Marc Tracy psychoanalyzes the show's appeal to both viewers and critics:
The most interesting thing about Mad Men isn’t judging how good it is, but trying to figure out why people think it's so much better than it plainly is; "the deeper, almost irrational reasons for the series’s appeal," as Mendelsohn put it. And part of it is, of course, that the show has figured out how to display and have us enjoy shiny surfaces that attain deeper meaning without requiring the investment, on either the creators’ or viewers’ parts, of more time.
[The recent scene showing a Jewish character's father blessing him] is an obvious example: it could not possibly hold any deeper meaning to us, because we have met the character less than one hour before; instead, it mugs an age-old prayer’s gravitas and importance and tricks us into thinking that what we’ve just seen is the thing with the gravitas and the importance. It’s a spiritual shortcut, the great-grandson of what the Catholics called simony, and today we call sentimentality (except, that is, when there is literally a prayer involved, in which case I guess we can still call it simony).
Tracy's Tablet colleague Rachel Shukert recently examined the new season's mid-1960s milieu, "an era when Jewish culture and American pop began to meld." She shares Tracy's scrutiny:
Why does Mad Men, despite being at times maddeningly slow and full of characters who remain maddeningly (if realistically) devoid of self-knowledge and personal growth, captivate us so? Like the song says, why oh why do we love it like we do?
Much has been made, and rightly, of the transformational aspect of the show’s ’60s setting: the Decade When Everything Changed. To paraphrase Harold Bloom’s Shakespeare analogy, if Shakespeare invented our modern conception of the human, the 1960s ushered in the America most of us know today: noisy, fractious, socially aware yet hopelessly narcissistic, grandiose yet paranoid, forever enmeshed in so-called "culture wars" that seem never to resolve.



