hy I love Betty Draper from Mad Men
The pre-emptive, knowing chatter on series two of AMC's extraordinary Mad Men confused me. This time, said anyone who knew anything about high-end, thoughtful, exquisitely styled and elegantly scripted American dramas, it's All About the Women. I thought this was odd. As far as I was concerned, it had only ever been about the women. But tant mieux, I reasoned, bring it on. More exposure to these staggering creations could only be good for my soul.
The gals of Mad Men are fabulous, without exception. They are the anti-Mistresses. They are nuanced and contradictory, surprising and bad. They are at least a little bit mental, and they are never anything less than inspirationally well dressed. Or half-cut, for that matter. But I only worship at the shrine of one of them. (Anything else would be exhausting, no?) I love office manager Joan Holloway, of course. I loved her from episode one, series one. I love her skin and her sardonic smoking style and her instinctive scheming. She is pure sex in a scarlet woollen day dress; and she is the least vulnerable of all the characters, which makes her something of a relief in the grand scheme of their myriad miseries.
But this far into series two, it's Betty Draper – Betsy, Bets! – who's inspiring all the breathless devotion in me. It's Betty D whom I worship. Partly, sure, it's because of the way she looks. It is her glacial, Kennedy-woman-standard gorgeousness, it's the flick in her eye liner and the gloss on her hair. Plus, her costumes are stellar. I dream of doing equestrian chic as well as Bets; I cannot pretend I haven't channelled the jodhpurs and cream-crew-neck combo, because I have.
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