The Flood (S6x05)
Airdate: 28 April 2013
Written by: Tom Smuts & Matthew Weiner Directed by: Chris Manley
Running Time: 48 minutes
Most people can't outrun history, no matter how desperately they'd like to. That's particularly true for the characters in Mad Men, a series obsessed with how its protagonists shape public perception whilst privately struggling to keep their own heads above water. Yet there's a marked difference between weaving historical events into the fabric of a drama and simply displaying them, and by the sixth season's opening stretch—set in 1968, one of those "interesting" years the Chinese supposedly curse us with—Matthew Weiner and his writers appeared to be losing some of their narrative juice. The contrast becomes stark when you place The Flood alongside its obvious predecessor from three years earlier, The Grown-Ups. Both episodes grapple with traumatic national events that shatter the characters' insulated world, but where the earlier instalment achieved something approaching brilliance, this one merely settles for competence.
The episode opens on April 4th, 1968, with Peggy Olson attempting to confirm her status as an independent professional woman by purchasing an Upper East Side apartment. It's the sort of transaction that would have been unthinkable for her just a few seasons prior, and Elisabeth Moss plays Peggy's quiet determination with her usual precision. Meanwhile, across town, Michael Ginsberg finds himself railroaded by his domineering father Morris into a date with Beverly Farber, a Jewish schoolteacher played by Nicole Hayden. Ginsberg dismisses the whole affair as an antiquated Old World practice, and he's not wrong—the date goes precisely nowhere, with Beverly admitting she only agreed to please her parents and that "nothing is going to happen." Before this fizzles out entirely, Ginsberg blurts out that he's a virgin, a moment of vulnerability that feels both painfully authentic and slightly underdeveloped.
Don and Megan, meanwhile, are attending the New York Advertising Club's annual awards gala, one of those formal industry gatherings where everyone drinks too much and pretends to admire each other. As they're leaving the building, they encounter Dr. Rosen and Sylvia, who are off to a similar function in Washington D.C. The banquet itself proves awkward—both Peggy and Megan have been nominated for awards despite their clients having recently abandoned the very campaigns being celebrated. Megan meets Jim Cutler (Harry Hamlin), the CGC partner whom Peggy memorably describes as "Roger Sterling with bad breath." The evening's only genuinely interesting moment comes courtesy of Hollywood star Paul Newman (Ross Marquand), who veers wildly off-script during his speech to endorse Eugene McCarthy for the 1968 Democratic nomination. It's a Vietnam protest wrapped in celebrity glamour, and for a brief moment, the episode captures something of the period's raw political energy.
Then, of course, the unexpected happens—and suddenly Newman's gesture seems almost quaintly irrelevant. News arrives that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. has been shot in Memphis. The shock that ripples through the assembled advertising elite feels genuine, if somewhat self-absorbed; this was, after all, a man many Americans regarded as something approaching a secular saint, a Nobel Peace Prize winner cut down by violence. Fear quickly follows as reports of protests and mass rioting in Black neighbourhoods begin flooding in. Television screens show fires and destruction, and the characters' comfortable Manhattan existence suddenly feels precarious.
The reactions that follow reveal more about each character than perhaps they intend. Abe, the journalist, heads straight to Harlem to record events firsthand. Nick Francis, an aide to Mayor John Lindsay, goes to the same neighbourhood hoping to help diffuse tensions. Pete, ever the opportunist, tries to use the city chaos as leverage with Trudy, hoping she'll let him back into their suburban home. And Harry Crane, in a moment that reveals the depths of his small-mindedness, becomes upset that non-stop television coverage of the riots will affect SCDP's advertising income. This leads to an unpleasant row with Pete, who accuses him of racism—a charge Harry denies, though the episode makes clear where our sympathies should lie.
Betty insists that Don collect the children and bring them to Manhattan. Don agrees, though his reluctance stems less from inconvenience than from genuine concern for Sylvia Rosen, who might be caught in the D.C. riots. Megan takes Sally and young Gene to an MLK vigil in Central Park, whilst Bobby feigns illness to stay home. Since Betty has forbidden television, Don takes him to the cinema to watch Planet of the Apes. The film's devastating finale affects Bobby more than Don anticipates, and the boy attempts to discuss its meaning with his father. Later, Don admits to Megan his ambivalent, contradictory feelings toward his children—how he's spent years pretending to love them before finally realising, almost against his will, that he actually does. It's one of Jon Hamm's finer moments in the episode, capturing Don's profound emotional constipation without tipping into melodrama.
Peggy loses her apartment opportunity, naturally—the world has shifted on its axis, and real estate transactions suddenly feel trivial. But Abe comforts her by admitting he'd prefer a more bohemian neighbourhood anyway, a small silver lining that feels earned rather than saccharine. Henry Francis returns home furious with how Lindsay has handled the situation and declares he'll start a political career of his own. Betty supports him enthusiastically before the penny drops: as a candidate's wife, she'll be expected to improve her appearance. It's a characteristically shallow concern from Betty, yet January Jones plays it with enough self-awareness to make us wonder if Betty herself recognises the absurdity.
Co-written by Tom Smuts and Matthew Weiner and directed by Chris Manley, The Flood initially appears to be little more than filler—an obligatory checkmark, showing characters reacting to momentous, almost apocalyptic events beyond their control. Yet there's still quality here, both in the writing and the performances, along with the occasional whiff of genuine irony. The historically accurate reconstruction of Paul Newman's speech works beautifully, particularly in how the gala banquet is effectively wrecked by the news. And there's something almost perversely fascinating about how the assassination becomes a blessing in disguise for certain characters: Peggy doesn't buy that fancy apartment and instead solidifies her relationship with Abe, whilst Henry sees the chaos as impetus to launch his career. History as personal opportunity—it's a very Mad Men notion.
That said, some of the allegories feel heavy-handed. Morris Ginsberg comparing the riots to a biblical flood is rather on the nose, as is the parallel between the devastating finale of a 1968 science-fiction classic and the devastation of 1968 itself. The episode also probably won't win many admirers among today's “woke” viewers for giving such short shrift to the Black perspective on the assassination. Dawn, Don's secretary, appears merely to come into work like a real trooper despite being told to stay away. She's the only Black character of any significance, and her presence feels more like a narrative afterthought than a genuine attempt to engage with how King's death affected Black Americans.
Then there's the scene with William Mapother as Randall Walsh, an insurance executive and Roger's acquaintance who, under the influence of psychoactive drugs or perhaps simply mental illness, proposes an outrageous ad campaign allegedly dictated by the spirit of MLK himself. If the intention was to inject some dark humour into an otherwise grim episode, it simply doesn't land. The scene feels too clichéd, too easy a target, and it sits uncomfortably alongside the episode's more nuanced moments.
The Flood is, nevertheless, a very good piece of television. The performances are uniformly excellent, the period detail is as impeccable as ever, and there are individual scenes—particularly Don's cinema outing with Bobby—that rank among the series' most quietly affecting. But it cannot escape comparison with its legendary predecessor. The Grown-Ups, which dealt with the Kennedy assassination, achieved a rare synthesis of personal and political grief, showing how national trauma bleeds into private sorrow. The Flood reaches for similar heights but never quite gets there. It's a solid, workmanlike episode that reminds us what Mad Men can do at its best, even whilst falling short of those standards itself.
RATING: 7/10 (+++)
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