On Sunday night I fell asleep during Mad Men.
This unprecedented occurrence is due to the fact that showrunner Matt Weiner seems to have permanently inserted his head up his ass.
In other words, I think he is putting a bit too much credence in his own press.
Do I hope that somehow, someway he will unwedge himself? You bet I do. But with meandering plots; strange, ham-handedly “meaningful” shots of nothing (what was up with Don’s hand at the May Day celebration); and a determined lack of focus on anything resembling a forward-moving plot, I’m becoming less and less optimistic.
Right now, the emperor has no clothes. None. (If things change after watching Sunday’s third episode, I will eat appropriate amounts of crow.) Mad Men has always come dangerously close to being in the red on the precious meter, but this season it is beyond pretentious. And I want my Don Draper back. Really.