Where The Wild Things Are: The Old Gods and the New on Game of Thrones

"You can't tame a wild thing. You can't trust a wild thing... Wild creatures have their own rules, their own reasons, and you'll never know them."

This week's breathtaking episode of Game of Thrones ("The Old Gods and the New"), written by Vanessa Taylor and directed by David Nutter, is easily my favorite episode of the season to date, not least of which is because it departs significantly from George R.R. Martin's novel. While this may alarm some purists, the ability to inject surprise and shock in even the most knowledgeable readers is something to celebrate here; it raises the stakes significantly and allows writers like Taylor (who, it must be said, is delivering truly fantastic work) and David Benioff and Dan Weiss flexibility when it comes to crafting the story. Too often in adaptations, it's impossible to take meaningful detours on the way to their respective stories' ultimate destinations.

Here such detours should be held up and praises, so long as they allow the viewer to evaluate the material in a different way, to experience the story (and the novel's subplots, as well as its many off-screen developments) in a new and interesting way. The Arya (Maisie Williams) and Tywin Lannister (Charles Dance) scenes are sensational and reveal elements of both characters in a way that would not be possible other than putting them in a room together. Watching Arya conceal her identity--even when faced by the unexpected arrival of Littlefinger (Aidan Gillen)--and dance around the fact that she's a high-born lady is genius; it displays her own sense of cunning and need to survive at all costs, subsuming her identity within whatever is immediately available. We get this notion from A Clash of Kings as well, seeing her transform from Arya to Arry to the Ghost of Harrenhal, borrowing a new identity as one might a cloak. But here, she's put to the ultimate test, facing down her ultimate enemy in the belly of the beast. The moments of subterfuge--distracting Tywin with a question so she can nab the scroll on the table--play out magnificently; she doles out bits of her assumed identity as a means of gaining her adversary's confidence and trust.

We're told in the episode, by Shae (Sibel Kikelli), that we should trust no one. This is especially true in Westeros and Essos: trust and loyalty are things to be exploited rather than rewarded. The dog at your table will bite you as soon as it will save you. Civility, it seems, is a fragile shell. Crack it even barely and you find the true savagery of most people.

Which is largely what "The Old Gods and the New" is about: the wild, untamed spirit of some of the characters. Just as Theon (Alfie Allen) betrays the Starks, despite being raised at Winterfell "among [the Starks] but never one of them," the notion of wildness permeates the entirely episode, from Ghost's standoffishness beyond the Wall and Qhorin's words to Jon to Ygritte (Rose Leslie) and Osha (Natalia Tena). Is it ever possible to tame something wild and unpredictable? Or, phrased differently, are we all just as wild at heart, underneath the pretense that we're honorable?

It's interesting that it's the most wild among the Westerosi--the Hound (Rory McCann), Sandor Clegane, who Joffrey further humiliates by calling "Dog"--who is actually the most honorable, noble, and chivalrous of the lot at King's Landing. A crowd gathering in the streets of King's Landing to gawk at the royal processional after Myrcella (Aimee Richardson) is sent off to Dorne turns violent quickly. When a cowpie is thrown at him, King Joffrey (Jack Gleeson) reacts with such petulance that the mob turns ugly. The High Septon is literally ripped apart by the mob, his arm held up like a trophy by one of the unwashed mass. Citizens they may all be, but their baser instincts quickly take root when Joffrey eggs them on, promising death as recompense for their insulting behavior. Their frenzy turns deadly: besides for the High Septon's gruesome end, there are multiple murders and rapes (Lollys Stokeworth, was that you?) and Sansa (Sophie Turner) is pursued and attacked by several men.

I was glad to see that Sansa didn't relent, but fought back, despite being outnumbered and outmatched. The horror of the near-gang rape scene was keenly felt in her terror and distress and the savage and uncaring masks of her attackers, seeing her as something to be destroyed, to be bloodied and used, to be cast off like garbage. It's the Hound, of course, who comes to her rescue, the "monster" who is far more civilized than his master--or anyone, really--would give him credit for. (In fact, it's the fourth time the Hound has saved her: last season, he chided Joffrey when he made Sansa stare at Ned's rotten head on a spike; he saved her from a beating when he told Joffrey that Sansa wasn't just being superstitious when she made the comment about his name day; he gave her his cloak when Joffrey orders her stripped in the throne room.)

Upon seeing the frenzy of the crowd, the first thought that Tyrion (Peter Dinklage) has is of Sansa's safety, but he's thinking in far more pragmatic terms, seeing the Stark girl as a bargaining chip, a hostage, a pawn. It's not the Hound's perception. He sees Sansa as a "little bird" whom he saves from the hungers of the crowd, bringing her back to the keep so she can be returned to her "cage." His sense of honor and morality is at odds with both his "freakish" appearance and his own use of brutality. Rather than just save Sansa, he disembowels one of her captors and slays them all gruesomely. He has the bottle to be just as brutal as anyone else, but he has a moral code that sets him apart from the wildness of those around him, particularly flailing, bratty Joffrey. It takes a swift slap across the face from Tyrion to get Joffrey to calm down and see the error of what he's done, allowing Sansa out of their hands. Tyrion might be honorable, but he's also sensible: lose Sansa and they lose their only shot at getting Jaime (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau) back from the Starks. ("You owe him quite a bit," Tyrion says of Jaime. HE'S YOUR FATHER, he seems to shout silently. YOU FOOL.)

But that wild influence isn't limited to just a rioting crowd in King's Landing: it's felt potently beyond the Wall and at Winterfell. Both Theon and Osha were kept as prisoners, though Theon's cage, as opposed to Sansa's at King's Landing, was far less obvious. It's clear that he has a lot of resentment towards Ned Stark and towards his "brothers." While we're not treated to the siege itself, Theon manages to pull it off without much bloodshed, waking Bran (Isaac Hempstead-Wright) up to tell him that seized Winterfell and that he should yield to him. It's here where things go horribly wrong, particularly concerning the death of Ser Rodrik Cassel (Ron Donachie), the castellan of Winterfell. When Ser Rodrik refuses to yield or bow before the self-styled prince, Theon is determined to use him as an example. But it's Ser Rodrik's final words ("Now, you are truly lost.") that will echo for an eternity for Theon; his decision to commit murder, to eradicate the last vestiges of honor and of Ned Stark's teachings will damn him forever. Theon can't even give Ser Rodrik a clean death; unlike Ned Stark, Theon doesn't know how to behead him cleanly. Ser Rodrik's death is messy, and gruesome, and prolonged. He may have swung the sword, but he wasn't worthy of carrying out this execution. His attempt to take Ned's place only reminded everyone of how unworthy he truly is.

Interestingly, it's Jon Snow (Kit Harington) who has learned from his father. When he and the members of the rangers under Qhorin Halfhand (Simon Armstrong) come across a wildling party and he unmasks one of them as a woman, it's Jon who offers to kill her himself rather than have Qhorin or the others do it. After learning that the free folk are gathering in the "hundreds and thousands" in the Frostfangs, Ygritte has outlived her usefulness; her kind would kill Qhorin as soon as spit at him. It's the only thing to do and Jon takes it upon himself to behead her. But for all of her wild nature, Ygritte relents, turning over and putting her head on the rock, muttering how "cold" the sword is on her neck, begging him to do it and make her death a clean one. (And to burn her body afterward, so that she doesn't return as a wight.) But Jon can't bring himself to kill a woman; his honor part and parcel of who he is, his connection to morality marking him as a son of Ned Stark. Instead, Ygritte makes her escape, leading Jon to give chase in order to stop her.

(Aside: while I commented on it last week as well, the scenery and cinematography here are stunning. The Icelandic glacier where this was shot gives a haunting wildness to the backdrop as well as a stirring realism. The ice and frost of beyond the Wall was masterfully juxtaposed with the balmy sunniness of King's Landing as Myrcella is sent off. And, yes, I did hear the cry of the eagle over the glacier when Jon and the Night's Watch attacked the wildling camp. Hmmm...)

Later, Jon is forced to spend the night with his prisoner, to cuddle up next to her in order to stay alive, their body heat protecting them from the brutal cold. But Ygritte isn't content to just lie there; she wriggles next to Jon in an effort to turn him on, to torment him. But Jon took an oath of chastity and he's not falling for Ygritte's trickery. Or has he? Has Jon underestimated her own cunning and strength because he sees her as a woman rather than a wildling, a warrior?

It's a mistake that Theon makes as well, seeing Osha as something wild, a dog, a "kitchen slut," rather than a threat. By seducing Theon and going after his own base, animal instincts, she gains mastery over the "prince," using the opportunity to lead Bran, Rickon (Art Parkinson), Hoder, and the direwolves to safety. Clearly, Taylor meant for us to think that Osha had gone to the other side and was engaged in some self-preservation, but her misdirection here concealed Osha's true plan: escape. She trusted in the predictions contained in Bran's dream and the death of Ser Rodrik completed the prophecy therein. But Bran's connection to these dreams, to the three-eyed raven, signal something wild in themselves, something that Osha can't leave behind with Theon. And so this makeshift band of survivors slips out beyond the walls of Winterfell.

Just as magic seems to be creeping back into the world, so too is a wildness as well: the unpredictable, uncontrollable nature of several characters is commented on as well as a connection to something old and wild and unbreakable. Dragons have returned, a boy sees through the eyes of a direwolf, a red woman conjures shadows from her womb.

Qhorin's words to Jon that his death will matter little to the southerners on the other side of the wall--that he'll die a bastard and no one will even know his name--are significant. Their responsibility to protect the realm comes first before everything, even their lives, but they shouldn't give those away so freely either. It's their swords and shields that create the fragile sense of civilization of society; their sacrifice ensures the safety of so many others. Which makes it all the more heartbreaking when that shell is broken.

On the other side of the sea, Daenerys (Emilia Clarke) offers her own wildness to the Spice King (Nicholas Blane), demanding a fleet of ships so that she can "retake" the Iron Throne. The Spice King is clearly being set up here--haughty and rude, outspoken and predatory--as the culprit in the theft of Daenerys' dragons and the murder of poor Irri (Amrita Acharia), a storyline that doesn't appear in the books at all. But I'm not so sure that he's behind it. Rather, I think he's a red herring, the obvious choice for being the mastermind behind the theft of the three dragons... and that the Undying are behind it instead.

Whether I'm reading too much into things remains to be seen, but I hope that, regardless, the Spice King gets his comeuppance, though I will miss his imperiousness ("This one has a talent for drama"). Instead, he or someone else has awakened the dragon, prompting Daenerys to go into "fire and blood" mode and smite her enemies. Her own abilities--that of precognitive visions and invulnerability to fire--separate her from being a mere human or a "little princess." She too is as wild and untamable as her dragons. And just as deadly.

Some other stray observations:
-I'm glad that Robb (Richard Madden) caught Lady Talisa (Oona Chaplin) in lies so easily. She is not who she claims to be, something noticed by both Robb and instantly by Catelyn (Michelle Fairley) upon meeting her. Catelyn reminds Robb that he has responsibilities and debts that cannot be cancelled out: he is not free to love, but is promised to another. Yet, there's Talisa...
-I loved the scene where Littlefinger nearly noticed Arya was Tywin's cupbearer but kept getting distracted. Littlefinger is a crafty one, but Arya kept turning away every time his attentions became fixed on her. Did he notice and not say anything? Or does he never fully process who is actually standing right in front of him the entire time? Hmmm.
-The death of Amory Lorch was fantastic, as Jaqen (Tom Wlaschiha) assassinates him within seconds of Arya giving him the second name. That he falls face-down on the floor in front of Tywin was amazing.
-The banter between Joffrey and Sansa as Myrcella sailed off was priceless. "Well, it's not really relevant then, is it?" He's such a ponce.
-The Hound's words to Tyrion: "I didn't do it for you." Ooh.
-Jaime was dyslexic! I loved getting a glimpse into his childhood and Tywin's own feelings about his children, refusing to give him on Jaime and teaching him to read, despite what the maesters said about his inability. And Tywin's feelings towards his own father, who ruined them and their family name. But Arya scores a point on Tywin for quick wit when she's asked what killed her father. Her answer, fittingly: "Loyalty."
-It's Roose Bolton (Michael McElhatton) who brings word of the siege of Winterfell and offers to send his bastard to take back the castle. Robb acquiesces, but says that he (A) wants Theon kept alive, and (B) that Rickon and Bran's safety is paramount. Oh, Robb, this is a family whose sigil is a flayed man. You're not going to get levelheadedness from this clan; what you'll get is violence and brutality.

All in all, "The Old Gods and New" represented a massive achievement for Game of Thrones, a stunning display of well-crafted dialogue, subtle acting, deliberate pacing, and glorious setting, and the firm establishment that the show's continuity is well and truly separate from that of the novels. It seems as though the wild things are truly everywhere in the midst of war. Whether you try to tame them or cage them, they have a nasty way of biting you--or worse--when you turn your back. Could it be that Shae is right and the best course is to trust no one? Or does that way folly lie as well? Regardless, it seems as though the danger is only beginning and that before long Westeros could be overrun by wildlings... or destroyed from within. Either way, this way the true erasure of civilization lies.

Next week on Game of Thrones (“A Man Without Honor”), Jaime (Nicolaj Coster-Waldau) meets a distant relative; Dany receives an invitation to the House of the Undying; Theon leads a search party; Jon loses his way in the wilderness; Cersei (Lena Headey) counsels Sansa (Sophie Turner).

Future Perfect: Doomed Expectations on Mad Men

"Some things never change."

And some things do.

This week's fantastic episode of Mad Men ("At the Codfish Ball"), written by Jonathan Igla and directed by Michael Uppendahl, had its eye on the future, with several characters contemplating the shifting mores of 1966 as they--and the viewers--were confronted by traditional values rubbing against modernity.

But, as the episode itself depicts, things do change and they have to. Society may march on with some of those rigid structures intact but with it comes progress as well, and the sense of change and of the future is embodied in the characters of Peggy (Elisabeth Moss), Megan (Jessica Paré), and Sally Draper (Kiernan Shipka) here, each of whom undergoes a transformation of sorts (whether physical, psychological, or social) before the installment ends.

The entire notion of the campaign envisioned by Megan toys with the notion that certain things never really change, whether it be spaghetti, beans, or a mother cooking dinner for her child. The structure of the campaign posits that shifting cultures and times--from the prehistoric to the futuristic--don't diminish certain foundations, relationships, or eventualities. Children need to eat, parents need to feed them. The earth--and the moon--keep on turning.

That this becomes the thing that saves the Heinz account (and, as a result, potentially SCDP as well) is crucial, particularly because it's not only Megan who dreams up the campaign, even with a better tag than the one that Don (Jon Hamm) envisions, but who saves the day by warning Don that they're about to be fired and dinner and then provokes him into pitching Raymond (John Sloman) right there with the timeline idea. While Megan allows Don to take the credit for the campaign--at least in front of the client--it's down to her that they're able to transform their luck. But Megan is more than mere good luck charm; she's the brains behind the idea itself. She's more than just the holder of the purse, collector of business cards, the one who gets to whisper, "Get 'em, tiger" before her man enters the ring.

It's exciting to see Don paired with someone who is so well integrated into his world, who understands his business and his methodology, who sees the value of what he does and enjoys doing it with him as well. Megan is certainly the polar opposite of Betty in this respect, a wife who goes with him to the office and engages with the material with as much vigor and intelligence as himself. Her shower reveries aren't of frocks or furniture, but of campaigns. It doesn't make Megan any less feminine or wifely in the traditional sense (after all, we're reminded that she decorated the apartment, and she goes on a shopping spree; her intellectualism isn't at the cost of any sense of materialism), but we can't help but question whether the dream she's living is her own, something that her professor father Emil (Ronald Guttman) throws in her face at the Codfish Ball. Is this what she wants? What has happened to her own pursuits and dreams? Has she shoved them to the back of the queue to please her husband?

(Megan's relationship with Don is juxtaposed against that of Emil and Julia Ormond's Marie; Megan's parents are far more traditional and traditionally unhappy. Emil can't seem to please his wife with anything he does and sees any comment she makes as a personal attack against him and his failures. Unable to achieve his goals, he wants to provoke Megan into making her own choices and not being dependent on someone else's wealth, which he views as the corruption of dreams.)

While we're meant to see Megan as a modern woman, if she's shortchanged her own ambitions in order to fall in line with her husband, that makes her more deeply connected to the traditional role than we've seen before from her. After all, we did learn in Season Four that she wanted to be an actress. Has she traded one dream for another? Is this why she's so low-key and almost deflated after her victory at dinner? It's noticeable that Megan isn't cracking open the champagne or jumping up and down, despite the fact that Don openly credits her at the office for her success with the client and the campaign. She's almost somber here, refusing to soak up the limeline, denying herself a celebratory bow or pat on the back.

It's Peggy who seems to snap her out of it. I half-expected Peggy to be upset or even jealous of Megan's victory here, but Peggy has aligned herself more closely with the male, Don Draper perspective, positioning herself even in the role of mentor or experienced (male) elder, choosing instead to celebrate Megan's accomplishments rather than see her as competition. What she says to Mrs. Draper--"I should be jealous, but I look at you and I feel like I’m getting to experience my first time again...This is as good as this job gets."--clearly echoes Don's words to her earlier in the series.

While it connects Peggy to her own past ("I'm getting to experience my first time again") and Megan to the future (more moments like these), even as it reminds Megan to experience the present, to enjoy the moment for what it is: as good as it gets. But is Megan's hesitation to celebrate a sign that as good as this job gets isn't enough for her? That the reality doesn't match her envisioned expectations?

Those bruised expectations are what fuel the entire episode largely. Peggy fully expects Abe (Charlie Hofheimer) to propose to her over dinner at Minnette Tavern, because traditionalist Joan (Christina Hendricks) pumps her up to believe that a marriage proposal is surely to unfold during the meal. (I loved the scene, by the way, between the two women in Joan's office, as Joan proffered a cigarette and asked Peggy if she wanted to close the door and talk. It was a beautifully nuanced scene that depicted the burgeoning friendship between the two women this season.) She even goes so far as to buy a new (pink!) dress that highlights her femininity and traditional values (the pearls!), but the proposal--of the marriage sort, anyway--doesn't come. Instead, Abe asks her to move in with him, a modern and almost shocking proposition, considering that people didn't really "shack" up much until now, given the view that a couple that did so was "living in sin." (Such hypocrisy, given that such couples were inevitably already engaged in pre-marital sex.)

While she's thrown by the proposal, she accepts his offer, even issuing a somewhat lamenting "I do" in response. But given Peggy's own backstory, she's not one to stand on ceremony or do things that society expects from her. She's a trailblazer, a glass ceiling-breaker. She and Abe are in love and want to do this, regardless of the expectations that Peggy's overbearing mother (Myra Turley) throws at her, that Abe will use her "for practice" and then move on and marry some other woman. Her rage here is palpable, her anger at Peggy transformed into something churlish and spiteful (the entire cat speech), a mother who refuses to see her daughter's happiness because it conflicts with her own notions of propriety and decency.

Kathryn is of the past, while Peggy is of the future: Peggy's decision to move in with Abe without accepting the sanctified bonds of marriage break the eternal timeframe posited by Megan's campaign: this is something that mother and child do not share. The generational bond splinters here as something that's incomprehensible to Kathryn, even as it seems quotidian to the viewers, becomes a reality for her daughter. Times, they are a'changing, it seems, and Kathryn would rather walk out of Peggy's apartment forever than stay and see her daughter do something so "wrong" and selfish. It's heartbreaking, even as it is brutally realistic. Peggy's decision may signal her own happiness, but it's not one that everyone will understand.

I was nervous to see just how Joan would handle the news, given that it was Joan's advice that set Peggy up for some unrealistic expectations about what Abe wanted to discuss with her. But rather than offer the condemnation that Kathryn does, Joan offers heartfelt congratulations to Peggy, talking about how the piece of paper that she had with Greg (the marriage certificate) mattered little when he chose the military over her. Her words shout to Peggy are essentially to grab hold of any happiness you can, regardless of what society might think about it. After all, Joan is choosing to raise her child (had out of wedlock with another man) on her own; their decisions mark them as outsiders but also as modern women as well. Her expectations are that Joan will be disappointed, but here the reality trumps the envisioned: Joan instead calls her decision "romantic."

Those romantic notions are what fuel Sally. After accidentally causing Pauline (Pamela Dunlap), or "Bluto" as Sally calls her, to break her ankle, Sally and Bobby are forced to join Don and Megan in Manhattan, where they're entertaining Emil and Marie as their houseguests. What follows is an attempt on the part of Sally to engage in adult behavior, envisioning herself as a woman rather than a girl. Her transgressive acts begin with the repeated phone calls to Glen (Marten Holden Weiner), now at a boarding school, though she denies herself the role of "girlfriend" here, and continue as she recreates herself in the mold of a modern woman.

While we expect to see Sally dressed in something traditional and girly, she stuns the audience as well as the assembled group at the apartment when she comes out wearing an outfit that is firmly rooted in the modernity of the 1960s: white go-go boots, lots of makeup, and something sleek and futuristic. She's transformed here into not the little girl that Don sees Sally as, but as a young lady on the cusp of womanhood. (It's what leads Emil to make the crack that "one day your little girl will spread her legs and fly away.") While Don refuses to let her attend the American Cancer Society dinner unless she ditches the boots and the makeup, Sally relents, though she forces herself into the role of an adult throughout the evening, forcing herself to eat fish (which she hates, as we learned earlier) and playing at being Roger's "date" for the evening.

While she may have asked for spaghetti rather than Dover sole earlier in the episode, here she not only forces herself to taste a morsel, but finds that she enjoys it, surprising herself at her evolving tastes and identity. Her rapport with Roger (John Slattery) is endearing here, as she tucks her gloves into her purse, which will become a receptacle for business cards Roger gains from prospective clients, pushing him out out onto the floor with a "get 'em, tiger" as her role requires, as she sips another Shirley Temple.

(Aside: The episode's title, of course, comes from a 1936 Shirley Temple film, Captain January, which features a dance number called--you guessed it, "At the Codfish Ball," in which Temple and Buddy Ebsen (filling in, one imagines, for Roger Sterling here) dance together. Interestingly, the film was attacked by Graham Greene for Temple's perceived coquettishness and for a decadence to the entire film.)

But the evening doesn't quite match up with Sally's romantic notions about what will unfold for her first foray into adulthood. Immediately upon entering the ballroom, she horrified to discover that there is no grand staircase here, no means of making a dramatic entrance, taking her cues from film and television, a debutante ball, a Cinderella story wherein she becomes the object of affection for everyone in the room, the char girl transformed into the beautiful princess. But life is not, to Sally's chagrin and horror, a Disney film. She encounters firsthand the realities of both adulthood and of her own desire to return to being a child again, faced with something she's not ready to understand when she catches Marie fellating Roger in a back room. Her revulsion and horror propel her back to a need to reclaim her childhood, reminding her that she's not ready for this leap into adolescence just yet.

When asked by Glen how the city is, Sally sums it up masterfully, capturing the physical state of Manhattan and her own feelings of horror toward what she witnessed between Marie and Roger: "Dirty."

Sally may be on the path to adulthood, and she may be growing up before our and Don's very eyes, but there's also a sense that she's still very much an innocent and a child and that her time will come. The child becomes a woman, the daughter a mother. Time marches on, the cycle continues, but it's impossible not to feel that Sally's future will be far different than what the previous generation has experienced. And even if it doesn't match up with her expectations, there is still magic in the undiscovered possibility of what that future will hold for her and for us.

Next week on Mad Men ("Lady Lazarus"), Peggy is irritated by a secret she has to keep. Pete covers for a friend and Don gets unexpected news.

The Unopened Door: Thoughts on the Season Finale of The Good Wife

Auteur Hal Hartley once said, "A family is like a gun. You point it in the wrong direction and you could kill someone."

The message therein, and the parallels between the potential explosive energy of a family and that of a loaded gun, was keenly felt in this week's outstanding season finale of CBS' The Good Wife ("The Dream Team"), written by Corinne Brinkerhoff and Meredith Averill and directed by Robert King, which posited two parallel situations between Alicia Florrick (Julianna Margulies) and Kalinda Sharma (Archie Panjabi) that will fuel our imagination during the long summer.

The Good Wife is one of a very small handful of television shows that can take innately simple moments--those that may seem quotidian or mundane, such as a knock at the door or a look through an open window--and make them transformative. This has been the case in the past as well: look at Alicia and Will (Josh Charles) opening a hotel door at the end of last season. While the choice was apparent there (they enter the room, therefore committing to consummating their romance), here we instead find both Alicia and Kalinda at their own respective crossroads, each of which offers the same binary choice: do you stay or do you go? And each must make an ultimate choice, one that will likely have resounding consequences within their lives: do you open that door, knowing that your life will change?

That fantastic parallel (leaving/staying) plays out magnificently here, leaving both characters in a limbo state until the fall. By either choosing or not choosing to confront what's behind their respective doors, both characters become themselves the catalysts for change. There's a real sense here that every knock on the door has been like this for Kalinda since 2007 or thereabout, but that her choice is to stop running and face down the very real, very possibly fatal consequences of her actions.

I'm glad that she didn't initially take this step, instead seeing the brush of contact between Alicia and her mysterious and very dangerous husband as a harbinger of doom. There's a clear parallel between the sledgehammer scene and that of the Season Two baseball bat incident with Kalinda, but in one case her actions were punitive and vengeful. In the other, it was a matter of self-preservation as she smashed open the wall, revealing a hidden cache of guns and cash, so she could run: a rabbit in the wind, outrunning the fox.

Kalinda, clearly, has been running away her entire life, and Brinkerhoff and Averill set up the audience's expectations so that we're meant to believe that she's run again, failing to turn up for work, walking out on her life, her job, and her constructed identity, burning the framework of Kalinda just as she did previously with Leela. (Alicia even voices this aloud, pondering where Kalinda is.) But rather than set up a fall arc in which Kalinda is on the run or seeking revenge, we're instead given a scene where she's late for work, her choice perfectly clear: she's holding her ground. This is in turn echoed by her final scene at her spartan apartment (where even a mirror--a manifestation of identity and self--conceals instruments of violence) where she drags a chair in front of the door, loads a gun, and waits. She's waiting for that inevitable knock at the door and we're given that at the episode's end. Whether it belongs to friend or foe remains to be seen.

Likewise, Alicia herself wields the power in her final scene, standing on the welcome mat outside the house she once shared with her family. The house now belongs to Peter (Chris Noth) and Zach (Graham Philips) and Grace (Makenzie Vega) prepare a simple dinner of pizza, asking her to stay. It's an echo of the half-joking messages conveyed earlier by both kids, in which Alicia is subtly prodded to have them all live together again, even if she and Peter aren't really married anymore. But does a house make a family? If she goes back inside, attempts to grasp at the idyllic scene that she witnesses through the open window, she very likely won't be able to leave. The door here once again becomes emblematic of transformative change, a beginning and an ending, a literal Janus looking both ways.

If Alicia's inner question this season has been about whether you can ever go back, she's on the precipice of discovering whether you can or can't. There's something so warm and inviting about walking back in the door, joining her family for dinner, and allowing herself to be transported to a simpler time, a time before the scandal, the tragedy, the media circus. A time when the most important time was that spent around the table as a family. But Alicia has changed: we've seen her transformation over the last three seasons, from dutiful politician's wife to independent career woman, one whose morals have had to become decidedly more flexible than the simple black-or-white duality that she had in the pilot.

Personally, I believe that Alicia did go back inside and that we find her, at the beginning of Season Four, living with not only Zach and Grace, but also with Peter and Jackie (Mary Beth Peil) in the house that she went to war over, that she fought to regain in order to reclaim a piece of her past, a piece of her self. But in changing, we can't ever really go back. The Alicia that (potentially) moves into that old house isn't the same woman who once lived there, just as her family isn't the innocent clan that one walked its halls. They've been changed by their experiences, shaped by infidelity and betrayal, but they're also older and wiser now in their individual ways. Perhaps what's important then is that they're making a choice to be there, armed with the knowledge of what they had lost.

It's knowledge that also fuels the barroom conversation between Alicia and Kalinda, in which the latter answers a question that had been hovering in the air for two years, telling Alicia that she's "not gay," but instead sexually "flexible." These two women, once friends and now something else entirely, have been through a lot in the last three years but there's something welcoming and healing about seeing them knock back tequila shots again, something that it's (wisely) taken the characters--and therefore the writers--an entire season to get back to again. This moment feels earned, a confession of truth, as Kalinda opens that figurative door to Alicia just a crack. Alicia is far more wary of her drinking partner than she had been in the past, but that's okay: she once said that Kalinda gave her nothing in return for her own confessions. Here, Kalinda finally lets Alicia in an inch, sharing with her a detail of her identity, a sign that she wants Alicia to know her better, to understand her. It's a sign of friendship, as much as the elegiac "goodnight" she offers her when they part ways. Kalinda might not be one for grand gestures of emotion, but she's trying and while we've seen some thawing between the two women, this episode brought us an intense crack in the ice, as it were.

I'm intrigued by the notion of Kalinda's dangerous husband, one who is only too willing to harass and frighten Alicia at home. His laughter on the line when Alicia said the check was made out to cash was eerie and threatening, signifiers here of just why Kalinda has gone to such lengths to escape him. (Which of course connects back to Peter and her affair, making everything interconnected and circular.) I can't wait to see just who Robert and Michelle King cast as Leela's husband, and what his potential return to her life means for our favorite legal snoop. Hmmm...

A few other stray thoughts: I loved the handling of Jackie here, both in terms of the visit from Eli Gold (Alan Cumming) in the hospital but also by dint of her recent stroke. As soon as Eli was warily looking between Jackie and the television set--which was playing an old black and white film depicting a murder by shooting (there's that gun again!)--I had a feeling that the television was off and that Jackie had suffered some brain damage from her stroke (or was slipping into dementia), imagining a film that wasn't there. Once the same film played on the television during Alicia's visit, I knew I was correct, and we're given a confirmation of the fact that the television isn't even on. That she's witnessing a murder, playing out on a loop, while dreaming of her own death is a worrying sign for Jackie Florrick. I wouldn't count this hellraiser out of the game just yet, but clearly we're moving towards a Florrick clan that's going to be living in tighter quarters than before.

One of my favorite scenes in the episode was the masterful use of escalation in the Peter/Will elevator scene, in which the two are forced to undergo an awkward trip up to the 28th floor and into the waiting area, which becomes increasingly uncomfortable: the doors won't close, the buzzing, Alicia waiting there, the appearance of Cary (Matt Czuchry), the little girl in the musical car (a hilarious callback throughout the episode), Eli, and finally the reappearance of Kalinda ("We're throwing you a surprise party!"). This should be required viewing for screenwriters and film students, demonstrating how to pay off tension and escalation with deftness. Genius, as was Diane (Christine Baranski), Will, and Alicia learning of the threat to the firm... only to have the light above them flicker and then go out.

(Aside: I might be the only one, but I'm still curious about that eleventh hour phone call between Peter and Cary last week, which wasn't mentioned here at all.)

Kudos to Martha Plimpton and Michael J. Fox for reprising their roles as Patty Nyholm and Louis Canning respectively, who unite against Lockhart Gardner as the "dream team." And what a dream team they are: Plimpton and Fox are always fantastic separately but together the screen crackles under the intensity of their malevolence and trickery. And this season finale visit has massive consequences for Will and Diane and the firm itself. The lawsuit they engineer is all smoke and mirrors, distracting the partners from their true objective: ensnaring the firm's top client, Patrick Edelstein, which they do with ease.

Considering Edelstein accounts for twenty percent of the firm's monthly billings, this is a huge blow to the stability of Lockhart Gardner, which is already limping after Will's suspension. Add to this the balloon payment that's due on the firm's offices and we have a major crisis here, one that's aggressively threatening the long term viability of the firm itself. Whether they rebuild or crumble is up to them, but I can't imagine that we'll find the firm on sounder footing when we reconnect with them in the fall.

Change is afoot for all of the characters, it seems. Whether they open that door or keep it closed is up to them. But sometimes the knock on the door is insistent and demanding, and sometimes transformation occurs whether you want it to or not.

Season Four of The Good Wife will begin this fall on CBS.

Hard Truths: The Ghost of Harrenhal on Game of Thrones

"Hard truths cut both ways..."

These words, uttered by Stannis Baratheon (Stephen Dillane), are brimming with power and potency and an absolute truth of their own: the hardest truths are the ones that cut us the deepest, that remind us that our perceptions are faulty or our world is off-kilter, that serve to wake us up to some reality heretofore unseen or unrealized.

And, yes, the sharpness of the hardest truths--as fine-edged as a Valyrian dagger--can cut more than just the utterer to the quick. In the case of Stannis and his Onion Knight, Ser Davos Seaworth (Liam Cunningham), the reality of their situation injures them both. As Davos tries to demonstrate his loyalty to his king by sharing his concerns about Melisandre (Carice van Houten), it's Stannis who takes umbrage at his comments, refusing to discuss just what happened in the cave (see last week's review), refusing the acknowledge the inherent truth of what Davos is saying. ("I've never known you to hide from the truth," he says sadly.) But sometimes those hard truths aren't just sharp, they're often invisible to the naked eye, a fire in the snowy distance, a shadow on the wind. And, like an assassin in the night, they can shatter our lives forever.

On this week's sensational episode of Game of Thrones ("The Ghost of Harrenhal"), written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss and directed by David Petrarca, several characters had to face up to some harsh truths about themselves and their potential fates, amid a sweeping change that may have come as a surprise to viewers who haven't read George R.R. Martin's novels. The death of Renly Baratheon (Gethin Anthony) kicks open a host of possibilities, even as it shatters the rivalry between the two Baratheon brothers. It's no mistake that the inky shadow, born from the womb of the red woman, takes on the form of Stannis before it murders poor, doomed Renly before the eyes of Catelyn Stark (Michelle Fairley) and Brienne of Tarth (Gwendolyn Christie).

It's significant that the assassination of the would-be king occurs in front of two characters, aligning them closely with the audience's experience: after all, we too act as unwitting witnesses in the crime, unable to stop what's unfolding before us, forced to watch something that's incomprehensible and seemingly impossible. Shadows do not kill, regardless of any ill wind that brings the inky intruder into the tent of the king. Just as Brienne and Catelyn are shocked into action, we too are awakened from our own viewing slumber, watching a king die and these two women suspected of the horrific crime of regicide. It's Renly's death that also likewise demonstrates the depths of Brienne's feelings for the fallen stag, holding Renly in her arms as life flutters out of his body. It's Catelyn's force of will that snaps Brienne out of her grief and out of doing something foolish. "You can't avenge him if you're dead," she says, stating the obvious in a way. But for honor-bound Brienne, self-preservation would take a back seat to her own sense of vengeance.

(I loved the later scene between the two women, where Brienne pledges her fealty and service to Catelyn and admits her love for Renly: "I only held him that once as he was dying." Christie is superlative here, rendering a tragic air to Brienne even as she remains honorable, strong, and courageous... and even a little misogynistic, such as when she declares Catelyn's courage to be womanly, rather than the courage of the battlefield.)

It's the same truth that's presented before Ser Loras (Finn Jones) and Margaery (Natalie Dormer) as well. Now that Renly death has traveled around camp, the Tyrells are in serious danger. Littlefinger (Aidan Gillen) presents but two options: stay and die or flee and live. Catelyn's words are echoed by Margaery's here to her brother ("You can't avenge him from the grave"), which establishes that both Loras and Brienne loved Renly in their own ways, though it was Loras' love which was returned by the king. The truth is that Renly would have made a good king, though he was motivated by pride in certain circumstances, and he clearly underestimated his brother's ruthless cunning.

But it's Margaery who embraces the notion of hard truths here, giving Dormer a chance to shine in the scene. "Calling yourself a king doesn't make you one," she says without a hint of irony (she's correct: you can crown yourself anything you like, but it doesn't bring with it any real legitimacy), and, ultimately, that her desire is bigger than one might have suspected. "I want to be THE queen," she tells Littlefinger. In the War of Five Kings, that's saying quite a lot about both her ambition and her drive, yet another example of the Queen of Thorns persona that's been fused here with Margaery. She's got her eye on the ultimate prize and won't settle for marrying well. She wants to be the most important woman in the Seven Kingdoms. Given her thirst for power, she's one to keep in the crosshairs. She's proven here just how dangerous she could be.

The notion of truth is wound throughout the episode: Tyrion (Peter Dinklage) and Lancel (Eugene Simon) engage in a discussion about truth and honesty; Osha (Natalia Tena) and Bran (Isaac Hempstead-Wright) call each other liars and conceal elements of truth from each other; Davis and Stannis square off over Melisandre; Ayra (Maisie Williams) faces an uncomfortable truth; Daenerys (Emilia Clarke) realizes the truth about what Jorah (Iain Glen) feels for her; and Theon (Alfie Allen) realizes that his men don't respect him a jot.

It's Dagmer (The Office's Ralph Ineson) who opens his eyes in that instance, telling Theon that the Ironborn will not respect him until he can prove himself. That's true as well of Lord Balon (Patrick Malahide) and Yara (Gemma Whelan) as well. But it's more than just a matter of Theon proving his worth: he needs to prove his loyalty and his sense of identity. Is he an Iron Islander or a ward of the North? In stumbling onto a plan to take Torrhen's Square--just 40 leagues away from Winterfell--Theon discovers a means to obliterate his past and prove his value to everyone around him. Rather than pillage the Stony Shore, this gambit strikes a brutal blow to the North, and sadly it's Bran who plays into Theon's hands.

Like his father, Bran has a deeply ingrained sense of honor and responsibility. He is a Stark and he sees his feudal duty in much the same way that Ned did. He believes he has an obligation to his bannerman just as they do to him. The attack on Torrhen's Square warrants a response in turn; his people need him. So Bran sends a troupe of men to push back the attack, unaware that the attackers are not Southerners but the Ironborn. It connects deeply to Bran's own prophetic dream of the sea spilling over the walls of Winterfell, emptying the sea into the castle. The Iron Islanders, of course, represent the flowing sea, and the fact that the three-eyed raven appeared in this dream make it more than just mere nightmare. Osha is unwilling to tell Bran about the true nature of the three-eyed raven, though she's clearly shaken by the symbolic meaning of his dream. And we should be too, particularly the death of Ser Rodrik (Ron Donachie) and the implication that the Ironborn will attack Winterfell directly, bringing Theon against the "brothers" he was raised with. Will his willingness to take command conflict with any genuine feeling he has or had for Bran, whose life he saved last season? Hmmm.

I loved the amazing scene beween Arya and Tywin Lannister (Charles Dance) at Harrenhal. Catching Arya in a lie about where she comes from, the scene not only connects to the early episodes of Season One--in which Arya moaned about her sigil lessons--but also proved not only the insight of Tywin (last week, he knew she wasn't a boy; this week, he knows she's not from Maidenpool) but also the burning heart of Arya Stark. At her enemy's table, her words are more than mere trifles when she says that "Anyone can be killed." Tywin may be asking about Rob Stark, but her comments can be taken to be far more general than that. We've seen a king die in this episode alone; last season, both Robert (Mark Addy) and Ned (Sean Bean) were killed off. In a world as brutal and unpredictable as this one, anyone can be killed: a pauper or a king, a whore or a general. No one is safe and none of us can ever escape death in the end. Williams is amazing here, holding her own with Dance, her words carefully measured and loaded with meaning, a cupbearer who on the surface agrees with her lord but who has a holy vengeance in her heart.

It's that fire that leads her to Jaqen H'ghar (Tom Wlaschiha), with whom she crosses paths immediately after the scene with Tywin Lannister. I'm loving Wlaschiha as Jaqen; his words are whispered smoke on the air, coiling their way around the ears and minds of those they encounter. Here, he tells Arya that because she took three lives from the "red god" (Melisandre's R'hllor again), they must give them back, and he offers her a Faustian bargain: she can give him the names of three people to kill and he will do so. She doesn't hesitate when she offers up The Tickler, and at the end of the episode, their tormentor is dead at the hand of Jaqen, who gives Arya a subtle confirmation, a single finger on his cheek. The titular ghost has risen in the burned castle.

That sense of dread connects to Jon Snow (Kit Harington) at the Fist of the First Men, beyond the Wall. While the others imagine what could have led the First Men here, Jon says simply, "I think they were afraid." His truth connects both to a deeper truth and an inner one. They're all out of their element, vulnerable and cut off from civilization, in enemy territory where the enemy isn't just a wildling with a sharpened spear but something ancient and evil as well. There's a tremendous sense of foreshadowing here when Sam (John Bradley-West) recounts just what all of the horns are sounded for: one for friend, two for wildling, and three for "white walkers." (Likewise, speaking of foreshadowing, there's this instance, Bran's dream, and then the Tyrion/Bronn scene with the wildfire "bomb" under the city, each of which screams out for resolution.) Jon finally casts off his role as steward to fulfill his dream of becoming a ranger, and following in his uncle Benjen's footsteps. While we just get a little bit of Qhorin Halfhand (Simon Armstrong) here, I think he's fantastic.

(Aside: I loved the glacier scenes that were shot in Iceland and which revolved around the men of the Night's Watch here. These types of stunning shots and sweeping expanses are something that Game of Thrones does so well, shooting in far-flung locations rather than just doing CGI for everything and shooting it green-screen style in a warehouse. You can't approximate the sort of majesty and magic that is accomplished by putting your actors in the actual environment, as they've done here, and the show and HBO deserves to be applauded for that.)

While Qhorin fit with the mental image in my head, I can't say that I quite pictured Quaithe (Laura Pradelska), the masked woman who approaches Ser Jorah at the party, in the way that she's depicted here. While the voice and acting were perfectly suitable, the mask threw me off because in the books it's described as being a lacquered wooden mask, which wasn't at all what was depicted here. While I'm typically not one for crying out when an adaptation differs in terms of the physical representation of the characters, this was one case where I was confused a bit, as Quaithe is wearing something closer to a balaclava than the mask that Martin describes. It seemed a little out of place and odd here, I suppose, and took me out of the reality of the characters a little bit, particularly as Quaithe is meant to be mysterious and unknowable; it seemed to reduce her to something not all that memorable or otherworldly. (Book readers: what did you think? Was I the only one put off by Quaithe?)

Still, that's a minor quibble when it comes to an episode this strong and compelling. It was fantastic to see Daenerys and the Dothraki khalassar moving among the terraced gardens of Qarth and attending a civilized party held in her honor. From the first scene of Dany, her handmaidens, and the dragons--with its own sense of truth ("Men like to talk about other men when they're happy")--to the proposal scene, it's a different side of Danaerys than we've gotten to see much of, beyond the pilot, in the series thus far. The reappearance of Pyat Pree (Ian Hanmore) here was a welcome addition, connecting to her "welcome" by the Thirteen in last week's episode and setting up the notion of the House of the Undying, a place of study and contemplation for the city's fabled warlocks. While Xaro Xhoan Daxos (Nonso Anozie) believes that their magic is nothing more than "parlor tricks," we've seen now firsthand that magic has been returning to the world once more. Why should Melisandre have a monopoly on such power?

While Xaro sees Daenerys as a conquerer, she sees him as one too, albeit one without the ambition that she has. But even as Dany sees in him the potential for wealth with which to launch an attack on Westeros and reclaim her rightful place on the Iron Throne, he sees her as a means of obtaining power for himself and his offspring. Which is why Ser Jorah tries to convince Danaerys to find another way. But even as Danaerys is blind about Xaro's intentions, she has misread Jorah's, laughing off Xaro's insistence that her advisor has feelings for her.

Jorah's speech to her reveals the hard truth about his own feelings for the khalessi. "You have a gentle heart," he says. "There are times when I look at you and I still can't believe you are real." It's perhaps one of the most honest and pure statements within the show to date, a confession of love and devotion that goes beyond mere fealty. Just as Brienne fell in love with Renly, so too as Jorah for Danaerys. But a queen isn't just a woman, but a ruler and rulers often have to make hard sacrifices in order to ensure the safety of themselves and their people. Danaerys isn't free to give her heart away, just as Jorah isn't free to ask for it. If that isn't a hard truth, one that definitely cuts both ways, I don't know what is. And sadly it's all the more likely that there will be anguish and pain for both in the days to come.

On the next episode of Game of Thrones ("The Old Gods and the New"), Theon (Alfie Allen) completes his master stroke; in King’s Landing, the Lannisters send Myrcella (Aimee Richardson) from harm’s way in the nick of time; Arya (Maisie Williams) comes face to face with a surprise visitor; Dany (Emilia Clarke) vows to take what is hers; Robb (Richard Madden) and Catelyn (Michelle Fairley) receive crucial news; Qhorin (Simon Armstrong) gives Jon (Kit Harington) a chance to prove himself.

The Daily Beast: "Sweet Genius: Ron Ben-Israel is the Scariest Man on Television"

Ron Ben-Israel may be a renowned pastry chef in real life, but as the host of Food Network’s cooking show Sweet Genius, he terrifies me.

At The Daily Beast, you can read my latest feature, "The Creepiest Man on Television," in which I discuss just why Ben-Israel freaks me out and review his Food Network show, Sweet Genius, a bizarre and often head-scratching mishmash of styles, tones, and freaky weirdness.

The scariest man on television is obsessed with cakes.

Ron Ben-Israel, the host of Food Network’s bizarre culinary competition series Sweet Genius, absolutely terrifies me. Watching the show reduces me to cold sweat, imagining that Ben-Israel has forced me into the Saw-like confines of the Sweet Genius set, where I must bake a génoise while he cackles eagerly at my misery before murdering me.

Sweet Genius is a variation on the network’s highly successful Chopped: Four chefs—pastry chefs and confectionary makers in this case—must cook three courses from pre-selected mystery ingredients, and one chef gets eliminated each round, leading to a final showdown between the last two competitors. This is hardly a novel conceit (in fact the entire show seems to be a direct reaction to Bravo’s Top Chef: Just Desserts), but here the courses—or “tests” to borrow the Sweet Genius parlance—are composed of chocolate, candy, and cake rounds, and the judge may cause you to wet your pants in fright, even if you’re not appearing on the show.

Overseeing the action from a thronelike place of power on a raised dais, Ben-Israel seems to be a cross between Fringe’s Observers—chromelike baldpates whose alienlike eyes skim over the action but never quite connect with it—and Austin Powers’s Bond-villain spoof Dr. Evil, given their similar physical appearances, fondness for wearing purple-blue and self-serious natures.

It’s the last element that’s the most troubling. While there’s clearly an overt aura of enforced theatricality to the proceedings, Ben-Israel takes his persona a little too far. There’s the spine-chilling way in which he tastes elements of the contestants’ dishes with an insane amount of fastidiousness, as though he were solving a complex differential equation or dissecting a victim rather than, well, eating candy. Adding to this sense of unease is the way with which Ben-Israel speaks, an exaggerated blend of winking coyness and thunderous voice of evil, announcing the inspiration for the dish (Ballerinas! Live baby chicks! A ventriloquist dummy!) and the way in which he slams his hand down on the large, overtly cake-shaped button that controls the show’s conveyer belt.

Continue reading at The Daily Beast...

Shadows Dance: The Magic Lantern on Game of Thrones

In a series that's been full of mythical beings, prophetic dreams, wights, and dragons, this week's episode of Game of Thrones tipped the balance more firmly into the supernatural camp, giving us to date possibly the most visceral (and disturbing) reminder that magic is slowly creeping back into the Seven Kingdoms Westeros. Our reaction to that as viewers takes two directions: one is excitement, the other is dread. Some have convinced themselves that this isn't a fantasy series, and that's perhaps the wrong approach. While Game of Thrones is certainly populist fare, it's rooted in the fantasy genre and its slow integration of supernatural elements is to be applauded, though they were part and parcel of the series from the very first scene.

The White Walkers have always posed a threat to the Seven Kingdoms and therefore to the realm of man. Whatever happened thousands of years earlier to drive the White Walkers beyond the Wall and also end the reign of the Children of the Forest toyed with the natural order, casting out much of the magical nature of the world and granting dominion over the earth to that of mankind. But if George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire teaches us anything, it's that magic will out in the end. Dragons have returned to the world, borne out of smoke and fire and grief, children of a exiled princess already in widow's weeds. The White Walkers creep in snow and darkness beyond the Wall. And a red priestess, a glittering red ruby at her throat, has powers that can scarcely be described.

We've seen already that Melisandre (Carice van Houten) has abilities that set her beyond mere mortals. In her first appearance, she shrugs off an assassination attempt by drinking a chalice full of poisoned wine while her would-be killer bleeds out at her feet. Clearly, the Red Woman is connected to the natural magics of the world, and to abilities granted to her by the so-called Lord of Light, her deity R'hllor. In this week's episode, Melisandre makes a good point about duality: without light, there are no shadows. In a land as brutal as Westeros--which this episode went to great lengths to prove--this is especially important. How we define such attributes as goodness, peace, mercy, etc. are only in opposition to their counter-natures: evil, war, punishment. R'hllor himself is said to be locked in battle with his own nemesis: the Nameless One, whose dominion over darkness, ice, and death comprises the first half of Martin's "song." These notions are forever struggling both internally and externally: they posit change, transformation, destruction, rebirth. The wheel turns anew, the cycle perpetuates.

This week's episode of Game of Thrones ("Garden of Bones"), written by Vanessa Taylor and directed by David Petrarca, put the emphasis on the darker element of man, focusing on punishment, torture, and the erasure of morals and constraints. It's felt keenly throughout the episode, from the torture of the prisoners in Harrenhal--an effort to extract information about the "Brotherhood" and whether there is silver and/or gold kept in the village--and their needless execution for sport (hence the jocular savagery of the torture, accompanied by apple-eating by the interrogator known as The Tickler) to the cruelty of King Joffrey (Jack Gleeson), his foppish crown worn in an effort to appear rakish, but whose deeds signal him as undeniably blackhearted and morally bankrupt.

Here, Joffrey is revealed to be a true sociopath. When he cannot torment poor Sansa (Sophie Turner) by humiliating and beating her in the throne room, Joffrey turns to the name-day presents sent to him by his uncle Tyrion (Peter Dinklage), two whores--Ros (Esme Bianco) and Daisy (Maisie Dee)--who are there to "unclog" the little king but who end up at the receiving end of his cruel nature. Rather than use the women for pleasure, he forces them to enact a terrible game of pain, pushing Ros to beat her companion with increasing brutality while he loads a crossbow and points it at her. While Ros admonishes the king for spoiling pleasure with too much pain, it's clear that the only pleasure Joffrey can experience is by seeing others humiliated or enslaved, beaten or goaded. (Interestingly, there's a thematic flip here: while it's The Tickler who is eating an apple at Harrenhal, it's poor Daisy who is eating one here when Joffrey enters the room. While the brutality is similar, it's directed in an inimical fashion.)

Joffrey orders his betrothed to be stripped in the throne room and beaten by a member of his Kingsguard, he claims in an effort to "punish" her for the victories experienced by her brother Robb (Richard Madden). But the nature of her punishment is just that: to punish Sansa simply because she is there. Whatever message Joffrey claims to be sending to Robb in the field, it's really just an opportunity to engage in some Caligula-like behavior. When he's thwarted in his exercise by Tyrion, he repays his uncle by tormenting the prostitutes sent to appease him. But the little king isn't one for the pleasures of the bedchamber. He craves the brutality of war, transforming his bed into nothing less than an instrument of torture, making him as bad as the Tickler, Polliver, and the others in Harrenhal. (Echoing this notion is Robb's bannerman Roose Bolton, who says that while a naked man has few secrets, a flayed man has none. But this is a man who wears a flayed corpse as his sigil, after all.) He wants Tyrion to find out what he's done; in fact, he craves it.

Civility is a flimsy facade. Even the most civilized here can be seen to be ruthless in their pursuit of their goals. Stannis (Stephen Dillane) breaks all manner of moral codes by ordering Davos (Liam Cunningham) to take Melisandre ashore, following a belief that the ends justify the means. Stannis proves himself here only too willing to ignore the articles of war and instead resort to both subterfuge and supernatural means of gaining the upper hand, sending Melisandre to birth a shadow creature--which takes the form of a man--and carry out his instructions. Melisandre herself believes in the justness of her actions and of what they do, seeing Stannis as the reincarnation of mythical hero Azor Ahai, but there's something deeply disturbing about what occurs in the cave beneath Renly's camp, the inky shadow spilling from her womb igniting a sense of revulsion and of horror in the viewer. It's unnatural and positions us as opposed to her form of fiery magic. While those shadows may not exist without the light of the lantern, which grows extremely bright, it represents the dark underbelly (no pun intended) to her supernatural abilities: something unwholesome, something less than sacred.

Likewise, it's the Thirteen of Qarth who prove that their own gentility is a false mask for unspeakable behavior. The titular garden of bones around the fabled walled city of Qarth grows more and more because the Qartheen deny entrance to their city to most travelers, allowing them to undergo painful starvation, dehydration, and ultimately death in the dessert, turning away their faces from the suffering they themselves caused. Its inherent cruelty is thematically linked with the other examples in the episode, demonstrating just what a harsh world this truly is, even far removed from the battlefields.

In denying Daenerys (Emilia Clarke) and her khalassar entry when she refuses to produce her dragons for their amusement. Daenerys' pleas--and then threats--fall on deaf ears until Xaro Xhoan Daxos (Nonso Anozie) pledges to take responsibility for their entrance. Whether it's an act of kindness or of more simple greed or gain remains to be seen, but it is an advantage for Daenerys, at lest.

Still, if we're to follow the notion of duality further still, there is also mercy to be found. Tywin Lannister (Charles Dance) is certainly not someone from whom we'd expect to encounter this, but his mercy is a logical, rather than emotionally based one. He orders the movement of the prisoners of Harrenhal to actual cells and demands that they stop killing those interrogated and instead put them to work (saving the life of Joe Dempsie's Gendry in the process) and he recognizes Arya for what she is: a girl in boy's clothing. Removing her from shackles, he names her his new cup-bearer. (This is a significant change from the novel, where Arya may serve as a cup-bearer at Harrenhal, but never to Tywin. However, the change places her even closer to the belly of the beast and in even more danger of being discovered as Arya of House Stark.)

And then there's the mysterious "Talisa" (Oona Chaplin of The Hour), whose acquaintance Robb Stark makes on the battlefield and whose sense of mercy and kindness extend beyond familial boundaries. She travels the field of battle bringing comfort (and wielding a knife in the case of gangrene) to those in need. Her position about war is at odds with Robb's campaign, and her forthrightness is meant to demonstrate a clear sexual tension between the two. She is not afraid to point out the fallacy of Robb's belief that killing these men will
avenge his father's death, or that he needn't concern himself with who takes the Iron Throne after he's relieved Joffrey of his crown and his life. While she claims to be from Volantis, this appears to be a lie, along with her identity. Book readers will be only too aware of who Chaplin appears to be playing, though the circumstances seem to be quite different than what the reader is told in A Clash of Kings... That's all I'll say on that front for now.

A few other random thoughts: I loved the scene between Margaery (Natalie Dormer) and Littlefinger (Aidan Gillen) at Renly's encampment. While he rather salaciously references the relationship between Renly (Gethin Anthony) and Ser Loras (Finn Jones) and tries to get a rise out of Margaery by explicitly stating that she is not sleeping with her husband. Margaery--in a little bit of Queen of Thorns mode--turns the tables on Littlefinger, reminding him of two truths: that he is himself not married and that he seems confused by the entire notion. "My husband is my king and my king is my husband," she said plainly. If that's not the best summation of the compromises we make in life, I don't know what is. Additionally, I loved seeing Catelyn (Michelle Fairley) quite so quick with that blade as she was, turning on Littlefinger for betraying Ned, and for the somber tenderness of the scene in which she finally received Ned's bones, so that they may be interred with his ancestors at Winterfell. Home is, after all, where the heart (tree) is.

What did you think of this week's episode, and of the overt move to supernatural elements? Were you put off by the brutality of several storylines? I'm curious to hear your reactions: head to the comments section and let me know your take on "Garden of Bones."

On the next episode of Game of Thrones (“The Ghost of Harrenhal”), the end of the Baratheon rivalry drives Catelyn to flee and Littlefinger to act; at Kingʼs Landing, Tyrionʼs source alerts him to Joffreyʼs flawed defense plan and a mysterious secret weapon; Theon sails to the Stony Shore to prove heʼs worthy to be called Ironborn; in Harrenhal, Arya receives a promise from Jaqen Hʼghar, one of three
prisoners she saved from the Gold Cloaks; the Nightʼs Watch arrive at the Fist of the First Men, an ancient fortress where they hope to stem the advance of the wildling army.

The Trip: Far Away Places on Mad Men

“Every time we fight, it just diminishes this a little bit..."

There was a definite feel of Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction to the latest installment of Mad Men, ("Far Away Places"), written by Semi Chellas and Matthew Weiner and directed by Scott Hornbacher, as the show went into uncharted territory, giving the viewer a series of interlocking and parallel stories that folded in on themselves, narrative origami that delved into the nature of truth and honesty, as well as perception. Laced with LSD, the episode may prove to be a divisive one: part of the effort depended on just how quickly one realized that the triptych's stories were occurring simultaneously and that there was a reset each time between the three plots (Peggy, Roger, Don). (Otherwise, you may have felt that you yourself had taken something.)

But there is also inherent interest to be had in pulling apart why these three individuals were cast in these particular stories, all of which revolved around taking a trip of some kind, stepping outside of their respective routines or senses of self to ultimately reach some hard truths about themselves. In their respective plots, they aren't coming together so much as they are falling apart, breaking down the bonds that exist between them to cast themselves as somehow independent and isolated, wounding their respective partners by falling into patterns that are unsympathetic or outright cruel, indulging in behavior that is perhaps "wrong" but pushes them to pursue a particular path. Whether that's back to where they were or someplace far away is up to them.

But there are questions that are kicked up by the dream-like and non-linear episode: Is there an absolute truth to be found in transgressive behavior? Does casting off our individual normative routines free us somehow? Is it beauty or folly?

Peggy (Elisabeth Moss) is clearly trying to fashion herself into Don Draper (Jon Hamm), and the episode plays up these similarities: her shocking display at the Heinz pitch, the camera holding on her lighting up a cigarette, indulging in a drink or four during the work day, and Peggy literally replacing Don within his own office. At the end of the day, she casts herself in the role of a Don Draper manqué, unhappily slumbering on the couch in his office until Dawn wakes her up.

Peggy's failure throughout the day--both with her boyfriend Abe (Charlie Hofheimer) and with the Heinz pitch--stem from the fact that she's a woman, a fact that's thrown back in her face by her lover and her client. Abe chides her for being like his father, needing a minute after coming home to find her equilibrium before being with him, obsessing over the missing violet candies, focusing always on work, putting her career before her family, before--seemingly--her own happiness, as defined by Abe.

Likewise, Don would have gotten away with telling the client the truth ("It’s young and it’s beautiful, and no one else is going to figure out how to say that about beans!"), and would have convinced said client to run with the campaign for its inherent beauty, nostalgia, etc. But Peggy is not Don, and she doesn't have the luxury of being a well-dressed, attractive man, one whose cast-off charisma is intoxicating to be around. Instead, Raymond (John Sloman) casts her in the role of his uppity teenage daughter, seeing her explosion as a tantrum rather than as something that's convincing or true. He fails to find an element of truth in her combative statement--which is, of course, not only true but apt--instead refusing to see her as independent of Don or as a replacement for him. Not surprisingly, Peggy is removed from the account, really for just telling the truth in the same way that Don has time and time again.

Her trip is an afternoon movie, fittingly Born Free, and she indulges in some marijuana and a furtive cinema handjob with a stranger (Joseph Williamson), wherein she asserts her own dominance over the encounter. Rather than allow herself to be pleasured by this stranger, to be passive and submissive in their encounter, Peggy reverses the situation, casting herself in the role of active participant in this anonymous semi-sex, attempting to fulfill her efforts to become Don Draper, the male pursuer, the one with power in the encounter.

Is it fulfilling? Has her transgression put her closer to an absolute truth? At the office, she literally washes her hands of the entire encounter, placing it into some dark file drawer in her mind. But her return puts her in the office just in time to eavesdrop on another awkward conversation between Ginsburg (Ben Feldman) and his father Morris (Stephen Mendel), which in turn leads to a moment of truth between Ginsburg and Peggy, albeit one that's couched in fictional terms. While Ginsburg casts himself as a Martian in his spoken autobiography, the truth tumbles out as well: he was born in a concentration camp, which somehow seems less true than if Michael really was was from Mars. But the fictionalization of his story is the only way Michael knows how to convey the horrible truth of the circumstances of his birth. In his own act of (minor) transgression, there is an absolute truth to his story: he is an outsider, searching for another of his kind, born in a far away place that's utterly unknowable except to those who experienced it firsthand.

Likewise, Peggy's own actions propel her back to Abe in a way. Calling him from her darkened apartment, she summons him over, saying that she "always" needs him. It's an apology, but it's also a plea. She doesn't want to be the only one of her kind, cast adrift in a place that's not home and never will be, without a tether, without an anchor. Without, really, a guide.

The notion of a guide echoes throughout the episode as well: unspoken in Peggy's story, a guide actively appears in the segment of the episode devoted to Roger (John Slattery), whose journey to truth takes him on an LSD-fueled vision quest with his wife Jane (Peyton List) when they attend a dinner party thrown by Jane's psychiatrist Catherine Orcutt (Bess Armstrong, yes from My So-Called Life), who hands out LSD--on a perfect silver tray of sugar cubes--while her husband Sandy (Tony Pasqualini) acts as their guide.

While we're not privy to what Jane experiences, the viewer is invited inside Roger's acid trip, one in which bottles of vodka become symphonic orchestras, his hair is turned half-black, he can experience the 1919 World Series, and Don arrives in his psyche as perhaps some sort of spirit guide through his subconscious. There's a lucid dream quality to the narrative here, a Lynchian atmosphere in which the inherent truth of everything--including inanimate objects, such as the bottle of vodka--suddenly becomes fluid and transformative.

There's also a sad, somber quality as well: the sight of Jane and Roger slowly dancing together at Catherine's apartment, the sense that they've stumbled into something beautiful and also tragic. That yellow rose she holds in the cab becomes nothing more than yellow petals cast over the rumpled sheets of their bed. The beauty of a rose is always transitory and fleeting: it reminds us that nothing lasts forever. Once cut, it's already in a state of dying.

Which can be applied to the marriage of Jane and Roger as well. Their trip enables them to speak the truth that they've been denying for so long, that their marriage is over and they're each waiting for the other to end it outright. This shared trip through the subconscious minefield of their relationship is the last one they'll take together, but the elimination of their boundaries and inhibitions allow them to speak aloud the uncomfortable truths they've been carting around for so long. The following morning, however, once they've reestablished those "norms" in their routine, it's Jane who can't come to terms with what's been said, what was admitted during their journey. Her knowledge that the marriage is over, that they're essentially leaving each other, is erased in the harsh light of morning. Instead, she returns too to her own normative position: if he wants a divorce, it's going to be expensive.

Their shared night of beauty--that bath, the talk on the floor (which is echoed as well in the Don/Megan storyline, though with a vastly different tone)--may have been true and honest, but the fact remains that divorce is an expensive business and whatever truths were uncovered may be absolute but it doesn't diminish our mercenary natures. The rose may be dead, but someone has to pay for it, after all.

Just as Roger and Jane fall apart, so too do Don and Megan (Jessica Paré) on their own trip. Theirs is a more literal journey, a trek to a Howard Johnson in Plattsburg, but what occurs on their trip is destructive and revealing, kicking up uncomfortable truths about the nature of their relationship and how Don sees Megan. The phone call that occurs in the Peggy segment--in which a near-hysterical Don calls the office frantically asking if anyone has called--is meant foreshadow a sense of dread within this part of the triptych. Just why is Don so sweaty and freaked out? Is he also on something? Whose call is he waiting for? Why is he so scared? It's here that the episode fulfills the promise of its non-linear narrative, giving us a part of a puzzle early on and then filling in the blanks by returning to the past before coming full circle. By withholding the nature of Don's distress, Weiner gives us a tantalizing mystery. The truth is also out of our own reach as viewers, until we too go on a journey of sorts to discover why Don is making that phone call.

The domesticity of Don and Megan's car trip (hell, they're headed for, of all places, Lake Placid) is at odds with how Don proposes they take this journey together. Rather than offer her the option of joining him (it's Roger's idea, after all), Don forces her to come along, viewing her as largely an extension of his own self rather than as an independent being, one who can make up her own mind and who perhaps does value her job. We've been told in numerous episodes that there are work-related benefits to being married to Don Draper, but Megan doesn't see this as one of those perks; rather, it pulls her out of her own ordered routine. But if Peggy seems hell-bent on becoming Don, here it feels as though Don is becoming Roger, his younger trophy wife suddenly not so enchanted by his behavior or attitude.

It's the small things that can often blow up in our faces the most, and here it's Don's refusal to let Megan order her own dessert--instead foisting the orange sherbet on her--that lead to a meltdown in which Megan downs a ton of ice cream and then Don ultimately leaves her in the parking lot of a Howard Johnson. His cruelty here is deeply felt, stranding Megan in an unfamiliar place while he heads out to who knows where. While Roger and Jane go on a shared journey, there's a sense here that Don and Megan are on different trajectories altogether, embarking on separate trips altogether. While Don waits in Plattsburg, he tries to track down Megan, hoping that she'll return before he sets out for Manhattan, only to discover that she herself went back to the city.

Before we get to their fateful encounter, there's a dream-like aura to this story as well, which isn't fueled by recreational drugs but by fear and paranoia. But even before Megan's disappearance, there's a hyper-real nature to the segment, everything is filled with super-saturated colors (including that of the Howard Johnson itself, something commented on by several characters), from the decor to the orange sherbet itself, lending everything that unfolds a sense of heightened reality that connects with both Peggy and Roger's narratives. Don's remembered flashback--which again puts Megan in the role of guide, giving her a map and a destination--is a stark reminder of the first blush of love and of a seemingly idyllic moment in time: the kids tucked up in the backseat (Mickey Mouse ears a souvenir of their trip to Disneyland), a Beatles song whistled in the air. But here the car is empty; Don is alone. He has no guide but himself, no destination but perhaps an empty house. A brightly colored hotel isn't the "destination" but ultimately a stop on the way to somewhere else. Or even back home, where things have perhaps changed forever.

Don has to kick down the door to his home to get to Megan, and then literally pursues her frantically around the apartment, as they collide with furniture and lamps, leaving destruction in their wake. He actually tackles her and throws her to the ground in the sunken living room, almost perfectly on the spot where she serenaded him earlier this season. Nightmarish and fueled by violence and a notion of male domination, their encounter is brimming with powerful truths about their marriage. Megan half-jokingly refers to Don as her "master," but there's something to the notion that he's controlling her, ordering her food, determining what her day will hold at home and at work. Don just wants to possess her, to hold her close. His tearful words to her (“I thought I lost you.") as they embrace at odds with the savagery of his pursuit through their home. But is their shared smile at work later that morning the truth? Are they happy and content? Or is there a secret war between them, a panicked flight through the state, through their home? Can they get past this? Or has their journey simply revealed their own inherent flaws to themselves and each other?

It's Bert Cooper (Robert Morse) who has one final piece of truth to dole out, reminding Don that he's been on a trip this whole time, "love leave" in fact, which has meant that he hasn't been present. He's been to a "far away place" this entire season, basking in the glow of his new marriage, falling into the same distracted traps that Roger has time and time again. His absence--whether physical or intellectual--has put the firm in jeopardy. It's another pall cast on the day, another truth that's too jagged for Don to swallow. Roger may see it as a "beautiful day," but I can't help but see darkness and pain to come.

What was your take on the episode? Did it warrant the non-linear treatment? Did you feel as though the characters' transgressive acts moved them closer to an understanding of them and their respective spheres? What happens to these truths, unboxed and exposed, once we return to our regular lives again? Do we pack them up and pretend they don't exist, smiling in the hallway, or do we attempt to confront them head on once more? Hmmm... Personally, I found a lot to reflect about here, and I'm glad that I--as always--took the night to think about the episode and turn it over in my head a few more times before sitting down to write about it. Ultimately, "Far Away Places" is a vision quest that requires us to parse the meaning of the iconography and psychic landmarks along the journey. Alternately surreal and gut-wrenching, it's a journey I'm glad that we as viewers--and the show itself--took.

Next week on Mad Men ("At the Codfish Ball"), Don, Roger and Pete attempt to bring in new business; Sally comes to the aid of a relative.

The Daily Beast: "Dark Shadows Vampire Jonathan Frid Dead at 87"

Jonathan Frid, who played the bloodsucker Barnabas Collins on the 1966-1971 cult soap Dark Shadows, has died at 87.

Over at The Daily Beast, I remember how the actor propelled a struggling soap into a cultural phenomenon, as I offer an obituary for the Dark Shadows star who introduced us to Barnabas Collins.

Jonathan Frid, the Canadian actor who first portrayed the remorseful vampire Barnabas Collins in the 1960s and 1970s in the cult classic soap opera Dark Shadows died earlier this week at the age of 87. Johnny Depp is set to step into the period shoes of the bloodsucker in Tim Burton's feature film version of the show, opening May 11.

A publicist working with Frid to promote the release of Dark Shadows: The Complete Series on DVD confirmed his death.

Born in Ontario, Canada in 1924, Frid served in the Royal Canadian Navy during World War II before studying at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in London and then emigrating to the United States, where he obtained a Master of Fine Arts degree in directing from the Yale School of Drama in 1957. Originally intended to appear in a short story arc on Dark Shadows for just three or four weeks, Frid's Barnabas ended up reinvigorating the struggling soap and propelled it into a cultural phenomenon, while the character of Barnabas Collins became so popular that Frid remained entrenched on the show until its cancelation in 1971.

Frid, who would go on to perform in countless one-man shows of his own creation—such as Jonathan Frid's Fridiculousness and Jonathan Frid's Fools and Fiends—and numerous Shakespearean plays, brought a tenderness and deeply conflicted nature to the role of vampire Barnabas Collins, which became a mainstay on the ABC soap which ran between 1966 and 1971. An unconventional romantic lead, Frid's depiction of Barnabas Collins as both a man out of time and in the throes of an existential crisis due to the nature of his affliction would become influential on popular culture, transforming vampires from thoughtless creatures into tragic entities constantly at war with their own humanity. Barnabas's storylines often involved his quest to reclaim his lost love, Josette, whom he believed to have been reincarnated into the present day, after he is released from his centuries-long slumber in the family crypt.

Continue reading at The Daily Beast...

The Daily Beast: Armando Iannucci on "HBO's Superb New Veep"

HBO’s fabulous new political comedy Veep, starring Julia Louis-Dreyfus, premieres Sunday.

At The Daily Beast, you can read my latest feature, "HBO's Superb New Veep," in which I speak to creator Armando Iannucci about the vice presidency’s comic potential, U.S.-U.K. relations, why he didn't enter the civil service, and how Veep compares to The West Wing.

With HBO’s acerbic and dazzling political comedy Veep—which depicts a power-hungry if buffoonish female U.S. vice president and her staffers—Scottish-born creator Armando Iannucci turns his attention to American politics, bringing his deadpan wit, rapid-fire dialogue, and comedy of the uncomfortable to the corridors of power in Washington.

Veep, which premieres Sunday evening, stars Julia Louis-Dreyfus (Seinfeld) as Vice President Selina Meyer, a politician who, although a heartbeat away from becoming the POTUS, spends her days scheming about biodegradable utensils, filibuster reform, and getting the name of a potential future hurricane—Hurricane Selina, naturally—changed so as not to reflect poorly on her.

It’s not the first time Iannucci, 48, has tackled the follies and failures of petty bureaucrats. He was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay for his 2009 political feature film, In the Loop, which explored the so-called special relationship between the United States and United Kingdom.

“I always feel that Brits do themselves down when they come to America,” said Iannucci, speaking to The Daily Beast in January. “They always feel that because they’re in America they must just agree to whatever happens to them there, and then they go home feeling a little bit as if they’d done the wrong thing.”

“That’s what was going on in the Blair administration,” he continued. “They were just so star-struck being in the Oval Office that they didn’t quite keep a focus on what they were doing…We’re slightly on more equal terms now because of the economy; no one now is the supreme controller of events.”

In the Loop depicted the breakdown of that relationship, the dirty dealings of both parties, and of the need to save face and retain control of public perception, even in the midst of monumental information failures. Before that came Iannucci’s breakthrough BBC comedy The Thick of It, which spawned three additional seasons and two specials, as well as a failed ABC adaptation in 2007, and introduced the world to the sadistic and rabid communications director Malcolm Tucker (Peter Capaldi).

With Veep, Iannucci leaves behind the dreary, utilitarian offices of the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship of The Thick of It for the pomp of Washington, D.C., and takes a far deeper look into the American political system than he’s attempted before, building on the success of In the Loop. That film displayed the vast differences between the political systems of the U.S. and the U.K., something that’s keenly felt in Veep if you’ve even a cursory knowledge of British politics.

Continue reading at The Daily Beast...

Collision: The Emasculation of Pete Campbell on Mad Men

"What do I do here?"

Throughout the series thus far, Mad Men's Pete Campbell (Vincent Kartheiser) has been presented as many things: a slimy weasel, an ambitious businessman, an amateur rapist. But this week's episode ("Signal 30"), written by Frank Pierson and Matthew Weiner and directed by John Slattery, focused on the character flaws of Pete Campbell (referred to as a "grimy pimp" here) to the point that the episode really ought to have been entitled "The Emasculation of Pete Campbell," for the number of male-driven crucibles it put the seemingly smug married executive through over the course of an hour. (Some, such as James Poniewozik and Myles McNutt have argued that this season of Mad Men has replaced subtext with overt symbolism, but while I agree with that assessment, it hasn't diminished my love for the show or my regard for this particular well-crafted installment.)

It's been no secret that Pete is desperate for the approval of Don Draper (Jon Hamm), his surrogate father figure. While Pete keeps a secret for Don, what he's wanted in return for his silence and trust is nothing less than unconditional love and approval, something that Pete was unable to get from his own father while he lived. From the puppy-like beaming when Don and Megan (Jessica Paré) choose to visit him and Trudy (Alison Brie) in the suburbs, it's only too clear that he requires Don's affections, presence, and approval in his life.

But Pete is on a dangerous path. Inasmuch as Pete wants Don's tacit approval of the choices he's making, he's also on a collision course with his own destiny: becoming Don. Pete's return home after their night of carousing (and one hell of a sobering cab ride) is a clear callback to the final scene of the pilot episode, in which Don returns home to Betty (January Jones), revealing that the series lead is in fact married.

But we know that Pete is married, seemingly happily married. We see the influence and input that Trudy, no wallflower, but an intelligent, engaged wife and mother, has on his life, as she hosts a dinner party for two of Pete's colleagues and their significant others. While Betty didn't understand what it was that Don did for a living, Trudy defends the role of ad man and of the industry over the dinner table. She's clearly a champion for her husband, though his own feelings on their marriage seem decidedly conflicted.

The episode is largely about what it means to be a man in the 1960s and how several of the characters construct their own perceptions of that definition. Is it by fixing the kitchen sink of a suburban home, far from the city? Is it indulging in alcohol and whores, while one's wife is asleep in bed at home? Or is it remaining faithful, even in the face of temptation, and changing one's own destructive patterns and impulses?

Does one punch mean the difference between feeling like a hero or a failure?

Throughout the episode, Pete is given several opportunities to prove himself a man in his own eyes (though no one else seems to doubt this self-identity crisis). The taunting drip of the kitchen sink at the beginning of the episode, which is keeping Pete awake at night, acts as a stark contrast to the idealized vision of seduction and pursuit that he engages in with Jenny (Amanda Bauer) at his driver's education class. Half his age, a high school student, Jenny represents an opportunity to reclaim his lost youth, to indulge in a flirtation that is vastly different than his "serious" marriage, with its demands of fatherhood and fidelity. (The Botanical Gardens of their conversation take on an almost Eden-like quality, a church among the trees, an oasis from the quotidian demands of his existence.) His efforts to fix the drip backfire magnificently, when at Trudy's dinner party, the faucet begins to spray water everywhere. But while Pete messes around with his toolbox (a symbol, perhaps, of his own fussy masculinity), Don removes his shirt and tie and fixes the sink without breaking a sweat, much to the adoration and delight of all of the party's female members, including Megan, Trudy, and Cynthia (Larisa Oleynik), the wife of Ken Cosgrove (Aaron Staton) whose name neither Don nor Megan can remember.

Pete's conquest of Jenny similarly backfires, when a younger, more attractive man in Jim Hanson (Suburgatory's Parker Young), nicknamed "Handsome," turns his attentions to Jenny. The balding, older Pete can't compete with "Handsome" here at all; it's as much of a non-contest as it is attempting to compete with Don. As much as Pete might try to present himself as either Don or Hanson, neither path is really readily available to him, neither example of perceived masculinity (handiness with tools and/or women). In fact, it's his visit to a prostitute, while the SCDP lads are wooing the Jaguar account (brought in by Jared Harris' Lane Pryce), that clinches this. As the girl goes through any number of turn-on lines to entice Pete's libido, it's telling that the one that works is the one in which she plays to his need to be "king," a need to feel in control and powerful, following a series of events that have occurred that have proven just how weak and powerless he sees himself.

While Pete gives in to temptation, it's interesting that the "new" Don Draper doesn't, particularly after last week's fever dream. Don has seemingly exorcised that part of him that needed to cheat, and he sees what he has with Megan as something sacred and powerful. But just as Pete wants to be Don, Don seemingly wants to be Pete, to return to the idealized suburban existence he left behind. While Megan is turned on by Don's prowess with the kitchen sink, Don has Megan pull the car over so they can make a "baby." But Don seems to have forgotten one thing: he's been down this figurative road before; he's had the wife, house, and kids, and they still left a void that he attempted to fill by philandering, by finding comfort in the arms of other women and in the bottom of too many bottles of booze.

But Pete longs for the urban lifestyle that Don has: the young wife, the seemingly carefree existence, the easy masculinity that is evidenced in nearly everything Don does. He sees Don as a success, himself as a failure. Pete reads Don's silence in the cab, his decision to forgo the pleasures of the "apartment," for disapproval of his actions. For Don, he can't imagine why Pete would jeopardize what he has with Trudy; a happy man doesn't cheat. A happy man doesn't risk his present and future happiness for a few fumbling moments of pleasure. Roger (John Slattery) is miserable, Don says, which is why he does what he does. But what Don can't fathom is why Pete would risk ruining it all.

Pete's sullen reaction belie a host of seething problems within his psyche, and his furtive shower upon returning home speak volumes about his guilt. But it's not clear who he failed more, whether that's Trudy or Don. He had, after all, been circling Jenny for some time, clearly willing to embark on an extramarital affair with her, clearing following in Don's footsteps as the cheating husband whose arrival at the family home grew frequently later and later.

The scene in the elevator that passes between them the following day, Pete's face red and raw from his fight with Lane (more on that in a second), was powerfully profound and beautifully shot, particularly the part when Pete gets choked up and, while fighting back tears, admits to Don that he has "nothing." But what has Pete lost that he hasn't himself thrown away? How does a successful businessman, husband, and father have nothing exactly? Why must Pete view himself in terms of how he perceives himself next to the other men in his life?

While it's Roger's carousing that actually leads to the loss of the Jaguar account, as Edwin Baker (David Hunt) is forced to confess the night's activities to his wife when she discovers, as Lane delicately puts it, "chewing gum on his pubis," it's Pete who gets the blame from Lane, mostly because Pete has impugned Lane's manhood, telling him that Edwin didn't bring up such partying with Lane because he thinks he's a "homo," and that he has no value to the firm any longer. The fistfight that follows is an attempt for both men to try and reclaim something that has been lost to them, to try and salvage something of their masculine self-identity. (Kudos to Roger for his brilliant line about feeling as though they should take the higher moral ground and stop the fight, but wanting to see where it goes.)

When Lane and Pete scuffle, their battle is just as much an internal one as it is a collision between the two men, as they trade blows, protecting their business ties as much as they are their individual egos and sense of male pride. That it's Lane who knocks Pete to the floor is significant for them both, as Lane reasserts his own sense of self and Pete loses the last vestiges of his own. Yet, Lane isn't quick to celebrate; the fight has only exacerbated his own existential crisis, as he ponders the question above, "What do I do here?" It's a question that's about each of our own essential natures, our roles in the world as men. Is he essential to his family, to his agency? Can't someone else fulfill these roles?

(It's not the only collision that occurs here. Besides for the driver's ed videos depicting car accidents and Lane and Pete's fistfight, the episode also depicts the collisions between the old and new worlds, between American and British ways of conducting business, between generations and ideals, between Don and Pete, and between the self and the other that powers much of our exchanges.)

Perhaps in the fulfillment of multiple Lane-Joan (Christina Hendricks) fanfic fantasies, Lane impulsively kisses Joan, once again in a attempt to display his own masculinity, turning to sex as a means of proving his virility to himself. While Joan dismisses the advance, she does so delicately and carefully, not storming out of the office, but rather opening the door to appeal to Lane's genteel views on propriety. And her playfulness, stating that many men in the office have wanted to do what he's done (i.e., punching Pete Campbell, rather than making an advance on her), defuses the situation magnificently. Lane saves face, even as Joan puts him back in his place. (For now, at least. While I can see the potential for something developing between them, Joan is in no place right now to even consider another relationship.)

Kenny is only too happy that Lane has "kicked the crap" out of Pete, something he wanted to do, particularly after Ken's side gig as a science-fiction/fantasy novelist--writing under a pen name, Ben Hargrove--has been discovered by Roger, who dissuades him from continuing. While Ken claims that he was only writing in order to please his wife, who works for a publishing house, it's clear that he derives satisfaction--and a strong sense of self--from this endeavor, even though he's writing under a nom de plume in order to conceal his own true identity.

But Pete is too obvious a suspect here. While he's weaselly enough to go to Roger and tell him about Ken's side job, the more likely culprit is actually Peggy (Elisabeth Moss), who has a pact with Ken that if he leaves SCDP, he'll take her with him. He's far less likely to do so if his writing career takes off, and Peggy is an opportunist when it comes to her career. If it means clipping Ken's wings so that he'll be forced to stay at the firm for now and concentrate on his advertising career, the upshot is that their pact remains in place. If he continues to write, if he becomes successful, their pact becomes meaningless. Plus, we've seen recently that Peggy and Roger have gotten closer these past few episodes. If someone was whispering in Roger's ear, it's more likely to be Peggy, in my opinion.

But getting knocked down doesn't mean that you're out of the fight altogether. As the episode ends, we're given a glimpse into the mind of Ken Cosgrove, who has constructed a new identity for himself, a new pen name (Dave Algonquin) as he begins to write a new story (“The Man With the Miniature Orchestra”) as his wife sleeps next to him. The titular character would seem to be Pete Campbell, proud owner of a stereo who imagines a "tiny orchestra" dwelling within. And as Beethoven's Fifth Symphony plays to an unhearing audience, Pete lays in bed in the dark, replaying the sight of Hanson sliding his hand up Jenny's skirt, while hearing that dripping kitchen sink faucet, a tell-tale heart reminder of his own failures as a man.

On the next episode of Mad Men ("Far Away Places"), Peggy is rattled by a particularly difficult pitch; Don visits a potential client.

The Daily Beast: "The Good Wife's Bad Mother"

71-year-old Mary Beth Peil is stealing scenes for her work on CBS’ The Good Wife.

Over at The Daily Beast, you can read my latest feature, "The Good Wife's Bad Mother," in which I talk to the former opera singer and Dawson’s Creek star about playing Jackie Florrick.

While The Good Wife’s title refers, rather cheekily, to Julianna Margulies’ Alicia Florrick—who found herself embroiled in a political and sexual scandal at the start of the series’ run—the show explores both individuals’ and society’s definitions and expectations of wives, mothers, and career women.

Margulies’ Alicia juggles work, children, and romance, often without much regard for her own well being, perhaps outside of a solitary glass of red wine at the end of a day in court. Yet Alicia’s outlook, behavior, and mores are constantly commented on or outwardly attacked by her mother-in-law Jackie Florrick, played by 71-year-old Mary Beth Peil, who began the series as a babysitter for Alicia’s teenage children but who has recently emerged as the show’s de facto villain.

Peil is perhaps best known for her role as religious-minded Evelyn “Grams” Ryan on six seasons of teen-centric soap Dawson’s Creek, but the Tony Award-nominated actress began her career as a soprano, performing with the Metropolitan Opera, the New York City Opera, and Boris Goldovsky’s company. Peil will once again display her singing skills as Solange LaFitte in a limited five-week revival of Stephen Sondheim’s Follies in Los Angeles beginning next month, and she is currently starring Off-Broadway as real-life virtuoso violinist Erika Morini in The Morini Strad.

In Sunday’s episode of The Good Wife (“Pants on Fire”), Peil’s Jackie found herself confronted by both her son Peter (Chris Noth) and Alicia over her plans to purchase the separated couple’s old home, suffered a stroke, was revealed to have stolen from her grandchildren’s trust fund, and emerged as the heir apparent to Livia Soprano’s mantle of manipulative and controlling motherhood. The Daily Beast spoke with Peil about playing Jackie Florrick, her relationship with Alicia, Dawson’s Creek, what lies ahead, and more.

Continue reading at The Daily Beast...

Summer Knights: What Is Dead May Never Die on Game of Thrones

"Power resides where men believe it resides. It's a trick, a shadow on the wall, and a very small man can cast a very large shadow.

What is weakness in the end? The inability to let things go, the desires that make us who we are, the sense of sentiment and of familial bond? Should we all strive to be as unyielding as stone and sea? Or is that weakness is inherently part and parcel of who we are as human beings, defined as much by those frailties as we are by our innate strengths? In the end, can we help ourselves from giving into our true natures?

On this week's episode of Game of Thrones ("What Is Dead May Never Die"), written by Bryan Cogman and directed by Alik Sakharov, the concept of weakness, both political and psychological, weighed heavily on the action, as Tyrion (Peter Dinklage) sought out ways of securing his hold on the small council, while unaware of his own potential soft spot, one that could easily be exploited by those looking to do him harm. The same holds true for many of the characters in this episode: a bull's head helm, a source of pride for Gendry (Joe Dempsie), becomes both a weakness and a virtue; Shae (Sibel Kekilli) is brought to King's Landing by Tyrion, but her presence there is a potential way of getting to the Hand; the loyalty of Theon Greyjoy (Alfie Allen) becomes malleable when crushed under the heel of his "true" family' the affection of King Renly (Gethin Anthony) for Ser Loras (Finn Jones) prevents him from fulfilling his kingly duties and producing an heir. In other words: that which makes us strong can also be easily used against us. A child can become a hostage, a lover a danger, a helm an emblem.

For Arya Stark (Maisie Williams), she is being stripped away of everything that she once held dear: her family, her place in the world, her sword, her very identity. Every bit of how she once defined herself is being cast off, burned in a fire, as she emerges perhaps stronger and better forged by the flames. Once a young lady of Winterfell, she's alternately an orphan boy, a hungry thief, a prisoner. But if our self-identity can weigh us down, Arya is the freest of all of them right now, safe precisely because those signifiers of wealth and class have been removed. The same holds for Gendry. Because Lommy (Eros Vlahos) took his helm before the attack and then was killed (with Arya identifying the slain Lommy as Gendry), no one now knows that Gendry is alive and well. While what new dangers await them are unclear, they're safe from being identified as themselves, safe from dying by the sword because the Goldcloaks are searching for them. Casting off one's name is a shield of its own in these perilous times.

Brienne of Tarth (Gwendolyn Christie) chafes under the weight of her gender, chiding Catelyn (Michelle Fairley) for referring to her as a "lady." She has so much to prove, to her king, her father, to herself, that she's sublimated her own identity in one that she constructs for herself, a female knight of honor and ability, one who wishes to pledge her life and sword to her king, to join his Kingsguard, to find a new identity for herself and eradicate what she perceives as the weakness of her sex. In denying her title, she denies herself; in wishing to reconstitute herself as a knight, she wishes to forge a new path for herself. But it's her height and strength that too are both her assets and her weaknesses, making her a source of mockery for others like Loras, who calls her "Brienne the Beauty." Yet, there's a sense that there are metaphorical connections between Brienne and Arya; two wild girls who don't see that they should be pigeonholed by their gender, who see themselves as warriors rather than as ladies.

(While we see only a little bit of Brienne, I have to say that Christie nails the fan-favorite character. She's strong and imposing; Christie imbues Brienne with a sense of honor that's entirely keeping with both her character and the ideals she holds up for knighthood.)

Likewise, Theon finds himself caught between his blood relations and the family who raised him. Does he see himself as a brother who fights beside King Robb (Richard Madden), a warrior of the North? Or is he an Ironborn, the heir to the Seastone Chair? If Balon (Patrick Malahide) gave him up all of those years before, "like a dog," who does he owe his fealty to in the end? How can one choose between duty and family, between honor and blood? His affections for the Starks, for his gaolers, is a weakness, one that is allegedly washed away by his decision to first burn the letter to Robb Stark (in which he tells him that their proposal to Balon has been rejected) and then his reconsecration to the Drowned God, a baptism on the beach performed by the Damphair, in which he recommits himself to the god of his people and to the Ironborn.

Balon plans to send 30 ships, under the guidance of Yara (Gemma Whelan) to Deepwood Motte, to ravage and pillage the coast, and to conquer the North. While Winterfell may "defy" them for a year, as Balon suggests, it's clear that this war isn't just about plunder and territory, but also about vengeance: a bitter revenge against the Northerners who killed his heirs and took his youngest as a hostage. Balon has been consumed by revenge, it seems, much in the way that Yoren (Francis Magee) was. Yoren's story to Arya--itself a fantastic scene--reaffirms the notion of carrying hatred in one's heart ("a prayer, almost"), giving into thoughts of revenge that would make Emily Thorne proud, and of harboring the desire to destroy one's transgressors, to pay them back in kind, sink an axe into their heads, take their lands, burn and destroy their halls. But vengeance breeds nothing but destruction in the end, something that Arya may not quite understand just yet. Theon, however, in choosing where his loyalties lay, may have given his blood-thirsty father the keys to the North, betraying Robb.

(Arya, meanwhile, chooses to save the Night's Watch prisoners--including Jaqen H'ghar--rather than save herself. She chooses honor above self-preservation, which puts her in danger when she too is seized by Ser Amory Lorch's men. Likewise, Yoren sacrifices his own safety in an effort to give Arya and Gendry a headstart. Sadly, they wind up captured and Yoren is killed, brutally and mercilessly.)

Renly is caught between his love for Ser Loras and his duty as a husband to Margaery (Natalie Dormer) and a king: he must give her a child and his nascent dynasty an heir. Yet, his marriage to Margaery has yet to be consummated and this is a dangerous thing: already his vassals are gossiping and gossip in these situations is dangerous. While Loras and Renly's relationship may be an open secret, it's still a potential threat to his rule. Margaery offers herself up to her husband, and even suggests that Loras "get him started" or that he tell her what she can do to make their coupling possible, shocking him with her honesty. While Renly loves Loras, it's this love that may lead to his downfall. Without an heir, his kingdom may crumble. Without a consummation, his union with the Tyrells is a sham.

Sentimentality is also a weakness. The cruel father of poor Samwell (John Bradley) saw his son as being weak for sitting with his mother whilst she sewed. A thimble is all that he has of her, yet he makes a gift of it to Gilly (Hannah Murray), a token of affection where she wanted rescue and salvation from her life. Likewise, Jon Snow (Kit Harington) sees the killing of Craster's son as an affront and amorality personified, but it's Mormont (James Cosmo) who tries to show Jon that his sense of identity prevents him from seeing the bigger picture: that the "wildlings serve crueler gods" than they do and that Craster's Keep--whatever the reasons for its safety--has meant the difference between life and death for rangers in the employ of the Night's Watch. Mormont is only too aware of what Craster (Robert Pugh) is doing with the sons, but he maintains that they are "offerings" to appease some dangerous entities in the Haunted Forest and that, whatever Jon saw take the baby, he will be seeing it again soon enough.

Is Jon being sentimental or is he simply projecting his own sense of morality onto these "free folk," imagining what they're doing is evil, even though it keeps them alive? Is there a sense that this is just reflective of moral relativism or is there an absolute code of behavior that must be maintained? Is this what separates the so-called free folk from the "civilized" world? Or have we already seen throughout the series, that those south of the Wall behave in just as much a violent and terrible fashion?

The perfect example of this is found in the storyline involving poor Sansa (Sophie Turner), who is being psychologically abused at the hands of Cersei (Lena Headey) and the Lannisters. A guest in name only, the Lannisters seem to relish breaking her down, making her accountable for both her father's and brothers' actions, while forcing her to maintain polite conversation (such as that with Aimee Richardson's good-natured if clueless Myrcella) about frocks and marriage and eat with her captors. (At least wee Tommen seems to the best of his clan and acknowledges that he doesn't want Sansa's brother to be killed.) Forced to regurgitate the false promises she made--to remain true to her king and beloved Joffrey--Sansa is trapped and clearly losing her grasp on her sanity in some respects. Yet, she relishes the opportunity to put Shae in her place, finally finding someone even lower than she is on the totem pole. Could it be that Sansa has been affected by the haughty Cersei, that she's come in contact with cruelty and emerged changed by it? That her role as "lady," even a lady prisoner, means that she's somehow above her servants and able to bend them to her will?

Cersei, at least, does have one weakness that we're aware of, one that Tyrion is able to exploit. Say what you will about Cersei's methods, but she does genuinely love her children: enough to kill to conceal their true parentage, and to construct elaborate conspiracies to protect the falseness of their identities. Her tears at the thought that Tyrion would send Myrcella away from her are genuine and heartfelt. Her children may be the source of her strength, but they're also Cersei's greatest weakness, able to be used against her only too easily by Tyrion.

Tyrion, meanwhile, attempts to hide his own weakness, though he can't bear to have Shae sent away. Instead, he has her become Sansa's new handmaiden, which has several advantages: one, he'll be able to keep an eye on Sansa Stark, and two, Shae will be permitted to remain at King's Landing and move about with some discretion. Meanwhile, he attempts to exert his influence on the small council and reveal just who is loyal to his sister. Concocting a plan in which he tells Varys (Conleth Hill), Littlefinger (Aidan Gillen), and Grand Maester Pycelle (Julian Glover) that he's planning on marrying off Myrcella to three different suitors (Theon Greyjoy, Robin Arryn, and the Dornish, respectively), Tyrion unmasks Pycelle as the mole and has his beard sliced off and him sent to the dungeon.

(A few stray observations here: did anyone think that Gillen's accent was strange in this scene? His natural Irish accent seemed to come through way too strongly here, rendering Littlefinger in a bit of a strange light. While it could be that both Gillen and Littlefinger speak in different accents than their natural dialects, it was a little strange to here. Unrelated, I loved the scene between Tyrion and Varys, as Varys offers Tyrion a riddle that's also a warning. These two are so perfectly suited to engage in mental chess plays with one another and I love any scene that has Dinklage and Hill together. "Power is a curious thing," and it is quite true; the scene unfolds with drama and suspense as well as a sense that what's not being said here is just as interesting as what is. Well done, all around.)

Finally, there's the notion, again repeated, that Bran (Isaac Hempstead Wright) is seeing through the eyes of his direwolf, Summer, and we're given a glimpse into one of these dreams as we see what Bran sees, experiencing Winterfell through Summer's eyes, as he pads through the halls of the Northern castle, up the stone stairs, into Bran's room, and finally onto his bed, where the two come face to face, Bran's eyes opening at the same time that Summer sets his on his master. (And is it just me or did Hodor seem to sense something when Summer passes him outside the door? Hmmm...) Maester Luwin (Donald Sumpter) may not believe in skinchangers or the existence of the children of the forest--telling Bran that magic died out a long time ago and that such stories may just be stories--but there's also weakness in not believing the miracles in front of you.

For all that Bran is seeing and feeling, there is truth to these sensations, to the dreams he's having that are alternately prophetic and profound, and to the notion that he may be connected to his direwolf in ways that the Maester can't truly fathom. His limitations close the door to possibility beyond our knowledge set, but thinking about magic--or indeed magical thinking--isn't a weakness, but a massive strength. One that may come in handy in the days and weeks to come. Winter is coming, and we may need all the magic we can get when it does.

On the next episode of Game of Thrones ("Garden of Bones"), Joffrey punishes Sansa for Robbʼs victories, while Tyrion and Bronn scramble to temper the kingʼs cruelty; Catelyn entreats Stannis and Renly to forego their ambitions and unite against the Lannisters; Dany and her exhausted khalasar arrive at the gates of Qarth, a prosperous city with strong walls and rulers who greet her outside them; Tyrion
coerces a queenʼs man into being his eyes and ears; Arya and Gendry are taken to Harrenhal, where their lives rest in the hands of “The Mountain,” Gregor Clegane; Davos must revert to his old ways and smuggle Melisandre into a secret cove.

The Daily Beast: "HBO's Girls is the Best New Show of 2012"

HBO’s Girls, which launches Sunday, is provocative, original, and addictive.

Over at The Daily Beast, you can read my latest feature, "HBO's Girls is the Best New Show of 2012," in which I (not surprisingly, given the headline), review HBO's Girls, from creator/writer/director/star/executive producer Lena Dunham (Tiny Furniture).

With her 2010 Sundance-darling film Tiny Furniture, Lena Dunham captured the malaise and uncertainty of a generation of postcollege 20-somethings with grit, humor, and painful realism, transforming Manhattan into a depressing playground for overeducated, underqualified youths in an economy that had seemingly forgotten about their existence.

Many of the same themes—and several of the same actors—are transported from Dunham’s accomplished indie film to HBO’s infectious and addictive Girls, the winking black comedy which begins Sunday evening, and which counts Dunham as creator, writer, director, and star (and one of the executive producers, along with Judd Apatow and Jenni Konner.) The show represents a major accomplishment for the woman at its helm, and, in the three episodes provided to press, the voice that Dunham shared in Tiny Furniture has been honed to perfection here, sharp and incisive, witty and brutal.

Dunham stars as Hannah Horvath, a would-be novelist and intern who is supported by her professor parents. She lives in a shabby walk-up with her best friend Marnie (Allison Williams, daughter of news anchor Brian), who works in an art gallery, has terrible sex with her lothario partner Adam (Adam Driver), and is more or less adrift. Hannah is not so much navel gazing, as navel obsessing, whether it is about being the “voice of [her] generation” (or “a voice of a generation”), the “stuff that gets up around the sides of condoms,” whether she has AIDS, or what she will do with her life.

She is, in other words, the archetypical 20-something existing in the increasingly deep chasm between adolescence and adulthood, and Dunham makes Hannah instantly charismatic and hilarious, willing to bare her body and her soul with the same ease.

Girls is, in many ways, the antithesis to HBO’s own ladies-in-Manhattan fantasy, Sex and the City, offering a far more realistic portrayal of sisterhood than that of Carrie Bradshaw and Co., though virginal student Shoshanna (Mad Men’s Zosia Mamet, daughter of playwright David) does have a SATC poster prominently displayed in her “bachelorette pad,” and she categorizes herself and other women by Sex and the City character types. But while Carrie and her kin moved effortlessly through high fashion and fabulous sex, Hannah and her friends live a decidedly less exuberant lifestyle.

Continue reading at The Daily Beast...

The Daily Beast: "TV Tackles Bipolar Disorder"

With Showtime’s recent dramas Homeland and Shameless, characters with bipolar disorder on television are no longer on the fringes.

Over at The Daily Beast, you can read my latest feature, "TV Tackles Bipolar Disorder," in which I explore the portrayals of Carrie Mathison and Monica Gallagher, played by Claire Danes and Chloe Webb, as individuals with bipolar disorder and how those realistic and nuanced portrayals both shape their respective series but also help to remove the stigma associated with mental illness. I talk to Homeland co-creator Alex Gansa about Carrie's illness and how her decision to turn to ECT will affect Season Two (beginning in September) and with Shameless writer/producer Etan Frankel about the handling of Monica and how her condition has molded the Gallagher family.

On Homeland, Claire Danes’ Carrie Mathison is a brilliant and ambitious CIA analyst, gifted with a beautiful mind that sees connections and hidden patterns that others around her can’t. She’s driven to an obsessive fixation on Nicholas Brody (Damian Lewis), a recently returned POW whom she believes to be a terrorist sleeper agent. Carrie, to her horror and ours, is right.

However, Carrie suffers from bipolar disorder, a crippling psychological condition that is sometimes known as manic-depression, which affects roughly 5.7 million Americans, or 2.6 percent of the U.S. adult population, according to data from the National Institute of Mental Health. The illness includes “dramatic shifts in mood, energy, and activity levels that affect a person’s ability to carry out day-to-day tasks” that “are more severe than the normal ups and downs that are experienced by everyone.” (Other symptoms can include but are not limited to erratic behavior, hypersexuality, rapid cycling between mood states, and even delusions and hallucinations.)

What makes Carrie such a superb intelligence agent is also her Achilles’ heel, and her journey over the course of the first season of Homeland was one of frustration, error, and ultimately being right. Her words go unheeded when her condition is discovered by her employers, making her a modern-day Cassandra, a woman too smart for the room, too close to the truth, whose viewpoint is discarded by men who believe they know better. Danes’s stunning performance is one of several new groundbreakingly realistic depictions of mental illness, particularly bipolar disorder, on television.

“A lot of women in particular have responded to this idea that Carrie was right and that nobody knows she was right,” Homeland’s cocreator/executive producer Alex Gansa told The Daily Beast. “There’s a real sense of tragedy in that.”

Continue reading at The Daily Beast...

The Daily Beast: "Game of Thrones' Emo Hero"

In Season Two of the HBO smash drama Game of Thrones, Jon Snow becomes a true warrior.

Over at The Daily Beast, you can read my latest feature, entitled "Game of Thrones' Emo Hero," in which I sit down with Kit Harington and talk about playing Jon Snow, fame, what’s to come in Season Two, Ygritte, Samwell, and why he refuses to wear a wig.

Within the harsh world of HBO’s fantasy series Game of Thrones, based on George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire novels, you either live by the sword or you die by it. In the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, court is a deadly pit of vipers, with each of the titular game’s players scheming and manipulating their way to higher realms of power and influence.

Not everyone is engaged in these sordid power plays. Bastard-born Jon Snow is a child of the North, raised in the ice and cold of Winterfell before being packed off to the Night’s Watch, a brotherhood of men sworn to protect the 700-foot ancient Wall and the realm from the threats that lay beyond it.

One of the show’s most pivotal characters, Jon Snow is played with emotional grit and a keening angst by 25-year-old actor Christopher “Kit” Harington. Prior to Game of Thrones, Harington starred in the original West End production of War Horse; he’ll next be seen opposite Ben Barnes, Jeff Bridges (“This is The Dude from The Big Lebowski,” said Harington, excitedly), and Julianne Moore in The Seventh Son, an adaptation of Joseph Delaney’s novel The Spook’s Apprentice. (Harington was recently forced to drop out of David Dobkin’s $120 million-plus Arthur & Lancelot, in which he would have costarred as Arthur, due to scheduling issues.)

The self-described “private person” is about to become an even bigger star with his arc in Season 2 of the HBO drama, and with that comes a sharp spotlight on his time off-screen. “I’ve got an idea of my personal life,” said Harington. “I have a wild streak, but I like to keep that very much for my friends. I love going out. I love partying. Last night, I was in a club, and it being on the Web the next day is suddenly something I’m aware of. I can’t be the Kit in public that I might have been once.”

In the second season of Game of Thrones, Jon Snow makes a monumental leap from boyhood to adulthood, encountering the mysteries of the world at large and of his own heart. While Harington was coy about whether there is romance in the cards for Jon, he did acknowledge that watching the show with his parents makes for an interesting experience. “I can’t watch this with my mum,” he said. “My granny watches it. She loves it. She’s a saucy old minx, my grandma. She’s less prudish about it than anyone, really.”

Continue reading at The Daily Beast....

The Pursuit: Fever Dreams on Mad Men

"You loved it."

What does it mean to be a good man? Is it the ability to uphold one's vows--constancy, fidelity, honesty--or is it that one's actions echo forever in a relationship? We're given a prism in this week's episode of Mad Men ("Mystery Date"), written by Victor Levin and Matthew Weiner and directed by Matt Shakman, through which to view both Don Draper (Jon Hamm) and Greg Harris (Sam Page), as well as the notion of the pursuit, which looms large over the action, casting a dark spell from which several characters find they cannot wake.

It's telling that Michael Ginsburg (Ben Feldman) offers a disturbing fairy tale to the pitch clients rather than the agreed-upon campaign that he had already discussed with Don, putting everyone on the spot. He offers up a narrative that's certainly not in line with the Disney version of Cinderella, but casts the heroine as the prey of a deranged man, who pursues her down the darkened alleys and cobblestone streets of a dream-like European castle city. Despite the fact that this Cinderella is happy to see the man, who has her missing shoe, there's an innate darkness and sense of violence to the story, one that clearly connects to the news of the student nurse slayings that Joyce (Zosia Mamet) gleefully discusses with the copywriters at SCDP. (For reference, Richard Speck raped and killed eight student nurses in Chicago in 1966; one nurse, who hid under the bed, escaped with her life.)

It's the reporting on this gruesome incident, as well as the imaginations of those reading and hearing about it, that comprises much of the action of the episode, drawing the viewer in, just as it offers both fictional and real pursuits upon the women in the episode. It's also through this narrative that we're taking into the subconscious mind of Don Draper, witnessing a fever dream that acts upon his own sense of guilt, his own discomfort about his role as a "good man" as he's forced to contend with the phantom appearance of a former lover.

In reality, his chance encounter in the elevator with freelance writer Andrea (Mädchen Amick), in which he's forced to introduce his ex-lover with his current wife, Megan (Jessica Paré), is awkward and slightly tense, a visual callback to his philandering ways when Don was married to Betty (January Jones). But it's little more than that, the subject of an even more awkward conversation between the two newlyweds and a further expansion on the idea that Megan knows all of Don's sins and failings. But it's this encounter, along with the knowledge of the Speck murders that inform Don's fever dream when he returns home from the office.

A number of stray details from the day creep into his subconscious: the meeting with Andrea, the pursuit of Cinderella (manifesting here as both Don's pursuit of Andrea, Allison, Faye, and a multitude of his other female co-workers, apparently, as well as Andrea's dogged pursuit of Don), the knock at the door (reminiscent of Richard Speck), the strangulation of "Andrea" and Don "disposing" her body under the bed (again echoing the one surviving girl of Speck's terrible crimes), while her leg sticks out of the bed, missing one shoe, a visual callback to the Cinderella story that Michael spins to the clients. Here, it's that missing shoe that's terribly disturbing, casting Don in the role of Cinderella's crazed pursuer, as Richard Speck, as the terrible man beset by guilt over his actions that he strangles his lover and shoves her under the bed.

It's as if all of Don's sins come back within the subconscious desire to purge himself of weakness. He's proven incapable of remaining true to Betty, a philanderer who repeatedly slept with other women and then blamed his wife for his own shortcomings, something Megan refuses to do and refuses to let him do to Betty. Don is flawed because Don is flawed, full stop. An encounter with a past mistake of his reminds of this in no uncertain terms, and while he "gives in" to the advances of "Andrea," he attempts to purge his conscience by making sure she can never return to haunt him again, never darken his doorway or his bed. His impulse is violent and final, the strangulation of a lover he just took in his marital bed.

Are these the actions of a "good man"? Or simply nothing more than the dreams of a fever-ridden man, a jumbling of subconscious motifs and desires, a manifestation of deep-seated guilt within his heart? Don is visibly relieved when he wakes up from his slumber to find Megan there, an angelic figure entering the room with a tray of orange juice, and no corpse under the bed. One of Speck's victims may have gotten away to safety, but Don's dream victim isn't so lucky. She's punished for her hunger, for her sexuality, for being a woman, for simply being there. And the knowledge that it was just a dream still shakes Don to the core. So has he exorcised his guilt? Or simply been reminded of what he's capable of in a heightened and imaginary sense?

Likewise, Joan (Christina Hendricks) has constructed her own dream world, one in which Greg returns from his military service in Vietnam and they become this smiling, happy family: professional Joan with her beautiful baby boy and her handsome doctor husband. But this dream is just as illusory as the one that Don envisions. Greg has volunteered for another tour of duty in Vietnam, saying that the military "needs him." He's done so without consulting Joan, concealing the real reason why he'll be returning after just ten days. It's a blindside of the worse kind, offering Joan the emotional whiplash she's been hoping to avoid.

But the fairy tale that Joan has spun herself is darker than she envisioned. There is no happy homecoming for Greg, no photos with his new son Kevin (who, let's not forget, is not even Greg's baby), no perfect cake and perfect reunion. Their ten days together become torture for Joan but she also refuses to let herself continue to be chased down those darkened alleys by her seemingly perfect husband or answer that fateful knock at the door. Greg is far from perfect and far from being a "good man." I've been waiting several seasons now for a callback to the fateful night Greg raped Joan on the floor, but Mrs. Harris had done such a good job of pretending it didn't happen, pushing it to the back of her mind, that it emerges, fully formed, here like a fever dream, as she confronts Greg about his choice to return to the war, and about what happened between them.

It's Joan's suggestion that the military might make Greg feel like a man, because she's no longer willing to try to do it anymore that transforms her from a victim into the hero of her own story, fighting back against her pursuer even though she's only got one shoe on. Her notion of Greg not being a "good man" is entirely true, and she reminds him here of what he did to her, urging him to walk through that door and out of her life forever. It's a transformative moment for the wounded Joan, one in which she takes back control of her life and her destiny. She won't be a military wife, standing on the sidelines, but an independent woman. Bravo, Joan.

Poor Sally (Kiernan Shipka) is trapped in the "haunted mansion" of the family's new home in Rye, under the strict and unwavering supervision of Henry's mother Pauline (Pamela Dunlap). It's when she reads the newspaper that the killings spring to life within her imagination... and, apparently, Pauline's as well. Sitting downstairs with her "burglar alarm" (read: a very long kitchen knife), Pauline is attempting to read and eat some of Betty's Bugles but she's frightened by the appearance of Sally, whom she then further torments by sharing the details of the Richard Speck killings.

Does she do it to snap some sense into Sally--a verbal version of the "kick across the room" that Pauline's father gave her in order to open her eyes--or to connect with her? Is there a sense that fear is a communal emotional, something to be shared and savored, or that there is something somehow freeing and cathartic about unburdening your sense of terror by sharing with someone else? All possibly true.

While there is finally a moment of rapport between the two (though Pauline's storytelling abilities are clearly not what Sally needed at the moment), Pauline breaks the spell by offering Sally a half a Seconal so she can sleep. The sight of little Sally asleep under the sofa when Betty and Henry (Christopher Stanley) finally return home that connects back to the notion of dark fairy tales. Here, Sally is cast as a figurative Sleeping Beauty but it's fear that led her to her slumber, and she's cast herself in the role of the "girl who survives," hiding under the sofa and the sleeping Pauline. (Anyone else get a Valley of the Dolls vibe from Sally's storyline this week?)

(Aside: I loved that Sally was watching Mystery Date here and then that became the episode's title, an image that echoes throughout the episode, from Don and Andrea's imagined pairing, to the Richard Speck crimes, and throughout...)

Peggy (Elisabeth Moss) hears a noise while working late at the offices (again, further suggesting what I wrote about last week about the seeming dynamic building between John Slattery's Roger and Peggy), only to discover that it's Don's new secretary Dawn (Teyonah Parris) sleeping in Don's office, rather than risk traveling home late on the subway. (Peggy's naive and sense of privilege shows painfully here; she suggests that Dawn flag a cab or take a taxi; when Dawn says that her brother won't let her, because it's too dangerous, Peggy immediately jumps to the student nurse slayings, rather than the more realistic threat that the riots pose to Dawn's safety.)

In an act that she likely sees as "modern" or "progressive," Peggy invites Dawn to spend the night at her place, where she too attempts to cast her own fairy tale, seeing Dawn as a victim of oppression, the only one of her kind at the agency, whom Peggy might pluck from obscurity and "discover," transforming her from hapless secretary to important copywriter. But Dawn doesn't want to be a copywriter, and admits that she likes her job, and she unwittingly denies the similarities between her situation and Peggy's, even as Peggy forges ahead blindly. Yes, they may have both been Don's secretaries, but their situations couldn't be more different, and Peggy approaches Dawn with all the condescension and privilege of a white person in the 1960s. It's clear, however, that Peggy doesn't even totally buy her own spin, wondering if she acts too much like a man, questioning whether she really wants this life, transforming their beer-fueled discussion into an existential crisis that's all about Peggy again, as Peggy continually interrupts Dawn, making the entire conversation all about her, rather than her guest.

And she breaks one of the most important codes: that of hospitality. Despite her "modern" views, Peggy proves herself to be just as prejudiced and racist as anyone else at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce. After telling Dawn earlier that she's come into some cash (courtesy of Roger, in a sequence that acts as a callback to his negotiations in Episode 501/502 with Harry Crane and proves that Peggy is more astute and clever than Harry when it comes to negotiating, talking Roger out of $410 for secretly doing some work for him for Mohawk Airlines), she is about to leave the room and go to bed when she notices her purse on the coffee table. There's a moment of frisson between the two women--Peggy notices the purse, Dawn notices Peggy noticing the purse, Peggy notices Dawn noticing Peggy, and on and on it goes--and Peggy is unsure how to break the terrible moment they've found themselves in. She tries to recover, grabbing the beer bottles and mumbling an excuse about how she ought to clean up, but the spell is broken between these two: Peggy is revealed to be not "good," connecting her not with the victims of the story but with the male pursuers (hence her line of questioning about being too much like a man), and with privilege and societal majority.

More troubling: Dawn's polite note, placed purposely atop Peggy's lime-green purse, thanking her for her hospitality, her sheets and blankets neatly folded on the couch, a sad reminder of the chasm that exists between them, despite Peggy's best intentions. Sometimes being good isn't as easy as it appears, especially when dealing with one's subconscious faults. Sometimes, the survivor gets away by hiding under the bed, and sometimes the Big Bad Wolf can take all sorts of forms.

Next week on Mad Men ("Signal 30"), Lane strikes up an interesting friendship; Pete entertains guests.

The Vale of Death: The Night Lands on Game of Thrones

"Sometimes those with the most power have the least grace."

What is the difference between a threat and a promise? Whether in this world or the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, the only true promise in this life is death. It is, after all, the one destination that we're all inexorably headed, and while we can perhaps temporarily avoid that journey through a series of detours or byways, the night lands are the one place we all end up eventually.

Of course, the danger is increasingly higher for those enmeshed in the war for control of the Iron Throne than, hopefully, the readers of this review. Extending one's lifespan, staving off the various threats that rise up to hurry you on your journey, requires a certain skill of bargaining. Or the ability to play the titular game. You can choose to be a player or a pawn, or you can have that choice made for you.

The notion of threats lingers over this week's episode of HBO's Game of Thrones ("The Night Lands"), written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss and directed by Alan Taylor, another fantastic installment that continues to expand the world of the series outwards and further shade the characters we've gotten to know in the first season. But throughout the action, there are increasing perils for several characters.

Arya (Maisie Williams), still in the guise of orphan boy 'Arry, and Gendry (Joe Dempsie) are threatened on multiple fronts: by the sudden arrival of the Goldcloaks with a royal warrant for Gendry, and in the fear of constantly being exposed, having their true identities revealed. Arya is, after all more than a girl in disguise: she's the youngest daughter of the former Hand of the King, and a necessary hostage for the Lannisters. Gendry is more than just a smith's apprentice bound for the Wall; he may be one of the last remaining offspring of the dead King Robert (Mark Addy), now that the Lannisters are tying up loose ends and slaying the bastard offspring of the last Baratheon king. (Arya is also threatened by the caged prisoners on the Kingsroad who accompany the untested Night's Watch recruits, though we are clearly meant to feel some sense of a growing connection between her and the mysterious inmate of the black cells called Jaqen H'ghar.)

Likewise, there's terrible "parable" that Littlefinger (Aidan Gillen) spins for Ros (Esme Bianco), from which the above quotation emerges. His cautionary tale to the red-haired whore is overflowing with menace, pointing out what will happen to her should she not control her tears and smile. Gillen and Bianco are both superb here. While the sequence emerges out of a foundation of sex-and-nudity, their scene is vacant of any shred of sexual heat: it's icy and tense because Gillen's Baelish is so controlled and seemingly even-keeled, his soporific delivery at odds with the malice contained in his words. While Gillen's scenes are always fantastic, this one in particular stands out for its false intimacy, a knife's edge of threat and the promise that his losses will be mitigated, both with the girl from Lysean pleasure house and with Ros, if need be. He is, after all, a businessman, and she is a commodity.

Their exchange is once again a bargain struck: smile or you will be sold onwards and your new owner may not be so kind. Bianco's shudder at the end, an unspoken sigh of resolute abandonment of her emotional freedom, completes the scene perfectly, a realization dawning that the lifespan for a whore in King's Landing may not be long if she doesn't choose her words, and her steps, carefully. Given that Ros is a character created specifically for the show, I am curious to see where they are taking her over the course of the next few seasons; this is the first real scene where the viewer is given access to Ros' inner life, to her true emotions, and to the danger she faces on a daily basis. Hmmm...

Compare their scene to that between Janos Slynt (Dominic Carter) and Tyrion (Peter Dinklage), in which Slynt believes that he has been invited to dine with Tyrion only to learn that Tyrion is exiling him to the Wall and placing Bronn (Jerome Flynn) in charge of the City Watch. While the power politics of the scenes are vastly different (there isn't the sense of personal ownership here that exists in the Littlefinger/Ros exchange), the outcome is the same. Slynt failed to match up with what was expected of him from Tyrion (killing those babies didn't help matters) and he stands in the way of control of the Small Council and of the city. The cruelest thing would be to strip him of his new lands and titles and send him off to freeze to death in the North. Tyrion is most definitely mitigating his own losses, kicking off a silent coup in the heart of the council that will sway favor much more in his direction. Bronn may be loyal, but only to coin; he says as much when Tyrion inquires what questions he would have asked if he had been instructed to kill an infant girl at her mother's breast. (The only question, not surprisingly, would have been for how much?)

I adored the scene between Tyrion, Varys (Conleth Hill), and Shae (Sibel Kekilli), which overflowed with double-entrendres regarding tasting Shae's fish pie and that they may yet make a fisherman out of Varys, a eunuch. (Shae knows instantly that Varys isn't a lover of fish pie.) There's a fantastic juxtaposition between Tyrion placing his hand on the door to prevent Varys' exit and Varys doing the same to Tyrion with a single finger upon the door. The unspoken threat that Varys levels--stay on my good side or I shall tell your lord father that you brought Shae to King's Landing--may go over Shae's head, but it lands precisely and with a shuddering intent upon Tyrion. These two might be the smartest men in the kingdom and, both outsiders, these two would make for ideal allies, yet there's a sense that both is too wary of trusting anyone (and too good at manipulation) that they will forever be dancing around one another instead of co-plotting.

Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys (Emilia Clarke) and her ragtag khalassar continues its journey in hopes of finding somewhere to rest, but their journey is full of threats: starvation and dehydration, and violence from other khalassars they may encounter, as the khals will not tolerate a woman leading a Dothraki horde. And then there's poor Rakharo's head in the saddle bag of his horse. It's emblematic of both a threat and a promise of more violence to come, and connects with the episode's title, as we learn that Dothraki's corpses must be burnt if their souls are to join their ancestors in the night lands. Severing his braid means that Rakharo's soul has been stolen from him and keeping his body renders a funeral incomplete, but Dany promises that he will have his funereal pyre and that his soul will be at rest. Could it be that Daenerys is learning the importance of capturing her followers' hearts and minds? They are trapped in a never-ending sea of sand, with no oasis to bolster their spirits, no home to call their own, a nomadic people wandering for eternity, heading nowhere but ever closer to the night lands themselves.

The unspoken promise that Theon (Alfie Allen) believes is that his return to Pyke will be heralded by the Iron Islanders, the return of the heir to the Seastone Chair, but no one waits for Theon at the docks, no one cheers, no one cares at all that he's returned, not even the father, Balon Greyjoy (Patrick Malahide), who gave him away as a hostage. There's a sadness within Theon that we've not seen before in the headstrong, arrogant youth: the realization that he belongs nowhere and with no one. Even his own family has turned their backs on him and he comes home dressed in the clothes of a Northerner, his cloak fastened with a "bauble" paid for with gold, rather than by the iron price. Even his place as heir apparent has been usurped, by his sister, Yara (Gemma Whelan), whom he does not recognize (and, in a scene that's far more toned down than in the novels, tries to have his way with her) and who has become the son that his father wished for, an Ironborn not weakened by Theon's time in the north, a warrior born of water and salt.

Once again, the gorgeous direction of Alan Taylor is on display here, giving us that amazing shot of Theon and Yara on horseback, galloping across the shore. There's a sense of reality here that can't be gotten with CGI, transporting the viewer to a windswept coast that comes alive with sea air, sand, and damp. The beauty and severity of the Iron Islands is perfectly captured in that one haunting shot, and Taylor once again proves the breadth of his natural fluency with the visual language of Martin's novels. Theon's homecoming is turned to ash, much as the letter Robb (Richard Madden) sends to Balon is reduced to cinder in the fireplace. He is a stranger here, the self-made promises little more than lies he told himself. Life has moved on without Theon Greyjoy, and the Iron Islands are where he realizes his own happiness is a grey thing indeed.

The notion of threats and promises continues throughout the episode. Melisandre (Carice van Houten) sees visions of the future in her flames, so why does she whisper to Matthos (Kerr Logan), the son of the Onion Knight Davos Seaworth (Liam Cunningham), that the fire provides the purest death. Is it that she knows something of Mattios' end? Is it s self-fulfilling prophecy, or a threat as to the extent of her great powers? Hmmm. She also promises Stannis (Stephen Dillane) an heir, and offers herself to him in lieu of his sickly wife, Selyse. (They couple literally on top of an emblem of Westeros, a metaphor that's surely too big for the room.) Davos barters with the pirate Sallador Saan (Lucian Msamati) and offers him promises of wealth... and of the queen that awaits him should he seize King's Landing for Stannis.

Is it that a promise is offered with an open palm and a threat with a closed fist? Or should we be more wary with those threats (such as those made by Tyrion, Littlefinger, and Varys, among others) that are made with a smile? Davos may trust Sallador, but he's motivated not by king and country, but by gold, much as Bronn is. A sellsword's loyalty, much like a pirate's, is a flimsy thing indeed once the coffers run dry.

North of the Wall, we see the very real threat facing the wives/daughters of wildling Craster (Robert Pugh), who marries his daughters, and--as we and Jon Snow (Kit Harington) discover--sacrifices his male offspring to the things in the Haunted Forest, bartering his son's lives for his continued existence. There's a sense of both blood sacrifice and appeasement here, as we see a White Walker take Craster's son (for eating? for what?) in the forest, as Jon watches, unaware of truly what that thing is front of him. (Kudos to the amazing sound editing team here for the various noises that follow in the White Walkers' wake; it's truly unnerving.) There's a reason that the wildling villages are emptied and Craster continues to live on and that price is paid with the blood of his sons. Which is why the severity of the threat that Gilly (Hannah Murray) faces looms so large, even if she won't come clean to Jon and Samwell (John Bradley) about what Craster does to his male babies. She wants to flee the encampment and seek refuge with the Night's Watch, but this seems a particular folly, not least of all because (A) Craster threatened to remove the hand of anyone who touches one of his daughters, and (B) there are no women in the Night's Watch, a male order that takes a vow of chastity.

But what is bastard-born Jon Snow to do? After seeing what he sees at the very end of the episode (sadly before he is himself spotted by Craster and knocked unconscious), can Jon willingly let Gilly give birth to a child who may be sacrificed to the White Walkers in order to keep the others safe? Is the life of one baby worth more than an entire encampment? Does what's right in a moral sense trump personal safety or the enforced rules of their host? Does Jon have a responsibility to this unborn child, and does he feel a greater tug on his sense of responsibility because he was himself given up by his mother? In seeing what happens to Craster's unwanted sons, can Jon look away?

These types of dilemmas are not easy ones to resolve, both internally and within the group dynamic; in fact, they're at the very heart of group dynamics: does the welfare of the individual trump that of the collective self? In choosing to keep himself and his wives alive, has Craster crossed into a moral darkness or has he simply put the needs of others before that of newborns? (And, yes, it's clear that Craster is a despicable, abusive human being, but there's a sense here that he represents the unknowable cultural "other," given to a set of customs and traditions that we can't understand.) But is it Jon's place, in this situation, to blindly follow or to be the leader we know him to be? Just how willing is he to sacrifice his own life in order to save Gilly's baby? Or in order to uphold the fragile peace of Craster's Keep? Because either way, there looms the greatest threat of all: that one wrong move will send them all to the night lands sooner rather than later.

As Jaqen H'ghar tells us, "A man can't choose his companions." This is true for the imprisoned mystery man as it is for Jon Snow and the Night's Watch as well. You may not be able to choose your family or your companions, but you can choose good from ill, morality over amorality, life over death. But you best be careful: even that choice has its own inherent threat.

Next week on Game of Thrones ("What Is Dead May Never Die"), at the Red Keep, Tyrion plots three alliances through the promise of marriage; Catelyn arrives in the Stormlands to forge an alliance of her own, but King Renly, his new wife Margaery and her brother Loras Tyrell have other plans; at Winterfell, Luwin tries to decipher Branʼs dreams.

The Daily Beast: "Game of Thrones and Mad Men Characters Fight to the Death"

Don Draper vs. Tyrion Lannister? Betty vs. Cersei?

Over at The Daily Beast, you can read my latest feature, "Game of Thrones and Mad Men Characters Fight to the Death," in which I imagine 10 tongue-in-cheek battles between the characters of AMC’s Mad Men and their Game of Thrones counterparts on HBO.

With the return of AMC’s Mad Men and HBO's Game of Thrones, Sunday evenings have become a tug of war, with the two critical darlings exerting an irresistible pull on the faithful.

It’s hard to escape certain similarities between the two shows: both take place in distant times (OK, Game of Thrones, based on George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire novels, is set in another world altogether), both delve into racial and religious issues this season, and both feature heavy drinking, illicit relationships, and completely inappropriate workplace behavior in worlds that celebrate ambition, cruelty, and Machiavellian power grabs.

Which raises an imaginary question: what if the ad men and women of Mad Men were forced to fight to death with their counterparts in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros? Would Don Draper (Jon Hamm) take down Tyrion Lannister (Peter Dinklage)? Just how are Bert Cooper (Robert Morse) and Varys (Conleth Hill) alike? And who is more of a sociopathic boy-king: Joffrey Lannister (Jack Gleeson) or Pete Campbell (Vincent Kartheiser)? In the game of thrones, you either play or die…or you just black out from drinking too much.

Continue reading at The Daily Beast...

Caged Birdie: Replaceable Pieces, Replaceable People on Mad Men

"When is everything going to get back to normal?"

Just how unique are we? Are we ever, in a sense, irreplaceable, or is our position in this world, and the lives of those around us, so tenuous that we're able to be replaced the very moment someone new and shiner appears on the scene?

There's an irresistible sense of replacement hovering over the action of the latest episode of AMC's Mad Men ("Tea Leaves"), written by Erin Levy and Matthew Weiner and directed by Jon Hamm, which served to not only fill the audience in on just what happened during the between-seasons gap to Betty Francis (January Jones), but connected her plight to something deeper and more poignant. Just as the old guard must give way to the new guard, progress and change are inexorable twin spectres in the lives of all of us.

Standing on the precipice of incalculable change ahead, there's a sense of both doom and possibility, that our lives--even in the face of such monumental life-and-death stakes--are forever changing. You can either plant your feet and get left behind or move with the changing tide.

It's through this perspective that we see several sets of pairings emerge over the course of "Tea Leaves," the title of which makes an unmistakable emphasis on the unknown, unseeable future. (Even an alleged fortuneteller, sifting through the tea leaves left behind by Betty, can't predict just what will happen to the unhappy housewife.) Just as Megan (Jessica Paré) has supplanted Betty in Don's life, so too has Betty's new husband Henry (Christopher Stanley) in Betty's life. There's even a symbolic allusion between the two women, connected not only by their relationships with Don, but by a gorgeously simple narrative device in which the two women zip up their dresses at the beginning of the episode: Megan's is zipped with ease by Don in the bedroom of the house they share, her slim figure slipping easily into her modern dress; Betty struggles, however, with hers, enlisting the aid of her children to squeeze into the too-tight silhouette, before climbing into bed and feigning illness.

Betty's psychological struggles have been a hallmark of Mad Men since the beginning of the series, her sense of ennui, of boredom, of being a caged bird echo sharply throughout many episodes. I was curious to see just how Weiner would work Jones' advanced pregnancy into the storyline here, and simply assumed that Betty and Henry were having a baby, though I felt that it was an easy out of a situation that would feel repetitive amid Joan's own new baby storyline. Not so. Instead of simply making Betty eight months pregnant (as Jones was when this was filmed), Weiner instead chooses to put Betty through yet another crucible, with the episode becoming a look at her own personal demons, and in a potential battle with cancer.

Despite its place within the human body, cancer becomes an external struggle: it's a physical battle with one's own body and with the foreign invader. But Betty's problems are once again internalized here. Put aside the Victorian fainting couch, the shotgun, the child psychologist; Betty's latest struggle is again with herself, manifesting now in a monumental weight gain that, we learn over the course of the hour, isn't hypothyroidism or cancer, but rather a need to fill the emptiness in her life with food.

There is a shock in seeing the Grace Kelley manqué reduced to sitting around her hulking mansion in a pink housecoat scarfing Bugles by the handful, or indeed seeing her--after coming through her ordeal more or less unscathed--finish Sally's dessert after eating her own. Betty has always been brittle and icy, and out of touch with her own sense of self and her body. By making her plight resonate in her physical self, Weiner imbues Betty with an even deeper sense of tragedy and horror, her need to tamp down any semblance of emotion with food, rendering her once perfect physical form even more imperfect. Despite the fact that she herself is already remarried, she sees "20-year-old" Megan (who is, actually, 26) as her successor in Don's life, seeing the younger woman as her replacement. But Betty is also being replaced here by Sally (Kiernan Shipka), the blonde, slim, feminine youth who denies herself the pleasure of ice cream beyond a few bites because she's "full." Is Betty's decision to finish Sally's dessert her way of conceding defeat, of giving over to her daughter, even as she comes into her own?

For the Betty-haters out there, I'm sure this episode fulfilled a lot of revenge fantasies. But I've always had a soft spot for Betty, primarily because she can't help herself but be so icy and impregnable, a product of outmoded ideas about femininity and motherhood. And there's a sense of commitment on the part of January Jones here to make her so outwardly ugly and weak, a vast 180 degree turn from how we've seen Betty depicted in the first four seasons. There's a moment of connection between her and Don when she calls him to tell him that she may have cancer, a tenderness that's been lost amid their divorce and years of discord. (I loved the callback to him calling her "Birdie," a term of endearment we haven't heard from Don in several seasons.) And there was a real beauty and tenderness to the scene in which Betty holds Gene in her arms. With the sparklers crackling around them, she feels the weight of her baby in her arms, breathes in the scent of his hair, not knowing whether this will be one of the last times she'll do so. Will she see this boy become a man? Will she leave her family in mourning, a ghost at the breakfast table, her space not co-opted so much as eliminated entirely?

I thought that scene in particular was gorgeously and subtly acted by Jones and evocatively directed by Hamm, a sequence that captures the heat of a summer night, a mother's love, and the fragility of our lives. While it may have only been a few seconds in length, it was powerful and savage in its emotional realism.

Betty isn't the only one who feels that they are being replaced. It's keenly felt in the Roger (John Slattery) and Pete (Vincent Kartheiser) storyline as well. Pete manages to land Mohawk again, returning an airline account to the SCDP fold. It's a key victory in a time of "stability," and Pete makes it clear that he's the one responsible for winning them back, though Roger will be overseeing the account. The "celebration" enacted by Pete is little more than a public power grab, a way of emasculating Roger and boxing him into a smaller, less potent role. The student has replaced the teacher, the son replaced the father. It's the natural way of the world, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. Roger's entire language about helping Pete off the swings reinforces the notion of the child/parent divide, of youth co-opting their elders, something echoed in Don's encounter with the girl backstage at the Rolling Stones concert. (Her belief: her elders don't want her to have fun, because they didn't. His: we worry about you. Rather than see the girl as a potential object of sexual conquest, like Harry (Rich Sommer) does, Don instead sees her as a daughter figure, seeing her as Sally in a few years.) After all, Roger hired Pete, the last person he hired in fact, only to see his protege usurp his position in front of his eyes. Sorry, Roger, but this is "normal." You'd best get used to it.

I'm intrigued by the dynamic unfolding between Roger and Peggy, two characters who haven't had a lot of screen time together up until now. After getting Peggy to hire Jewish copywriter Michael Ginsberg (Ben Feldman) because he's brilliant and eccentric (and because having African-American and Jewish employees makes the agency seem more "modern," according to Roger), Roger tries to impart his realization to Peggy (Elisabeth Moss), reversing his earlier position. Peggy doesn't see Michael as a threat, but the truth is that he is potentially. Just as Pete supplanted Roger, so too could Michael take away the influence that Peggy currently wields within the agency. But that is the risk you take. Peggy believes that it's better to surround yourself with creative people, that it makes your own work better. Roger now sees his own folly: he's essentially made himself redundant by hiring a younger version of himself.

That all of this is unfolding amid cultural and political change is compelling. Seeing that Don has hired Dawn (Teyonah Parris), an African-American applicant, as his new secretary is a clear sign of progress. That the previously anti-Semitic Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce has willingly hired a Jewish copywriter--unlike last season's Danny (Danny Strong) who they were forced to hire--also reflects a changing environment and atmosphere. Equal opportunity may be had soon, regardless of religious belief or skin color, but the youth revolution, the enormity of the youthquake ahead, is only just beginning to rock the foundations of the world that Roger and Don exist in.

On the next episode of Mad Men ("Mystery Date"), Don runs into someone from his past; Joan makes a decision; and Roger gives Peggy extra work.

Bleeding Stars and Fiery Hearts: Thoughts on the Second Season Premiere of HBO's Game of Thrones

"For the night is dark and full of terror..."

Where does power reside? Is it contained within the knowledge of a wise man? The sword of a warrior? The magnanimity of a king? The coin purse of a wealthy man? The foresight of a manipulator? When a sharp knife is drawn against your throat, who is the one who actually holds the true power?

These are but a few of many questions pondered in the sensational opening chapter of Season Two of Game of Thrones (“The North Remembers”), written by David Benioff and Dan Weiss and directed by Alan Taylor, which returns with all the roar of a lion, the beating wings of a dragon, the pride of a stag, and the cunning of a wolf. Finishing its first season on such a pitch-perfect note of dread and chaos, Game of Thrones returned with a stellar episode that picked up the multitude of story strands from last season and gave them a meaty tug. (You can read my spoiler-free advance review of Season Two of Game of Thrones over at The Daily Beast.)

Just where does true power live and who wields it? Poor Ned Stark (Sean Bean) believed that he had stumbled onto a truth last season that threatened take down a clan and perhaps an entire kingdom, but his efforts to use that knowledge--to transform information into the currency of influence--only lasted so long as his head remained atop his body. Standing outside of Baelor's Sept, any last vestiges of power he may have wielded in his position as the Hand to the King faded the second Ser Ilyn swung the blade. As did the illusion that Cersei (Lena Headey) had any control over the tempestuous and volatile boy-king Joffrey (Jack Gleeson), who ordered the execution without thinking through the consequences of his actions.

Season Two of Game of Thrones follows the power vacuum that ensues in the wake of Joffrey's folly. The death of King Robert Baratheon (Mark Addy) and the murder of Ned Stark has precipitated an all-out war: Robb Stark (Richard Madden) has declared himself the King of the North, while Robert's feuding brothers, Stannis (Stephen Dillane) and Renly (Gethin Anthony), each claim that they are the true heir to the Iron Throne, the perilously sharp seat of power on which the boy-king now sits. Elsewhere, Daenerys Stormborn (Emilia Clarke) treks through a barren desert, the last of the Targaryen royals devoid of any power but in possession of three dragons. Mance Rayder, a former brother of the Night's Watch and self-crowned King-Beyond-the-Wall readies an army with sights on the south... and a red comet streaks through the sky, a crimson knife slashing through the heavens, that unites each of the characters: soldiers, beggars, and players alike.

(A brief aside: while I've already seen the first four episodes of Season Two of Game of Thrones, these thoughts contain no spoilers and will only reference the events depicted in this particular episode of the series. Likewise, while I've read all of George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire novels, I won't spoil events based on knowledge from the novels as well. So confidently read with the knowledge that you're not going to be spoiled here. Additionally, this is not a recap, so I won't be covering the plot details beat by beat, but rather the themes of the episode and anything of interest that warrants discussion/analysis. Whew.)

While the Seven Kingdoms are beset by wars on multiple fronts, with several factions claiming ownership of the throne, there is--as always--another war brewing, the eternal battle between light and darkness, fire and ice, good and evil. We've already seen that an ancient evil, thought to be slumbering, is once again stirring beyond the Wall; the White Walkers are no mere bogeymen of children's fairy tales and dead men are rising to walk once more after death. While the players in the never-ending game of thrones make their moves, the cold winds are once more stirring, and the true battle is the one that poses the greatest danger to humanity.

Enter Melisandre (Carice van Houten), the "Red Woman," a priestess who follows R'hllor, the Lord of Light. She brings with her fire, light, and blood, as well as political and religious upheaval. She's placed her bets on Stannis, and sets herself up in his court, converting the possible King to her religious doctrine as well as his followers. When we meet her, in fact, she's burning the statues of the Seven--emblems of the seven-sided aspects of the god of the Andals--who have ruled over the hearts and minds of many of the Westerosi for centuries. But her actions go beyond the burning of mere effigies; in her bonfire, she's burning away the past, burning away beliefs, and of loyalties. The statues of the Seven are but sacrificial logs to her "true" god. Yet, while Melisandre's motives are questioned--by both Maester Cressen (Oliver Ford Davies) and by Lord Davos Seaworth (Liam Cunningham)--she is right about some things: a star does bleed (that red comet), the dead are walking in the North, and they should be wary of the cold and ice promised by the winter at hand.

A white raven, sent from the Maesters of Oldtown, signals the end of summer and the eventual arrival of a long winter. It may also signal the end of the rule of Man. Not everyone will make it through a decades-long winter, and as viewers we know that the residents of the Seven Kingdoms have more to fear than just starvation. Whether Stannis truly is mythical hero Azor Ahai reborn, whether he will come to be in possession of the fabled sword, Lightbringer, remains to be seen. But Melisandre believes, and belief is a potent and powerful thing. The ruby at her throat burns with a most terrible fire, not least of which when she proves herself impervious to the poison that Cressen slips into the goblet in an attempt to kill her. (His sacrifice proves worthless; he dies instantly and grotesquely, robbing Stannis of an adviser, but he fails to even injure Melisandre in the slightest. It's this sequence which provides the prologue in Martin's "A Clash of Kings." It's moved later in the episode, and the order of events is altered. If I remember correctly, Cressen has Melisandre drink first before he takes a sip; his surprise at her invulnerability registering more sharply. Likewise, some characters in Stannis' court in the books don't appear here, including two intriguing minor characters that I've long harbored theories about.)

As I mentioned in my advance review, Alan Taylor does a superb job here, and he's fluent in the underlying language of the show. I loved the way in which the red comet acted as a crimson threat lacing together the disparate plots. It's seen overhead from all over the world: Bran (Isaac Hempstead Wright) glimpses it at Winterfell, Daenerys from the Red Waste, Jon Snow (Kit Harington) from Beyond the Wall. It's a brilliant way of connecting the plots and shifting the action between perspectives, cutting between Bran to Danerys, from Danerys to Jon. (There's also a beautiful moment when Bran's hand moves through the water of the pond under the weirwood tree in Winterfell's godswood, creating ripples that disturb the tranquility of the pond, much like Ned's death has done for the Seven Kingdoms. It all comes back to consequences again.)

I also love the different ways that characters view the red comet. It becomes, alternately, an emblem of Robb's victory, Ned's death, Lannister red. But it's the wildling Osha (Natalie Tena, once again captivating in her scenes) who sees it for what it is: an omen of dragons. With the beating of their wings, magic appears to be returning to the Seven Kingdoms once more. Bran's dream, in which he experiences a moment through the eyes of his direwolf, Summer, also augurs interesting developments down the road. He wears Summer's skin as a man wears a shadow, he sees through eyes that are not his own.

It's a moment of magic, of raw, natural power, that connects Bran's subconscious to something large and eternal, much like last season's dream of the three-eyed crow. Even internally, there are battles to be waged. It's also a powerful way to allow the viewer to see directly through Bran's eyes, much as the novel's readers were able to do via the shifting point-of-view of the chapter narrators. By plunging us within Bran's unconscious mind, we're able to experience that narrative fluidity and specificity anew.

That sense of perspective echoes through the episode and the show itself. There's a moment at Craster's Keep, beyond the Wall, which demonstrates a sense of cultural relativity: the Starks and Jon Snow see themselves as Northerners, defining the term "southerners" to mean the summer soldiers of the South, of King's Landing and elsewhere. But, to Craster (Robert Pugh) and the wildlings, these black crows and anyone from south of the Wall are "southerners." Which poses an interesting intellectual question: Which is more important and more powerful: cultural boundaries or physical ones? Is our sense of self-identity as simply mutable as that?

It's an internal struggle that's also manifesting itself within Theon Greyjoy (Alfie Allen), ward to Ned Stark who has spent the majority of his life at Winterfell, a "guest" of the Starks who is nonetheless a hostage and the heir the Iron Islands. While he pledges his fealty to King Robb, is happy to call him "your Grace," and fights by his side, where do his loyalties lie? Is a wolf or a kraken? Is he a child of the North, or an Ironborn? When he pledges Robb to act on his behalf and seek his father, Balon Greyjoy, and ask for a fleet of ships, saying "We can avenge [Ned] together," can he be trusted? Is blood thicker than water, even in the frigid reaches of the North? Are we ever truly free of our families, our pasts, our selves?

Those shackles, whether metaphorical or real, bind us in ways we can't imagine. Witness poor Gilly (Hannah Murray), one of Craster's daughters/wives, forced to endure a life of toil and servitude to a man who has abused her in horrific ways. "Better to live free than die a slave," she chirps, the motto of the "free folk," the wildlings. But they too claim fealty, whether to Mance Rayder or, as Craster's possessions, to the man they serve. Likewise, Sansa (Sophie Turner) saves the life of Ser Dontos (Tony Way), who nearly meets the wrath of Joffrey after embarrassing myself during the king's name-day festivities. But is it better to die a knight or live as a fool?

Did Ned Stark's honor serve him well? Did his death achieve anything except chaos and bloodshed? Is it better just to live, in any sense, than to die? Is the wisest course of action to just find a way, as Gilly and others (including Maisie Williams' lost little bird, Arya, and Sansa) have, to survive?

They are questions that harken back to those posed at the opening of this review. What is true power? It's a philosophical debate enacted between Cersei and Lord Petyr Baelish (Aidan Gillen) at King's Landing. He believes knowledge is power, but his awareness of the incestuous relationship between Cersei and Jaime (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau) matters little when steel is pressed against his throat. It's a lesson he should have learned from the deaths of Jon Arryn and Ned Stark: don't go asking questions, don't put honor above survival, and don't poke a sleeping lion. For her part, Cersei proves her point: that power exists within the individual ordering whomever holds the knife. But really, it's the knife itself which holds the power, and the hand that holds it. Mercenaries and sellswords, as well as even sworn soldiers, are only too changeable. Jaime Lannister proved this when he strode into the throne room and slew the Mad King, despite his oath. Men play plot wars, but it's swords that win them. The threat of personal violence can stay anyone's hand, even a man as shrewd and manipulative as Littlefinger.

Cersei, now Queen Regent until Joffrey reaches the age of majority, seems to take particular pleasure in the influence she's carved out at King's Landing, fitting seeing as much crimson-and-gold everyone--from Cersei to Joffrey--is wearing. Lannister colors, not Baratheon ones, naturally. But her mistakes can and will catch up with her. The arrival of Tyrion (Peter Dinklage) at court poses a threat to Cersei's rule, as does her son's volatile and violent nature. It's interesting that when Cersei slaps Joffrey, in full view of the workers making alterations to the throne room, no one moves to stop her or intervene; they quickly go back to work. Joffrey may sit on the Iron Throne, but he's largely a figurehead; it's Cersei who is charge. Otherwise, she'd be dead before her body hit the ground.

Naturally, Tyrion walked way with the best line of the evening: "You love your children. That's your one redeeming quality. That and your cheekbones." Dinklage is phenomenal here, wielding his position and his intellect like a badge of office, becoming for once not the "disappointing child" of the Lannister family, but an important and instrumental force within the kingdom. He quickly puts Cersei in her place, despite her tantrum, and seizes the reins of power. His arc is only just beginning here and it's fitting that Dinklage gets top billing in the title credits (which awaken such excitement in me every time); Season Two is a significant one for Tyrion Lannister, who more or less takes over the role of "main character" from Ned Stark in many respects, and his arrival in King's Landing is likely to stir up animosity within this nest of vipers.

Ultimately, "The North Remembers" was a brilliant and provocative opening to the season, demonstrating a willingness on the part of Benioff and Weiss to stir things up, to stray from the source material, and to adapt with a clear view of how television is inherently a different medium than the printed word. This is an even more dangerous world than the one we left behind last season, even more fraught with peril and possibility, and the war is only just beginning.

Personally, I'm curious to know just what the reaction will be to the ending of the episode, and of the slaying of Robert Baratheon's bastard offspring. While there is no shortage of violence on Game of Thrones, it's typically not enacted against babies and children, and the show tackles yet another taboo here. There's a sense of the Biblical at play here: the slaying of the firstborn, a blood sacrifice. Here, it's meant to consolidate power, to tie up the loose ends of Robert's dynasty, to ensure that Joffrey is the strongest claimant to the throne. But the sight of soldiers skewering babies is also something else: a sign of weakness, of fear, and of uncertainty. And somewhere along the long road to the Wall, another of Robert's bastards, Gendry (Joe Dempsie), begins his own journey, a bull's head helm in his hands, a disguised daughter of the North at his side. Where the winds will take them will become clear enough. But when even the powerful show their hand so brazenly, there's a whiff of possibility, and of revolution, in the air.

Next week on Game of Thrones ("The Night Lands”), in the wake of a bloody purge in the capital, Tyrion chastens Cersei for alienating the kingʼs subjects; on the road north, Arya shares a secret with Gendry, a Nightʼs Watch recruit; with supplies dwindling, one of Dany's scouts returns with news of their position; after nine years as a Stark ward, Theon Greyjoy reunites with his father Balon, who wants to restore the ancient Kingdom of the Iron Islands; Davos enlists Salladhor Saan, a pirate, to join forces with Stannis and Melisandre for a naval invasion of Kingʼs Landing.