Mad Men is one of those rare shows you just don't want to end. Thankfully its pace is so languid, it almost doesn't start, let alone finish. 85% of each episode consists of Don Draper staring into the middle distance through a veil of cigarette smoke. Sometimes so little appears to be happening, you have to fight the urge to get up and slap your TV to make the characters start moving again. Hypnotic visuals, lingering pace: Mad Men is television's very own lava lamp. I'm exaggerating, of course, as anyone who's been absorbing the show on a season-by-season basis will attest. And I use the word "absorb" deliberately: you don't really "watch" Mad Men: you lie back and let it seep into you. It works by osmosis.
David Simon once explained The Wire's deliberate refusal to decode cop jargon and street lingo was a conscious ploy to force the viewer to "lean in"; to make an effort, to engage, to pay close attention to the dialogue. Mad Men plays things differently. It makes the viewer lean back. The programme's glacial tempo is startlingly alien to the average modern viewer, accustomed to meaningless televisual lightshows such as CSI Miami – all winking lights and trick shots and musical montages telling you what to think with such detached efficiency they might as well issue a bullet-pointed list of plot points and moods and have done with it. Shows in which the story is secondary to the edit, edit, edit: where any sense of meaning or even authentic emotion is doomed to death by a million tiny cuts. Mad Men's tranquility and poise makes it resemble a still photograph by comparison. The viewer has to calm the fukk down to even start appreciating it.