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Elle
16-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Elle
The Enduring Style Legacy of 'Mad Men' Women
Earlier this year, I found myself enthralled by an impromptu rewatch of Mad Men — the seductive period drama about the golden age of advertising during the 1960s that concluded its seven-season run almost exactly 10 years ago, on May 17, 2015. As someone who's still trying to discern, a decade later, whether Don Draper (Jon Hamm) found nirvana in the end or simply went back to shilling soda, it was impossible to not be lured in. The visually rich series is captivating, thanks in part to its mesmerizing and meticulously researched costume design, helmed by Deadwood , The Last Tycoon , and 1883 —is a master of her craft. And the sartorial evolutions of Mad Men 's complex, painfully flawed characters prove as much. Jordin Althaus/AMC/Everett Collection Christina Hendricks as Joan Harris on Mad Men. Joan Sees Green The ability to choose and create a life for oneself irrespective of societal expectations is a central theme of the show. But for the female characters, it's a power struggle on the brink of boiling over. The second part of season 7 takes place from April to November 1970. The turbulent '60s are spilling into the '70s; though Roe v. Wade would not be decided for another three years, second-wave feminism and women's liberation are on the rise. Joan Harris (Christina Hendricks) understands these changing cultural tides when she confronts the cruel McCann Erickson executive Jim Hobart (H. Richard Greene) about the $500,000 she's owed as a former partner of SC&P, following McCann's acquisition of the agency. During this exchange, she's wearing an emerald green ensemble and gold jewelry, which essentially scream, 'Show me the money.' Even so, Jim chauvinistically belittles her partnership and the value she brings to the company, instructing her to play nice with a gross colleague who's making unwanted passes at her, or else expect a letter from their lawyer. 'I wonder how many women around here would like to speak to a lawyer,' Joan retorts. 'I believe the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission has one.' She threatens to file a complaint, arguing the ACLU would be in her office and Betty Friedan in the lobby 'with half the women who marched down 5th Avenue.' (Friedan led the Women's Strike for Equality on Aug. 26, 1970.) When this scene first aired 10 years ago, I remember practically lunging off my couch, cheering on Joan for going toe-to-toe with the show's most formidable villain figure. Initially, it felt like a departure from the compromising positions Joan had previously been put in by men, when she was forced to choose between safety and survival. Take, for example, season 5 episode 11, aptly titled 'The Other Woman,' when Joan officially enters the boys' club. She becomes a voting partner after agreeing to sleep with a sleazy Jaguar rep who's been eyeing her so the agency can secure the account. After the deed is done, she walks into the office with her newly-minted status and partnership stake, wearing yet another money-hued look—a fitted dress, adorned with a gold brooch, plus her signature gold pen necklace, and a scarf in shades of (you guessed it) green. A woman securing her financial future and climbing the ranks of a male-dominated industry should be celebrated, and Hendricks masterfully plays the role without any semblance of shame. However, it's hard to stomach the reality that Joan was presented with an unfair choice from the outset. She could either be responsible for the agency not landing Jaguar's business and still struggle to make ends meet herself (by this point in the show, she was the family breadwinner and a single mother) or sell her body, name her price, and be set for life. Sure, she had choices. They weren't good choices, but they were choices. So, instead, she was pragmatic. That's how it is when men continually call the shots. In contesting Jim, though, Joan threw pragmatism out the window and stood up for her worth. Unfortunately, that effort, however noble and necessary, would only go so far in a patriarchal world that was hardly ready to accept women as equals. (And, let's be honest, still isn't ready.) 'I'm willing to give you 50 cents on the dollar to never see your face again,' Jim counteroffers, diminishing not only her monetary value but also notably insulting her beauty, the commodity that has curried her the most favor throughout her career, for better or worse. Bryant brilliantly bookends these scenes with Joan outfitted in, yes, the color of cash but also the color of growth. Ultimately, her former boss and paramour Roger Sterling (John Slattery) convinces her to take the buyout, even though it wasn't what she was promised. 'It's plenty,' he tells her. Is it? Once again, she's left with no good choices and must settle for the most palatable path forward, even if that means (literally) cutting her losses. Jordin Althaus/AMC/Everett Collection The Politics of Peggy Few on-screen scenes leave such an impression that they are forever emblazoned on my brain, like when Peggy Olson (Elisabeth Moss) struts into the McCann offices after finally receiving her delayed office assignment. Sporting a mod mixed-print minidress that has since been cemented in the Meme Hall of Fame, Peggy embraces the change in environment as best as she can. She enters this new phase of life with unabashed boldness, complete with dark sunglasses, a cigarette dangling from her mouth just so, and sexually explicit artwork in tow ( This now-iconic moment in television history exemplifies the manner in which Peggy must tiptoe along the gender line to advance her career. Her decidedly feminine frock, coupled with the art piece which centers female pleasure, juxtaposes the brooding, mysterious masculinity of the other accessories. 'You know I need to put men at ease,' Peggy tells Roger earlier in the episode when he gives her the Hokusai piece. Does she, though? Do any of us? I'm reminded of the advice Bobbie Barrett (Melinda McGraw), one of Don's many flings, gives Peggy in season 2, shortly after she's plucked from secretarial obscurity and promoted to copywriter: 'No one will tell you this, but you can't be a man. Don't even try. Be a woman. It's a powerful business when done correctly.' This idea resurfaces in season 5, episode 4, when Peggy stays late at work one night and discovers Don's secretary, Dawn Chambers (Teyonah Parris), sleeping at the office. She's afraid; racial tensions around Harlem are escalating following nationwide race riots in 1966. Peggy convinces Dawn to crash on her couch. The two share beers and discuss office politics. 'Do you think I act like a man?' Peggy, wearing an avocado-green dress layered over a short-sleeved white blouse, asks Dawn, who replies, 'I guess you have to, a little.' Peggy reveals to Dawn, whose appearance is more muted in a dark blue crosshatch-patterned dress, that she's unsure if she can keep it up, or if she wants to. Eventually, Peggy, tipsy and tired, heads to her bedroom, leaving Dawn to sleep on the sofa. But Peggy stares for a smidge too long at her green leather purse strewn atop the coffee table. It contains $400 she just received from Roger for taking on extra work, and her implicit bias is definitely showing. Dawn notices Peggy noticing the purse and even though Peggy continues on her way to bed, there's no undoing the damage. Come morning, Dawn is out the door, with a thank-you note strategically placed on top of Peggy's purse. In this moment, given Mad Men 's frustrating lack of BIPOC characters, we get a rare glimpse into how gender dynamics take shape when they are racialized. It's one of the few instances in which a white woman's privilege is contextualized within the broader sociopolitical landscape of the volatile 1960s, and the costuming plays a key role in illustrating that. Yes, white women had limited choices and options. But women of color had—and continue to have—even fewer. Mike Yarish/AMC/Everett Collection Wives in Blue Marriage to Don Draper would likely leave anyone feeling a bit blue (what with all the adultery, gaslighting, and outright lies), so it's no wonder that his two wives, Betty (January Jones) and Megan (Jessica Paré), regularly reached for the color in their everyday wardrobes. Perhaps one of Megan's most memorable sartorial moments was at the top of season 7. She picks up Don at the airport in Los Angeles, arriving in a sleek convertible. She steps out wearing a powder blue babydoll dress with sheer pleated sleeves and a giant bow affixed to the front. She's figuratively and literally in the driver's seat, at last in control of her budding acting career. Or so she thinks. Fast-forward to later that season when Megan, estranged from and in the process of divorcing Don, can't find work and meets with Harry Crane (Rich Sommer) while sporting the same powder-blue number. She's hopeful he has legitimate leads, but really, he just wants to proposition her. The trajectory of that single blue dress illustrates how suddenly fortunes shift. What was once a stylish symbol of possibility has morphed into a shell of itself, becoming something that was beautiful before the world got its hands on it. Megan storms out, defeated and deflated, not carrying the same levity she had just months prior in L.A. It's not until she accepts a million-dollar check from Don as a divorce settlement that the spark in her eye starts to return, and perhaps rightly so. I wasn't necessarily #TeamMegan, but Don, unsurprisingly, treated her pretty terribly. I like to think she bought a groovy home in the Hollywood Hills, went on a massive shopping spree, and eventually found some steady acting work. Mike Yarish/AMC/Everett Collection January Jones as Betty Draper on Mad Men. First wife Betty, meanwhile, was almost always in blue, from dinner dates to running errands. Near the end, she makes clear that she, in fact, intends to spend all of eternity in blue. In the series' penultimate episode, she provides her daughter, Sally (Kiernan Shipka), with straightforward instructions for handling her posthumous wardrobe when she eventually dies from lung cancer. Specifically, she'd like to be buried in her blue chiffon dress from the 1968 Republican winter gala. But that's not all she leaves with Sally. In the same note, she writes, 'I always worried about you because you marched to the beat of your own drum, but now I know that's good. I know your life will be an adventure.' However flawed her mothering style may have been, it turns out the steely ice queen isn't entirely cold-hearted. With death looming, Betty lets her guard down with her children and her ex-husband. In season 7 episode 3, Don and Betty share a sweet, final moment of intimacy; when he stops by to visit Sally who isn't there, he offers a shoulder massage to Betty, who's reading 'Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria' by Sigmund Freud (likely an assignment from one of her psychology classes) and wearing a demure lilac dress. Purple isn't seen in Betty's wardrobe as often as blue. Considering violet is the last color in the rainbow, her outfit in this moment suggests some kind of forward movement. Even with her terminal diagnosis, she's still willing herself to learn; to step out of her comfort zone. It's an admirable effort, especially from someone who was once as emotionally stunted as Betty (though, to be fair, so was Don). Through its female characters and their costume design, Mad Men beautifully illustrates how one's style is both a means of expression and an exertion of personal choice. For women in particular, that feels like a significant reminder as we navigate an era of increasingly restricted rights. We now live in a time that Mad Men wrapped in May 2015, a certain presidential contender hadn't even announced his candidacy yet. There was widespread hope for the first female president of the United States. We hadn't experienced global lockdowns, a deadly pandemic, or an insurrection. The present moment just may be our defining moment. While it sometimes seems like the world's spinning into chaos and everything's out of control, the decision that no one can take away from us is how we choose to show up. And, perhaps most importantly, whether we show up at all. 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New York Times
21-02-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
Review: In ‘Liberation,' the Feminist Revolution Will Be Dramatized
How much would you give to see your mother again as she was in her prime — which is to say, before she had you? That's one of the be-careful-what-you-wish-for scenarios that Bess Wohl dramatizes in 'Liberation,' her gutting new play about the promise and unfinished business of feminism. All the clenched fists and manifestoes in the world cannot point its second-wave characters, or even their nth-wave daughters, to the sweet spot between love and freedom. Indeed, the play's warning, if not quite its watch cry, is: 'It's almost impossible to have both.' At any rate, it hasn't been working for the six women who meet on Thursdays at 6 p.m. on the basketball court of a local rec center in a backwater Ohio town in 1970. There, amid banners celebrating local team championships — boys' teams only, of course — they try to make of their random sisterhood a lifeboat to survive the revolution they seek. On the agenda: consciousness raising, problem sharing, political action and self-love prompts. Yes, at one session they all get nervously naked. But 'Liberation,' which opened on Thursday at the Laura Pels Theater, is neither satire nor agitprop. As directed with cool patience by Whitney White, the better to let its climax sear, and with a cast led by Susannah Flood and Betsy Aidem each at the top of her form, it is gripping and funny and formally daring. In a trick worthy of Escher, and befitting the complexity of the material, it nearly eats the box of its own containment, just as its characters, lacking other emotional sustenance, eat at theirs. The burden of the trick falls mostly on Flood, whose role is a superimposed, asynchronous portrait of at least two women. The main one is Lizzie, a young journalist stuck on the wedding beat at the local paper, with obits thrown in as a sop to her demand for equality. (In a way, the two beats 'are the same thing,' she says.) Denying that she is the group's leader, though she made the fliers and booked the room, she wants a revolution without having to give up anything to get it and while honoring everyone's contrasting ideologies. History tells us where that approach typically leaves the left. Take the two Doras, different as could be. The one who is actually Dorothy (Audrey Corsa) is a secretary at a wine and spirits firm working her way up the corporate ladder with the help of her décolletage. The one who is actually Isidora (Irene Sofia Lucio) is an activist from Italy who has seen too little action. (She's also stuck in a green-card marriage.) If the first wants to work the system, the second wants to blow it up, or at least to participate meaningfully in a local version of the national Women's Strike for Equality in August, 1970. The rest of the lifeboat crew are likewise carefully particularized to create lines of possible connection and tangles of possible conflict. Susan (Adina Verson) all but announces that she's a lesbian (her ambition is to ride naked on a Harley), but she's not the only one who does not feel fully welcome under the umbrella of '70s feminism. In that, she is trumped by Celeste (Kristolyn Lloyd), the only Black woman in the group. A cautious, intense intellectual, she has returned unhappily to Ohio to care for her dying mother, a responsibility that threatens to sink her. The burdens of motherhood loom large among these women, even if only the oldest, Margie, has children. (In Aidem's performance, Margie is a warm, tough cookie, with a husband she imagines stabbing to death.) But Wohl's manipulations of structure undo the premise. Flood plays not just Lizzie in the '70s but also Lizzie's daughter in the present tense, a woman now approaching 50 who, not unlike the playwright herself, finds herself facing the same problems that the older cohort were supposed to solve years ago. Why didn't they? The adolescent tetchiness of that question, with its implication that '70s feminists did not do enough to spare their literal and spiritual daughters from sexism, nags at 'Liberation' until, in a series of wonderful surprises, it finally fights back. Unraveling in ways reminiscent of Lisa Kron's 'Well' and Heidi Schreck's 'What the Constitution Means to Me,' it forces a confrontation between Flood and Aidem that exists outside of time and feels frankly, bravely autobiographical. I won't describe it further except to repeat: Be careful what you wish for. Wohl has prepared us for this metatheatrical moment from the start. It's Lizzie's daughter who welcomes us to the theater, nattering not quite randomly about the running time. ('Surely you've noticed all of those six-hour, eight-hour, ten-hour plays are by men with no children?' she says. 'A woman with children would never.') And as the story unfolds, several other characters (including two played by Kayla Davion) switch their eras or skins. The appearance of the actor Charlie Thurston at the first-act curtain is not perhaps so much of a surprise, because he's in the cast list, but his arrival, doing impressive layups, significantly changes the atmosphere, even before we know who he is. White's staging for the Roundabout Theater Company somehow keeps us on the useful edge of confusions like that without pushing us over. She explains neither less nor more than she needs to with the gymnasium set (by David Zinn), the institutional lighting (by Cha See) and the intimate sound (by Palmer Hefferan). On the other hand, she lets Qween Jean (costumes) and Nikiya Mathis (wigs and hair) have a field day with the period style. You may never look at sweater dresses and plaid coordinates the same way again. Nor at marriage. The blithe comfort or even disinterest that many children feel about their parents' marital happiness does not survive Wohl's critique of it here. In a way, 'Liberation' feels like a second and far more successful shot at the theme first announced in her play 'Grand Horizons,' seen on Broadway in 2020. In that deliberately overbright sitcom, a woman approaching 80 announces, to her sons' horror, that she wants a divorce from their father. But the horror is played for mere humor. Feeling that his parents are too old for such nonsense, one son gets a big laugh whining: 'How much else even is there?' 'Liberation' shows us how much. A work of great ambition that seems to have grown its craft for the purpose, it asks us to keep growing too, even after our mothers can no longer tell us, now that we are finally mature enough to care, who they were.
