Part of the Mad Men Moments Video Essay Series
Serena Bramble, who has already created several dazzling montage tributes to film noir, Powell and Pressburger, and Steven Spielberg, among others, unveils her latest work, weaving dozens upon dozens of clips into a jazz-like succession of motifs, mapping out the resplendent world of Mad Men.
Bramble's video includes an excerpt of Don Draper reading Frank O'Hara's poem "Mayakovsky" from the premiere episode of Season Two. Writer David Ehrenstein takes that scene as the starting point for the following meditation on the poem, its author the poet Frank O'Hara, and their significance to the series:
Don Draper reading Frank O’Hara’s poem "Mayakovsky" was one of the most startling yet oddly right cultural cross-references in all of Mad Men. Don is of course extremely intelligent and very much aware of the arts — but hardly what anyone would call an intellectual. His romantic exploits have brought him in passing contact with late 50’s /early 60’s New York bohemia (jazz clubs, loft parties) but he’s never evidenced a desire to be part of them. His chance encounter with an O’Hara poem is part and parcel of his magpie-like instinct to gather up information for possible future use. Had Don actually run into Frank O’Hara it’s doubtful he’d have anything to say to him. O’Hara, of course, would have been sure to put the make on a Total Babe like John Hamm.
Frank O’Hara (1926-1966) lived a life that in some ways mirrors that of the Mad Men characters. He went to Harvard (Edward Gorey was his roommate) studied music, but became profoundly interested in poetry — especially avant-garde French and Russian poets Stephane Mallarme, Arthur Rimbaud, Pierre Reverdy, Boris Pasternak and Vladimir Mayakovsky. He got a job working in the card shop at the Museum of Modern Art and in a very short space of time worked his way up to being one of the Museum’s most important curators. This Peggy-like rise was aided by the fact that he became personal friends with the Abstract Expressionists the Museum was collecting. His essays reveal him to be one of their most vocal and direct champions. It wasn’t lofty and “theoretical” with O’Hara at all. A prodigious imbiber, the fact that he could drink any abstract expressionist in the house under the table was why this very openly gay man with — in his words — “the voice of as sissy truck driver” doubtless impressed this decidedly straight and very macho crew. Here’s the greatest love poem ever written (IMO).
O’Hara wrote constantly. His powers of inspiration never waned. The poem he reads above is about Vincent Warren — a dancer in the chorus of the New York City Ballet. O’Hara had been invited by John Ashbery to accompany him on a State Department sponsored Cultural Tour of Europe (hence the cities listed in the poem). The minute he said “Yes” to the trip was the same minute he discovered that he was in love with Vincent Warren. O’Hara’s open celebration of joy in his sexual and romantic self is something Mad Men’s Sal couldn’t possibly bring himself to so much as dream of.
Frank O’Hara died in 1966 as a result of injursies sustained when he was hit by a slow-moving dune buggy on Fire Island coming back in the wee smalls from a party. He was in mid-conversation with Babe du Jour J.J. Mitchell, when J.J. suddenly realized Frank had stopped talking. He looked back and there Frank was on the sand. He was flown back by helicopter to New York where he died in hospital while trying to comfort his distraught friends. His last words were to Willem de Kooning. “Oh Bill, you’ve come by. How nice.”
It would be nice if Mad Men makes mention of it when the time comes in the story arc.
Serena Bramble is a film editor currently pursuing a Bachelor's degree in Teledramatic Arts and Technology from Cal State Monterey Bay. In addition to editing, she also writes on her blog Brief Encounters of the Cinematic Kind.
David Ehrenstein is a film critic and writer whose books include Open Secret: Gay Hollywood 1928-2000 and The Scorsese Picture: The Art and Life of Martin Scorsese. He lives in Los Angeles.
The season finale finds creative director Don Draper in charge of a pitch to Kodak executives for the marketing of their new projector. The client request is to work the technology angle, emphasizing the automated capabilities of the device.
The first slide with Don and Betty – playfully biting the same hot dog – is a recreation of an actual photo of series-creator Matthew Weiner’s parents on their first date. Beyond the autobiographical detail, this also reinforces the notion of Mad Men as a ‘time machine’ for the people who are now 40-to-50 years old. A way for that generation to come to terms with their parents’ time. This is interesting because every major character can be examined through the lens of its child issues (Don, Betty, who’s always been a child, Peggy, who must fight to no longer be considered one). Mad Men is full of irresolvable controversies and contradictions – simultaneously stigmatizing and fetishizing the customs of the 60s, hating and loving its anti-hero protagonist, believing in his emotions or regarding his whole identity as a ploy, and ultimately being in itself a meta-meta play on the ambivalence of advertising. It's epic turned parody turned irony turned postmodern epic. A rational centrifuge of polar opposites spinning faster and faster until you need a different set of eyes to make sense of it. Reconciling such opposites is the way in which we make peace with our parents, with their world. It’s how we put them to rest. It’s probably the only point of view from which Mad Men can be experienced as a whole – rather than as an eternal duality.
The man responsible for selecting this year's class is Kitano (brilliantly cast with "Beat" Takeshi Kitano), who used to work at Shiroiwa Junior High School years before becoming the mouthpiece for the BR Committee. His calm demeanor is especially off putting as he describes the rules to the game, pausing occasionally to kill a student to set an example for the rest of the class. It's especially poignant to see Takeshi Kitano in this role since it would ultimately be Fukusaku's swan song. Fukusaku had a long established career as a genre filmmaker, responsible for some of the most energetic and innovative yakuza exploitation films. His crowning achievement could be the Battles Without Honor and Humanity series, known in the West as The Yakuza Papers. 
One notable assailant is played by Chiaki Kuriyama, who basically reprises the the same role in Quentin Tarantino's love letter to J-sploitation, Kill Bill. Fans of QT will recognize the tone that Fukusaku maintains throughout the film. Realistic violence pushed to the point of absurdity, sometimes even cartoonish. Shuya and Noriko witness all their friends (and enemies) unravel from fear and paranoia, either killing each other out of spite or suspicion. As the student body dwindles away, they form an alliance with Shogo, one of the "transfer students" who had played the game before. Together they devise a way to end the game and seek revenge on Kitano, who is surveilling them from the center of the island.
Criterion missed their chance to nab this title, and now that The Hunger Games have begun, another company has stepped up to finally bring Battle Royale to the US. It would appear that my Three Reasons video is already an empty gesture since Anchor Bay is set to release the long-awaited special edition of Battle Royale 1 & 2 on DVD and Bluray, three days before The Hunger Games hits theaters. It's loaded with features on Fukusaku's career and the impact Battle Royale had on cinema in Japan. We can certainly trace the line from Battle Royale to The Hunger Games without too much difficulty, even though the film was never released in the US until now. Its influence on Western cinema over the past decade has justified having our own kiddy-porn death-match. The level of violence in cinema has caught up to speed that we can now have our The Hunger Games, so it seems the US is finally ready for Battle Royale. For anyone who has not seen Battle Royale, it will not disappoint, but it may steal the "edge" that The Hunger Games is so desperately trying to project.
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