Arthur Smith, The Paley Center for Media

The Urge for Serge: Ten Keys to a Transgressive Troubadour

Thu, 26 Aug 2010 00:00:00 CDT

Singer/songwriter Serge Gainsbourg (1928–91) is an icon in his native France and a massive star throughout Europe, but he remains a cult figure in the United States. His songs and persona conjured a bohemian, decadent demimonde of booze, cigarettes, and illicit sex, and the impish composer delighted in provocation, taboo-shattering, and scandal. He is a titanically influential figure in popular music and a figure of endless fascination—imagine a playfully dirty-minded French Bob Dylan, influenced by jazz and calypso instead of folk, and you’re close.

Gainsbourg’s astonishing range—he composed classic songs in jazz, mambo, reggae, sophisticated pop, traditional ballad, disco, calypso, bossa nova, and good old rock’n’roll idioms—has cemented his status as one of the popular music world’s most protean figures, with contemporary acolytes including Beck, R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe, Franz Ferdinand, and Portishead covering his tunes and preaching the gospel of Gainsbourg. His mystique, restless artistic spirit, and provocative challenges of social norms so endeared him to the people of France that, upon his death, French president Francois Mitterand proclaimed, “he is our Baudelaire, our Apollinaire…he elevated the song to the level of art.”

I first heard Gainsbourg on the soundtrack of Olivier Assayas’s sly moviemaking satire Irma Vep. The track was "Bonnie and Clyde," a seething, inscrutably cool slow burn that held me transfixed, mesmerized, and determined to hear as much of the man’s music I could get my hands on.

Genius, poet, dirty old man…below are ten indelible Gainsbourg moments. Your obsession starts here:

SG and Whiney Houston

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In this infamous clip from Michel Drucker’s chat show, Gainsbourg makes an indecent—and startlingly frank—proposal to American superstar Whitney Houston. Drucker’s apology was charmingly French, as he explained, “Sometimes, he’s a little bit drunk, you know.” Awwwwkward.

Lemon Incest

For sheer provocation, it’s hard to top Gainsbourg’s “Lemon Incest,” an unambiguously titled paean to excessive fatherly affection . . . performed with his then 13-year-old daughter Charlotte. Today, Charlotte Gainsbourg is a highly regarded actress and recording artist in her own right, and seems unscathed by her father’s perverse sense of humor.

Le Sucettes

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Gainsbourg’s composition for teen singing sensation France Gall, with its irresistible melody and naughty double entendres (the lyrics ostensibly concern a young girl’s enthusiasm for sucking…lollipops) was a massive hit, but Gall, protesting she did not understand the dirty joke at the heart of the charming ditty, later expressed anger over being duped.

Je T’Aime…Moi Non Plus

Gainsbourg’s biggest hit, and one of the most explicitly sexual songs to ever grace the pop charts—after being condemned by the Vatican, it reached #1 in the UK. Originally written for Gainsbourg’s ex, Brigitte Bardot, the song features English actress Jane Birkin shamelessly cooing and moaning, gasping and sighing, and essentially simulating orgasm over a gently insistent groove. Donna Summer covered the tune and also enjoyed a hit with it. Gainsbourg married Birkin, and the two would collaborate frequently, most notably producing daughter Charlotte.

Bonnie & Clyde

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This duet with Brigitte Bardot (Gainsbourg’s lover for a brief period) addresses Gainsbourg’s preoccupation with American pop culture and underworld themes, but its enduring power redounds to the hypnotically churning string arrangement and a general air of seething restraint. “Bonnie & Clyde” instantly conjures a fraught, seductive atmosphere, a quality that has attracted such film directors as Olivier Assayas (Irma Vep), who have memorably employed the song in their films.

Ballade de Melody Nelson

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The title track from Gainsbourg’s dark concept album concerning an older man’s affair with a young woman (Birkin handling the female role) is one of the loveliest songs he ever wrote, and the lush, dramatic, mysterious atmosphere of the album has won praise from contemporary artists including Air, Beck, and Jarvis Cocker, who aspire to its effortlessly louche sophistication.

Strip Tease (with Nico)

Of the many chanteuses to dip into the Gainsbourg songbook, the Velvet Underground’s Nico, with her decadent glamour and mournful voice, was perhaps the most naturally suited. This rare track survives as a demo recorded by Nico as an audition for a 1962 film of the same name. She didn’t get it—the part went to Juliette Greco.

SG Burns 500 Francs

In the final years of his life, Gainsbourg became a fixture on French television, where he relished playing the role of provocateur. Protesting tax policies, he once burned a 500 Franc note during an interview, an action the French government found highly offensive—not to mention illegal.

SG confronts Catherine Ringer

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Up to his old tricks again, Gainsbourg baited singer and former pornographic actress Catherine Ringer on a talk show, calling her out on her sordid past. What’s notable about the incident is Gainsbourg’s complete sangfroid while delivering his insults, and Ringer’s verging-on-amused reaction to them. Gainsbourg had become France’s official Dirty Old Man, a lovable pervert, an unlikely institution regarded with wary affection.

Aux Arms, etc.

Gainsbourg’s controversial reggae version of the French national anthem predictable caused an uproar, including death threats from veterans of the Algerian War of Independence. Also offended was reggae legend Bob Marley, whose wife appeared as a background singer on the track, and whom Gainsborg had assigned some dirty lyrics. He was surprised?

Anna

Gainsbourg joined Jean-Luc Godard muse Anna Karina for a vaguely surreal “comedy musical” Anna, produced for French television, featuring striped stockings, riotous colors, beautiful women, and smoking, smoking, smoking. A fantastic snapshot of '60s Paris and a source of some of Gainsbourg’s best–loved songs, including the wistful masterpiece “Sous le Soleil Exactement.”

Where is my American Splendor?

Wed, 21 Jul 2010 00:00:00 CDT

Comic book legend Harvey Pekar dies at 70. In Cleveland.

I wasn’t reading many comics by the time I got to college; the X-Men and the Fantastic Four had helped me survive middle school, but I forsook my caped comrades early in high school, aware that I hardly needed more nerd signifiers following me around in my fumbling attempts to attract girls and avoid wedgies. Superheroes were kid’s stuff, hardly fare suitable for a worldly, sophisticated fourteen-year-old in central Kansas.

In my sophomore year at college, I met Max, a brilliant, borderline psychotic polymath with impeccable taste in music and an aura of dangerous anti-coolness. Max was into comics, too, but favored relatively obscure indie titles like Love and Rockets, Hate, and Eightball—transgressive, cerebral, weird, independent titles that were funnier than The Simpsons, weirder than David Lynch, and smarter than David Foster Wallace (okay, not really), with nary a spandex union suit in sight. I was instantly hooked on these adult “comix” and dove back into reading and collecting and discussing them with the passionate abandon of a back-sliding alkie locked in a gin mill. Daniel Clowes seduced me with his allusive deadpan surrealism, Peter Bagge convulsed me with the antics of his dead-end slackers, and I longed to visit the richly imagined communities of Los Bros. Hernandez’s Hoppers and Palomar…but mostly I hung out with a dyspeptic government file clerk in Cleveland.

Harvey Pekar’s autobiographical stories (collected under the gently ironic title American Splendor) first came to the attention of comics readers courtesy of his collaborations with the legendary R. Crumb, whose shaky pen line perfectly captured Pekar’s anxious, often desperate mental state and depressed industrial milieu, but the magic of the stories came from Pekar’s conviction that ordinary life—in all of its grinding mundanity—was worthy of close attention and the elevating attention of art. Thus, readers were treated to painstaking recreations of Pekar’s quotidian routine: schlepping files, bickering and kibitzing with an array of eccentric coworkers, losing his glasses, hunting for old record albums, and just getting by with a modicum of dignity in a world he never made.

I didn’t know about Pekar’s semi-infamy as a hotheaded regular guest on Late Night with David Letterman (until I read about it in his books) or his profound influence on other comics creators when I first encountered his work…I was just charmed (and soon absorbed) by these odd stories in which nothing really happened, featuring a markedly unpleasant crank who looked like he maybe didn’t smell great. No sex, no violence, no adventure, no ironic twist endings—just ordinary life, reproduced with stealthy literary acumen (Pekar moonlighted as a book and jazz critic) and a bedrock respect for the small triumphs and tragedies of characters who, in conventional comics (or films or television shows, for that matter) are routinely relegated to the background.

The excellent 2003 film American Splendor is a fine introduction to the world and singular style of Harvey Pekar, and it helped to ease the artist’s chronic financial concerns while exposing his work to a general (or at least art house) audience. His great legacy is the comics, though…grouchy, achingly human dispatches from a life lived in noisy desperation. “Only connect,” exhorted E.M. Forster; Pekar connected like crazy, toiling heroically in a cold, damp Cleveland of the mind. Thanks, Harvey, for bringing me back.

No Comment

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 00:00:00 CDT

Though I will admit to mild frustration over the paucity of responses engendered by these semi-regular postings, I can’t complain too much, because, truthfully, I have come to loathe the “comments” sections that dangle beneath legitimate pieces on pop culture blogs like the Onion’s AV Club like extraneous, diseased limbs—full of unbelievably petty backbiting, desperate one-up-manship, and, worst of all, unrelenting “snark,” the ubiquitous, facile satirical razzing and reference-dropping that has become the lingua franca of social networking.

It’s as if armies of unemployed Daily Show writers hunker daily (hourly, minute-by-minute-ly) at their keyboards, waiting for the ideal moment to pun on a Godard movie title, quote Eastbound and Down, or, the ne plus ultra, score a “firstie” and dazzle the punters with their wit and erudition. The problem is, everybody commenting seemingly shares the same wised-up, rueful, semi-self-deprecating voice, creating and endless feedback loop of undergrad irony and Lost theories. Everyone’s hip, everyone’s funny, everyone’s familiar with the canon of pop high and low, and everyone natters on endlessly, pointlessly, filling bandwidth with smug little jokes about the National and Danny Trejo.

I always thought the worst part of any given Neil Simon work was the preternaturally quippy little kid on the sidelines, improbably worldly and ready with a zinger for any occasion. Those little wisenheimers have grown up now and devote themselves to contentiously parsing Breaking Bad online, brandishing “clever” user names like War On Oats and Doggystyle Day Afternoon (geddit, geddit?).

I’m all for informed, enthusiastic discussion of the television shows, movies, music, and books that enrich our lives…in fact, it’s an abiding passion of mine, and the reason I work here. It’s the hive-mind that gets me down, the hip homogeneity of it all…I except you dear readers of the Paley Center blogs, you few, you proud. Sound off below, if you’re reading, and let’s discuss Justified and Sarah Silverman and the Pavement reunion tour—but let’s try it without the canned snark. I want to hear your voice, not a 4th generation copy of Joel McHale’s. What do you think?

Hooked

Tue, 04 May 2010 00:00:00 CDT

I don’t think I’ve ever sat down and watched the immortal Patrick Swayze vehicle Road House from start to finish, but I’m sure I’ve seen the film in its entirety at least five or six times. That’s because if it’s late and I’m flipping through channels and land on Mr. Swayze laconically kicking ass at the Double Deuce, I will watch that thing until the bitter end.

There is a whole body of terrible movies that holds this power over me; I’m particularly susceptible in the wee small hours of the morning, knowing full well I have to be up early the next day. It’s positively perverse. 2 am: a snotty Tori Spelling is lording it over poor nerdy little Kellie Martin in A Friend to Die For. I need to be fully conscious in 6 hours. And yet I must watch, because I know it’s only a matter of time before Kellie shanks Tori (even better here than in Co-ed Call Girl) with a pilfered kitchen knife in the front seat of her car, and I HAVE TO see that. Uh oh…Tori’s old confederate Shannen Doherty’s Friends ‘Til the End is on later…too many highlights to list here, but I can’t miss La Walsh warbling the excruciating faux-grunge anthem at the end: “Can Ennybuddeh HEEEEAAARRR meh…”

There are good movies I inevitably get sucked into as well: I’ve never watched two minutes of North by Northwest without ultimately finishing it, and Dazed and Confused hooks me every time. But it’s the bad movies that exert a special pull. I need HBO to quit playing Bride Wars, so I can quit waiting around for the grotesquely embarrassing “sexy dance off” between Ann Hathaway and Kate Hudson. Oh look: Mannequin is on. Can Andrew McCarthy really sustain an entire lead performance with a single facial expression (harried bemusement)? Yes, he can! I’d rather not get into my fascination with The Worst Witch (okay, it’s Tim Curry’s mesmerizing double chin) or Rosie O’Donnell’s Riding the Bus with My Sister ( … ), but I will defend to my dying breath the compulsively watchable brilliance of Blind Fury, starring the indestructible Rutger Hauer as a seeing-impaired swordfighting Vietnam vet. Actually, any Rutger Hauer movie playing north of midnight owns me for the duration.

I’m not sure what to do about this problem. Surrounded by better options (music, books, sleep), why do I fritter my time away entranced by the ant-chemistry of James Woods (!) and Dolly Parton (!!!) in Straight Talk?

I can only conclude it’s a sickness, and pray Tommy Wiesau’s The Room never gets sold to TBS.

Golden Throat: The Lives of H. Jon Benjamin

Tue, 06 Apr 2010 00:00:00 CDT

It’s always a bit of a shock to see actor H. Jon Benjamin in the flesh; the comedic actor, best known for his voice-over work in series such as Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist, Home Movies, and the current Archer, is slight of stature, balding, physically unprepossessing. But that voice—rich, deep, and blustery—summons the mental image of a strapping, burly (if neurotic) fellow, a Richard-Burton-channeling-Albert-Brooks sort of a voice.

Benjamin has marshaled this unmistakable instrument in the service of some of the freshest and funniest animated comedy of recent years. His improvisatory banter (as homebound adult son Ben) with Jonathan Katz on DKPT combined the loopy ad-libbing chops of Bob and Ray with real warmth—their exchanges are endlessly re-watchable, and could be collected into a dandy comedy album. He likewise struck sparks with David Cross in Freakshow (the duo played Siamese twins), grounding the outre premise with Smothers-worthy fraternal sniping.

His bullying, dysfunctional Coach McGuirk on Home Movies was another richly observed piece of work, as Benjamin manages to reveal endless shadings of misery and self-hatred in McGuirk’s rants.

Best of all is his current work in Archer, in which he plays a James Bond–like superspy with mother issues. Arrogant, appallingly rude and selfish, and LOUD, Archer could easily be an unbearable character, but Benjamin invests his performance with such a sense of playfulness and charisma that it’s impossible not to fall for the guy.

Benjamin appears in person currently in Important Things with Demetri Martin. He’s dependably hilarious—in fact, he’s the funniest man on television, in two or three dimensions.

Archer Shoots, Scores

Tue, 09 Feb 2010 00:00:00 CST

The funniest show currently on TV is the FX network’s Archer (coincidentally, the second funniest show is FX’s plastic surgery drama Nip/Tuck, although that might not be wholly intentional). Archer follows the adventures of the titular hero, a James Bond–like superspy, and his coworkers at the mysterious (and, evidently, second-rate) security organization known as ISIS. Archer is the brainchild of Adam Reed, the twisted mind behind such Adult Swim favorites Frisky Dingo and Sealab 2021. Archer shares the anarchic spirit of those ‘toons, but the fairly straightforward espionage/thriller format (leavened with large helpings of inane office politics) grounds the humor, avoiding the sometimes abrasive randomness and gratuitous bizarre gestures that characterize typical Adult Swim fare.

Archer’s most potent weapon is its peerless ensemble of voice actors, featuring blustery H. Jon Benjamin (Dr. Katz’s under-achieving Ben) in the title role, Jessica Walter refining her haughty WASP schtick as Archer’s mother/boss, Aisha Tyler and Chris Parnell subtly incarnating Archer’s colleagues, and the great Judy Greer in the role of a lifetime as the spacey, disturbingly sexual secretary Carol (or is it Cheryl? Karina?)

The series looks great, with its hyperrealistic retro-sixties sheen, and the plots amuse, but at heart Archer is a richly layered, quirky character study, rife with callbacks and sparky interactions—imagine Mad Men crossed with Arrested Development (Walter and Greer are alumni of that epochal comedy materpiece), and add a liberal dash of bloody cartoon violence. Archer is endlessly quotable (Archer, disgusted by lax computer security: “This is just…Babytown Frolics!”) and laden with the kind of subtle detail that rewards repeat viewings. Check it out.

I’ll see you later . . . Johnny Bench called.

A Wild Talent: The Short, Startling Career of Brittany Murphy

Tue, 05 Jan 2010 00:00:00 CST

Actress Brittany Murphy’s shocking death at 32 cut short the career of one of the most original and promising young actresses working in Hollywood. Best remembered for her singularly charming turn in Clueless, Murphy was a performer of astonishing range and invention. Below are some highlights of a tragically abbreviated CV.

King of the Hill (1997–2009)
In this animated series, Murphy voiced the sweetly dim LuAnne Platter, a trailer park refugee and aspiring cosmetologist of no discernible skill. LuAnne was a dippy delight—Murphy’s lisping, sing-song delivery perfectly complemented her character’s wayward charm and innocence, particularly when LuAnne would stage bizarre Bible-themed puppet shows featuring Sir Reginald Featherbottom III, an aristocratic penguin who, voiced by LuAnne (voiced by Murphy) sported the most inept English accent in the history of television. Funny and touching in equal measure.

Clueless (1995)
This loose Jane Austen adaptation was supposed to make lead Alicia Silverstone a star, but Murphy, as the unsinkable Tai, stole every scene with her skewed charisma and off-kilter timing. Eve Arden crossed with Moon Unit Zappa . . . sublime.

Freeway (1996)
Matthew Bright’s twisted cult classic features a sparky turn from a fearless, pre-romcom lead Reese Witherspoon, but Murphy’s creepily passive lesbian reform-school girl took this satirical take on the Little Red Riding Hood myth into strange, David Lynchian territory.

Girl, Interrupted (1999)
Winona Ryder pouted prettily, and Angelina Jolie emoted her way to an Oscar, but Murphy’s grotesquely winsome, suicidal psychiatric patient was both the most convincing performance and haunting heart of the film. No one else could wring such creepy pathos from a floor-length nightgown.

8 Mile (2002)
A rare straight, adult dramatic role, full of danger and verve. Murphy matches rapper Eminem’s brio beat for beat and scorches the screen with predatory sexiness—a performance to make one long for Murphy in roles for Martin Scorcese, Abel Ferrara, or Werner Herzog.

Sin City (2005)
Murphy is the rare actress among her generation to understand how to deliver a stylized performance, as demonstrated by her turn as mouthy bar girl Shellie in the visionary Sin City. Her performance is pitched perfectly between comic camp and a droll evocation of B-movie goddesses like Marie Windsor and Ann Savage. Murphy doesn’t just hold the screen with powerhouse costars Benicio Del Toro and Clive Owen—she dominates it.

What is your favorite Brittany Murphy performance?

Scary Monsters and Super Creeps: Kid Stuff for Grownups

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 00:00:00 CST

The Brothers Grossman

Lev and Austin Grossman are ferociously intelligent twin brothers and novelists who have produced two of the freshest and most entertaining sci-fi/fantasy books of the past ten years: Lev’s The Magicians, a dark and adult take on Harry Potter tropes, and Austin’s Soon I Will Be Invincible, a funny and inventive exploration of the psychology of super people.

The novels simultaneously celebrate and deconstruct the elements of the juvenile fantasy narratives that have come to dominate popular culture, slyly sending up audience’s furtive power fantasies and the siren song of escapism while delivering wholly engrossing fictional worlds—Austin’s built on the iconic legacy of Silver Age Marvel and DC Comics, Lev’s on Rowling’s Hogwarts escapades and the Narnia novels of C. S. Lewis.

I wolfed down both books eagerly, marveling at the brothers’ command of their source material and ability to tease out deep emotional resonances from the exploits of neurotic mad scientists and surly teenaged wizards. The Grossmans understand the seriousness at the heart of this kids’ stuff; anyone dismayed or bemused by the ascendance of super heroes, vampires, and aliens in this cultural moment should give these novels their attention. Anyone already on board will devour them like I did—the sex lives of cyborgs and substance-abusing mages: what’s not to love?

Sketchy Film

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 00:00:00 CDT

Great sketch comedy flourishes on stage and the television—why does it so often fail to translate to the big screen?

The massive amounts of money required by even the most modest film productions certainly cast a pall over the proceedings, limiting the spontaneity at the heart of the sketch form. Movies can also feel less intimate than that little box in the corner, or the presence of flesh-and-blood actors feet away on the stage. Below are some thoughts on a handful of films released by beloved sketch troupes, to markedly mixed results.

And Now for Something Completely Different
Monty Python redid a bunch of their early TV pieces for this weirdly airless film, which trades the anarchic, death-to-conventional-television zip of the series for a freeze-dried anthology of greatest hits. Very unsatisfying for fans of the show, but might be useful for a neophyte curious to see the "Dead Parrot" sketch and hear "The Lumberjack Song" in one convenient package. Or maybe not.

Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life
Despite a few ringers, such as the grotesque Mr. Creosote, this second anthology-style outing for the Pythons again fails to delight, thanks to a murky look, sluggish pacing, and a vicious, ugly tone throughout. A dark and only fitfully funny film.

The Holy Grail and Life of Brian are the Python films worth revisiting, and it’s interesting to note that they are sustained, movie-length narratives—testament to the skill of Python directors Terry Jones and Terry Gilliam.

The SCTV crew never made an official film version of the show, which is a shame—the program’s obsessively detailed Melonville setting, with its complement of dizzy characters, would seem to be tailor-made for a movie-length story. The sketch genius of many SCTV alumni is on vivid display in the films of Christopher Guest (Waiting for Guffman, Best In Show, A Mighty Wind, For Your Consideration), but I also recommend 1983’s loopy John Candy (with Eugene Levy and Joe Flaherty along for the ride) vehicle Going Berserk, which contains cinema’s funniest-ever kung fu parody and a running corpse gag that predates Weekend at Bernie’s and yields many more laughs. “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”

Brain Candy
The Kids in the Hall were a barely functioning unit, crippled by infighting and bad blood, during the production of this mess of a comedy, which concerns a new super-antidepressant that wreaks havoc on society. Amiable Kevin MacDonald, apparently the sole Kid on good terms with his castmates, was pressed into service as the lead, a role perhaps not best suited to his low-key talents. The film is sluggish and full of bad feeling—there are funny ideas, but the sense of joyless duty hanging over the production suffocates all attempts at mirth. The presence of Bruce McCulloch’s Cancer Boy either single-handedly dooms or redeems the movie, depending on your tolerance for very, very sick humor.

Run Ronnie Run
The great Mr. Show with Bob and David limped onto the big screen with this deflated wheeze, a redneck comedy featuring the program’s much-arrested Cops alumnus Ronnie Dobbs. Director Troy Miller reportedly barred writers/stars Bob Odenkirk and David Cross from the editing room, and the clumsy misfire that resulted failed to earn a theatrical release, with Cross going so far as to have his name removed from the project and to forgo any (if there were indeed any) profits. A massive disappointment for Mr. Show’s rabid fans.

The Ten
The State, MTV’s foray into the sketch realm, may not have marquee names among its cast, but its alumni are all over contemporary comedy, and they put out what is probably the most successful sketch-oriented movie of this bunch with The Ten, a comedic look at the Ten Commandments. Celebrity guests like Paul Rudd and Winona Ryder score as, respectively, a peevish everyman and a nymphomaniac in love with a ventriloquist’s dummy, but all of the performances are spot-on and every sketch works, building into a cohesive triumph of the form. It’s a goof.

What sketch movies do you like? Which fail miserably? Let us know below.

Mad Men Returns—I'll Have a Double

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 00:00:00 CDT

Mad Men is back, thank God, and it's time again to marinate in the cigarette smoke and whiskey fumes of Sterling Cooper. After last season's (brilliant) spiral into misery and doom, it's nice to see Don Draper and co. in a somewhat lighter mood, though, as always, evil portents and alarums simmer just below the gorgeous surface of go-go Manhattan in 1963.

The agency is in flux, experiencing growing pains under the stewardship of its new British owners—a nod to the "British Invasion" soon to grip the hearts and minds of American youth? Maybe, but it's too damn hot for pointy-headed analysis. Rather than wade through the thematic freight set in place by this season's premiere, I'm just going to list my favorite moments and bask in the afterglow.

Pete Campbell's Happy Dance
Believing that the promotion he has dreamed of is in his grasp, the weaselly accounts man executes a spazzy, Ed Grimley-esque frug of triumph. Campbell is always entertaining in his bitterness and spoiled insolence, but Happy Pete, short lived as he is, is even funnier.

Jared Harris's Male Secretary
Harris, an excellent and undervalued character actor, plays new SC honcho with chillingly polite menace. His unctuous male secretary is dubbed "Moneypenny" by the support staff, which is awesome.

There's No Such Thing as London Fog
Who knew?

Game Stewardesses and Forward Bellboys
Don and art director Sal are aggressively pursued by various members of the service sector on a business trip. I have flown many times and stayed in many hotels, and nothing like this has ever happened to me, which is reason number 887,765,413 that television is better than real life.

Bill Hofstadt, G-Man Accountant
The erstwhile Dick Whitman assumes yet another new identity. "Bill's" manner with his air hostess pick-up is in marked contrast to Draper's usual smooth affect; he is brusque nearly to the point of brutality and candidly predatory. Will the real Don Draper please stand up?

Sappho in Suburbia
Betty to Don, reporting on their daughter Sally's operation on Don's briefcase: "She's taken to your tools like a little lesbian." Betty Draper remains one of the most surprising and weird female characters on television.

Trudy Campbell's Green Nightie
Trudy is the stealth hottie of Mad Men. Why is Pete so sour with this dream waiting for him at home?

What did you think? Freaked out by Don's fantasy recreation of his own birth? Heartbroken for Sal? Wondering when we get to see Jane again, tawny and tanned after a honeymoon in Greece?

Discuss.