Like the rest of the broadsheet-reading masses, I am currently engrossed in the TV show Mad Men: a show which seems to be the cultural reference du jour, even while remaining a niche interest on BBC 4. From style and fashion magazines concentrating on what the ladies/men wear; to health magazines examining the effect of living the lifestyle of Mad Men (conclusion: not positive); to men’s magazines extolling the lifestyle (GQ/Esquire) or phwooaaaring over the beautiful Christine Hendricks (FHM/Loaded); it seems that no article is complete without a reference to Don Draper.
In the wake of this cultural blitzkrieg of all things Draper, several books have been re-packaged and re-published to cash in on this interest in Madison Avenue. Foremost among these items is the Jerry Della Femina book “From Those Wonderful Folks Who Brought You Pearl Harbour”, which just like the others, rides the Mad Men gravy train as hard as it can, right down to the stylistic “man-in-suit-on-red-background” front cover. Unlike the others, it does at least have a tenuous link to the series, as it was this book that inspired certain elements of the show.
Written by an ad-man who lived through that time, it was obviously an invaluable reference for the producers in getting a sense of the boozy lunches and high jinks, as well as the politics of an advertising agency just right. But anyone taken in by the styling of the book, and expecting a full immersion into the Mad Men world will be left very disappointed. There are a number of genuinely funny anecdotes, and the tone of the book as a whole is friendly and chatty. But there is an overall lack of control in the book, and it quickly becomes a chore to keep reading anecdote after anecdote.
Imagine your friendly uncle, coming over and having a drink, and telling you a story about the time him, Tony and Jim had to go all the way over town and something happened. Then imagine him getting drunker and drunker, and the stories becoming less and less amusing, but your uncle becomes more and more insistent that you listen to him. He starts telling you stories about people you don’t even know, and then he starts complaining about work - each tale is delivered with a belligerent poke into the chest. You really want to listen to him at the beginning, and he says a few things that are funny, but as the night wears on, you begin to humour him, and then you slowly stop listening to him and just nod your head and smile in the right place, all the while thinking about how you could slip away without him noticing. This is the book form of that uncle: an incoherent jumble of stories about people you don’t know and don’t care about, only serving the purpose of the glorification of the storyteller, and how great he used to be.
