated, and creative. An improved national transportation network of roadways and airplanes enabled that creativity to spread nationwide. Rarely, if ever, in history, for example, could someone like Bob Dylan emerge from the Hibbing, Minnesota, iron range to become a national superstar so quickly. In the early 1960s, Dylan enjoyed the luxury of quick travel and a creative explosion in Greenwich Village that enabled the singer to maximize his vast talents. And let’s not forget the impact of radio on the young man’s development, first as a fan and then later in spreading his own music. Advertisers realized that what was considered “average” in the early postwar years would not work as well with a more educated and sophisticated audience. Jerry Della Femina, one of the real mad men of Madison Avenue, explained that the success of Bill Bernbach’s agency resided in the way it thought about its audiences: “Doyle, Dane’s advertising has that feeling that the consumer is bright enough to understand what the advertising is saying, that the consumer isn’t a lunkhead who has to be treated like a twelve-year-old” (1970, 29).
Television and technology served as the second leg in the trifecta, standing as critical foundations of the change in advertising and culture in general, as well as a means of solidifying people’s smartness and creativity. Television viewers might not be strictly engaged with highbrow entertainment, but the programming did (to a large extent) lift the veils of provincialism and greatly expand the kind of information available to the audience. Critics can lament the medium, but the programming that developed in the 1960s changed the nation. People grew less gullible, and that had important ramifications for the advertising business. Realizing the power of ads on television revolutionized advertising and fueled its creativity as more and more companies wanted fresh, new commercials. Agencies and their clients spent about $171 million on TV ads in 1950, but by 1967 that figure rocketed to $2.9 billion (Shaffer 1969). Clients and consumers yearned for more sophisticated ads, at least in theory, which caused production and creative costs to increase.
Finally, in the 1960s, advertising grew into a central component in the blossoming American consumer culture, one that could be regulated by the federal government but was so tightly wound into the business landscape that it could not really be impeded. Writing in 1969, H. B. Shaffer contends, “Though most Americans are comfortably attuned to the ubiquitous presence of advertising in their daily lives, they tend to be cynical about its operations.” Ironically, according to the writer, advertising had a “curious public relations situation.” Few people had a favorable view of the industry, but people still enjoyed watching commercials and accepted that ads were not going away. A report analyzing the consumer’s reaction to ads by Raymond A. Bauer and Stephen A. Greyser noted that American audiences “generally enjoy advertising” and do not deny that “advertising has a legitimate role in American life” (qtd. in Shaffer 1969). Like the pervasive acceptance of a corporate capitalist and consumer culture, people assented to the role advertising played in their lives, perhaps the epitome of the well-known phrase “necessary evil.”
While advertisers continued to nod at traditional values in the 1960s (like Betty Crocker’s ode to home and hearth), the “creative revolution” in the business enabled young writers, designers, and creative leaders to take risks. In less than ten years, advertising transformed wholesale, which more or less pulled the corporate world along too. Many ads and commercials featured content viewed as witty, ironic, sexy, daring, and visually appealing. As the 1960s ended, writer Rodney Campbell summed up the period, saying, “Never has advertising been so honest, free and pleasantly outrageous” (qtd. in Shaffer 1969). Della Femina, ever quote-worthy, sums up the feeling of the age: “I like to think the work that I do is good—I know damn well it sells the product because my clients wouldn’t have anything to do with me if I didn’t move the product. . . . And I honestly believe that advertising is the most fun you can have with your clothes on” (1970, 254). Mad Men delivers on Della Femina’s vibe, not only showing the fun in the work, but the high drama of an industry central to the American experience in contemporary history.
Bad Mom
Henry, arriving home from another rough-and-tumble day of work in the New York City political machine, walks into the middle of a familial Cold War, but this one not between two superpowers that can wreak havoc on an equal footing. Instead, this scene is seemingly a page out of the Soviet Union’s dominance over its Eastern European neighbors. One side has all the power and has flaunted it at the other’s expense. Asked what happened, little Bobby Draper looks up at Henry with big doe eyes, completely distraught, and says, “I wish it was yesterday.” Henry rubs the boy’s shoulder in a show of male solidarity, but this seems like a familiar place for them both. Betty is mad, the children are unhappy, and Henry is puzzled. Welcome to the Draper/Francis house!
Earlier in Episode 7.3 (“Field Trip”), the audience gets the full-on Betty treatment. First, she has a lunch date with Francine, her newly employed friend from their old neighborhood. After bragging about Henry and his relationship with New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller and the possibility that Henry might become state attorney general, Betty asks Francine about her job in “real estate,” indicating just how unimportant it is, since she knows the woman works in travel. Overcoming the ennui of living in the suburbs, kids self-sufficient, and living like roommates (rather than lovers) with her husband, Francine sees her position at a local travel agency as “a reward,” which Betty immediately questions, replying that she thought the children were the reward.
The back-and-forth between the two old friends is consistent with the way they used to converse. Betty never lets Francine believe that they are equals and rarely lets her think her upper-middle-class life is anything but fabulous. They glare at one another for a heartbeat at various times in the discussion, which seems to reveal their true feelings, no longer stuck together as neighbors, but both struggling to establish an identity in suburban society that would gladly define it for them. Francine no longer meekly gives in, though; her life might not be perfect, but she did not suffer through a divorce and remarriage, so she does have some high ground over her friend. Betty, attempting to save face, claims confusion and calls herself “old-fashioned,” which Francine concedes: “That is indeed how I would describe you.”
The scene ends as Francine turns to order dessert and Betty’s glare turns cold. Lighting another cigarette, she takes her traditional Betty pose—arms crossed, deep exhale, and shooting daggers. It seems as if she cannot figure out her friend, herself, or exactly why she is so upset, but there is no doubt she would like to strangle Francine with her bare hands.
Later, as if atoning for the exchange with Francine by attempting to be a better mother, Betty walks in on the black housekeeper, Loretta, helping Bobby with his homework. She snaps off the television—as if that is the worst thing in the children’s lives—and chastises the maid for having it on. When Loretta says the children “were little angels” in response to Betty’s question about the day, the looks the two exchange indicate that this is a common dance. Each pretends to placate the other—the maid that she was not watching television and Betty that she has a handle on the homestead.
Again, as if the specter of Francine hangs overhead, Betty shocks Bobby by saying that she will chaperone his upcoming field trip. His excitement is palpable; a huge smile crosses his face as his mother walks away. Like so much of Betty’s life, though, the whole thing seems fabricated to put on a show of competent mothering and lacks sincerity. On the bus to the farm, mother and son small talk about movie villains. Both seem happy, until the teacher interrupts. Her youth, good looks, and lack of a bra offend Betty as she glances at the young woman’s unbuttoned shirt. When Bobby exclaims that the teacher really likes her, Betty snarkily replies, “Well, that blouse says that she likes everyone” and continues puffing away, flicking ashes out the bus window. Even as her son looks at her with love and admiration, Betty cannot help but reduce her world to appearances and decorum. This is where she feels safe, in the “old-fashioned” world that allows her to be a half-hearted mother, cruising in and out of the children’s lives because her family is wealthy enough to have “a girl” to manage the hearth and children on a day-to-day basis.
Arriving at the farm, Betty turns on the charm when it plays to the adults present. She lights another mom’s cigarette and they share a laugh about the latter’s quip: the “farmer’s daughter needs a bra.” The comment gives Betty a brief moment of self-satisfaction as she inhales deeply. Next, after Farmer Cy hand milks a cow, Betty is the only one willing to drink from the old tin pail. Bobby is shocked, and his mother demurely wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand as she gives the container back to the teacher.
The idyllic day on the farm ends abruptly when Betty returns from washing her hands. This scene (and many others where she is callous and cold) speaks to the general disgust viewers have for the character. Basically, Betty lets loose on Bobby, who does the kind thing by trading the second sandwich he finds to Susie Rogers, a classmate who does not have one (though she does have gumdrops?). From a pro-Betty perspective, perhaps she sees this “trade” as Bobby lying to her—acting like his father—and shuts down in an attempt to nip the boy’s deceitfulness in the bud early in his life. Betty haters, however, need no more evidence of the woman’s repugnance than the way she belittles the child. Reaching for yet another cigarette and making the process a grand spectacle, her look of contempt wilts the boy’s joy of having his mother there. “Eat your candy,” she sneers, as if reacting to a decade of Don’s infidelities and a lifetime of being a second-class citizen in a man’s world. In a final display of loathing, Betty turns away from her son, pulling her dark sunglasses down over her eyes as a means of telling the boy, “You are invisible to me now.” He slowly chews the gumdrops, quickly glances at her, and then looks away.
