Mad Men: season 5, episode 11

Female liberation: what would it take to make you a queen?

As the fifth season of Mad Men nears its conclusion and 1966 gives way to '67, we look back on a series that has largely done away with what was once its characteristic slowness, in which relationships would for the most part develop gradually and characters would reveal themselves, and their pasts, at a more glacial pace. It was inevitable that once many of the main protagonists' secrets - and more plainly, personalities - had come to light over six years, the show would have to compensate much of its intrigue-building for action. It appeared for a while that Season Five's narrative would be character based - here we have the Betty episode; now the Pete, then the Roger show - and one by one their public personas would seem more lacquered as the inner workings of every character were thoroughly and systematically mined.

But the writers of Mad Men are not so formulaic, and "The Other Woman", as much as any episode before it, invites our comparison between those three women it concerns. For all its shock happenings, too, it's an episode that develops themes from its previous one. In "Christmas Waltz" Jaguar was set up as the prize the agency has long desired, and that Don, for his own self worth, must achieve. Now it's not only the needed account, nor just the perfect symbol of American consumerism, but an unattainable woman - the other woman - "the mistress who'll do things your wife won't". Herb Rennet, the Head of the Dealership Association (with a name like an industrial farming product), calls it a "hot red number". But his eye isn't on the car - it's on Joan. She has become the material good: "You're talking about prostitution," she spits at Pete, who corrects her: "I'm talking about business at a very high level." Hence why she makes an appointment later to see him, and he confuses her "ability to perform" for the client with the creative's presentation. 

These two performances then play out simultaneously; we see Joan enter the man's hotel room wearing the fur stole Roger gave her in 1955, bought from a young Don Draper. It's a thoroughly depressing montage, with Don's narration on the worth of a beauitful object, the behaviour that would be forgiven for it - though in fact it's earlier, as Joan's initial fury at her male colleagues ebbs away, than we feel the most despair. Despite his Cleopatra allegory Pete is as foul as the client Herb, who has his own garbled tales of the Sultan of Arabia and Helen of Troy. And in their acceptance, once the price for her has been agreed, the other partners (bar Don) are just as implicted: Lane makes sure he needn't approach the creditors, Roger accepts but refuses to pay, and even Burt's "let her know she can still say no," presupposes Joan's consent. We recall Lakshmi from the previous episode, the Hare Krishna who has sex with Harry Crane "for the movement".  But it's a line of Don's, from when he visits Joan at her apartment, that rings out true: "If we don't get Jaguar, so what? Who wants to be in business with poeple like that?" The line is played twice - we hear Don speak it again when we learn his visit is too late. In her face there's the suggestion that Joan would have acted differently had she known Don was not complicit in the partners' barter. "You're a good one, aren't you?" she says to him. But the others in "the movement", this business she has just sold herself into, are not.

Joan's refusal to shake Pete's hand when she agrees to his offer strangely forshadow's Don's refusal to take Peggy's. Instead, in a most tender act, he kisses it for the longest time. Earlier in another reference to the prostitution of Joan, Don tells Peggy to get herself to Paris and throws money in her face. Now, he offers it sincerely to make her stay - but unlike for Joan, "there's no number" he can name. In the end she doesn't leave out of spite; it's "not a game"; she does it "for her career". And although she's moving on from the company, Peggy is still Don's protégé: doing what he would do, braving the future with a smile, and unresenting.

Which begs the question: will Megan, too, break free of Don when she finally gets a part in a broadway play? She already "comes and goes as she pleases," Ginsberg says, and in her audition dress Don he knows she acts for her confidence more than his pleasure. While Megan has sex with him in his office, her friend Julia helpfully acts another literal Jaguar, prowling on the boardroom desk. Which car is Megan: the Jaguar mistress, the beauty Don wishes to truly own? Or the wifely Buick, patiently parked in the garage?

Unlike Peggy, Megan says that between the man - Don - and her work, she would choose the man and resent him for it. Over the course of "The Other Woman" we see a group of women making a choice (though for Megan it is theoretical) against their heart and will, for the sake of their job. In Joan's case, as a single working mother, the notion of "choice" raises questions that persist to this day: how free is she in choosing not to buy for herself autonomy, in the form of a company stake at the cost of her body, that she would never otherwise be afforded? Is it altogether priceless, being made a queen?

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Peggy Olson in "The Other Woman". Credit: AMC

Alice Gribbin is a Teaching-Writing Fellow at the Iowa Writers' Workshop. She was formerly the editorial assistant at the New Statesman.

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Orhan Pamuk's The Red-Haired Woman is playful and unsettling

At times, the novel seems to owe as much to Dostoevsky as to the epics of the long-distant past.

When cultures collide or begin to merge, what happens to their myths? In Orhan Pamuk’s psychodramatic and psychogeographic tale of fathers and sons, the protagonist Cem mentally collects versions of the Oedipus story from across Europe – Ingres’s painting of Oedipus and the Sphinx hanging in the Louvre, Gustave Moreau’s work of the same name, painted 50 years later, Pasolini’s film adaptation, Oedipus Rex. But he also fixates on the epic poem “Shahnameh”, written by the Persian poet Ferdowsi; and in particular the story of Rostam and Sohrab, a reversal of the Oedipus story in which father kills son rather than vice versa. As Cem and his wife travel the world’s libraries to inspect copies, what they learn is “how ephemeral all those ancient lives had been”.

Nor is Cem immune to the act of readerly projection. “Like all educated Turks of my father’s generation,” Cem tells us, “what I really hoped to find on these trips wandering the shops, the cinemas, and the museums of the Western world was an idea, an object, a painting – anything at all – that might transform and illuminate my own life.”

Cem has more reason than many to seek clarification: his own father has been absent – whether for reasons of underground political activity or romantic complications is, for a long time, unclear – for most of his childhood; he and his mother become impoverished and, as he tells us at the very beginning of the novel, his dream of becoming a writer yields to a life as a building contractor. But these matter-of-fact bare bones are deceptive, for what unfolds is a far more fabular account of a life gone awry.

Even beyond his father’s departure, Cem’s life is shaped by his teenage apprenticeship to Master Mahmut, a well-digger of great renown. It removes him from his protective mother’s sphere of influence and immerses him in a world at once simple – long hours of physical labour – and highly skilled. As his and Master Mahmut’s quest for water on a patch of land slated for development runs into difficulties, so their relationship – boss and employee, craftsman and disciple, quasi father and son – becomes antagonistic, beset by undercurrents of rivalry and rebellion. Before too long (and avoiding spoilers) matters come to a head.

Throughout, their story gestures toward the fairytale, as underlined by Cem’s irresistible attraction to a travelling theatre troupe performing satirical sketches and classical scenes in the town near their excavation, and to the red-haired woman of the title. But Pamuk, in the style that characterises much of his work, fuses this material with political and social commentary. Over the three or four decades covered by the narrative, which takes place from the mid-1980s to the present day, the landscape of Istanbul and its surrounding areas literally changes shape. Residential and commercial developments spring up everywhere, many of them courtesy of Cem and his wife Aye, who have named their business after Shahnameh’s murdered son, Sohrab. Water shortages belie the sophisticated nature of these new suburbs, which eventually begin to form an amorphous mass.

Cem is preoccupied by the differences between Turkey and Iran, the latter seeming to him more alive to its cultural past. Turks, he decides, “had become so Westernised that we’d forgotten our old poets and myths”. While in Tehran, he sees numerous depictions of Rostam and Sohrab, and finds himself stirred:

I felt frustrated and uneasy, as if a fearful memory I refused to acknowledge consciously might suddenly well up and make me miserable. The image was like some wicked thought that keeps intruding on your mind no matter how much you yearn to be rid of it.

The extent to which individuals and societies suffer by not keeping their mythic past in mind is Pamuk’s subject, but it becomes more ambiguous when different stories are brought into play. What is the significance of a son who kills his father in innocence rather than a father who kills his son? Which is the more transgressive and ultimately damaging act and should both killers be regarded as guiltless because they knew not what they did?

But, as its title is perhaps designed to suggest, these accounts of fathers and sons omit a key element of the family drama: if paternity becomes a focus to the exclusion of all else, maternal energy must find an alternative outlet. As this strange, shifting novel edges to its conclusion – becoming, in its final act, a noir thriller – that energy makes a dramatic return, changing not only the story but the entire narrative paradigm.

The Red-Haired Woman is a puzzling novel; its intentions are often concealed, and oblique. At times, it seems to owe as much to Dostoevsky as to the epics of the long-distant past; it moves forward by indirection, swapping modes and registers at will. Playful and unsettling, it reprises some of Pamuk’s favourite themes – the clash between the past and the erasures of modernity, so charged in a Turkish context, and the effect on the individual’s psyche – without quite reaching the expansive heights of some of his previous novels. It is, nonetheless, an intriguing addition to his body of work. 

The Red-Haired Woman
Orhan Pamuk. Translated by Ekin Oklap
Faber & Faber, 253pp, £16.99

This article first appeared in the 14 September 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The German problem