Shoot (S1x09)
Airdate: 13 September 2007
Written by: Chris Provenzano & Matthew Weiner Directed by: Paul Feig
Running Time: 47 minutes
Mad Men has long been celebrated for its meticulous and authentic portrayal of a period that lies well beyond the living memory of not only its target audience but also most of its creators. This striving for historical realism manifested itself not merely in the careful curation of period-accurate costumes, props, and pop culture references, but in the bold decision to weave real-life entities directly into its narrative fabric. Shoot, the ninth episode of the inaugural season, stands as a prime example of this technique, using the very real advertising behemoth as the catalyst for a nuanced exploration of its characters’ ambitions, frustrations, and the fragile illusions of their lives.
The entity in question is McCann Erickson, known today simply as McCann, a global giant of the advertising industry. Even in the early 1960s setting of Mad Men, it was a colossus, and the episode’s plot is set in motion by its fictional director, Jim Hobart (H. Richard Greene). The encounter occurs in the lobby of a theatre during an intermission for the Broadway musical Fiorello!, where Hobart and his wife Adele engage the Drapers in small-talk. Hobart is quick to extol the strength and scale of his company, deliberately dwarfing the comparatively modest Sterling Cooper, and suggests that a talent like Don Draper could flourish with the greater resources and prestige McCann offers. The conversation turns to Betty, who reveals her past as a model and how she met Don on a shoot. Seizing the opportunity, Hobart compliments her beauty and proffers a business card, offering her a minor role in a photo shoot for McCann’s Coca-Cola campaign—a seemingly innocuous gesture laden with calculated intent.
The Drapers later discuss the offer. Don appears superficially supportive, recognising it as a harmless diversion. For Betty, however, this “few days” gig represents far more than pocket money; it is a tantalising glimpse at re-launching a career she abandoned and, more pressingly, an escape from the crushing monotony of her existence as a suburban housewife and mother. As Betty travels to the shoot, Don is summoned to the office by Roger Sterling. Roger, acutely aware of McCann’s predatory interest, moves to secure his star creative by offering a substantial raise. In the end, Don chooses to remain at Sterling Cooper, a decision rooted in his instinctual understanding of the corporate landscape. Betty, meanwhile, is informed that her services are no longer required, the campaign requiring a model with a more “European” look. The rejection is delivered with a bland corporate politeness that makes the dismissal all the more galling.
Betty’s reaction is manifestation of suppressed fury. She masks her profound disappointment in front of Don, but the slight demands an outlet. This she finds in her neighbour, Ross Beresford (Rick Scarry). Earlier, Beresford had threatened to kill the Draper family dog, Polly, after it injured one of his pigeons—a threat that deeply traumatised young Sally. In the episode’s climactic scene, Betty, clad in a nightgown and with a cigarette dangling from her lips, steps into her garden and defiantly shoots at Beresford’s pigeons with a BB gun. It is a potent, almost mythic image of suburban rebellion, where the only available targets for her pent-up rage are captive birds.
Simultaneously, the Sterling Cooper offices provide a parallel narrative of ambition and humiliation. Peggy Olson, about to be promoted to copywriter and hopeful for her future, suffers a very different kind of setback when her dress rips at the seams. Forced to seek help from Joan Holloway, she endures a quietly humiliating ordeal as Joan marvels at her predicament with a mixture of pity and superiority. The incident draws attention to Peggy’s changing body, a fact not lost on the office wolves. Ken Cosgrove makes a remark so crude regarding her weight gain that Pete Campbell—who, despite his many flaws, still harbours secret feelings for her—impulsively punches him in the face. The ensuing scuffle is a brief, brutal interruption to the office’s usual decorum, ended almost as quickly as it began with a tense handshake.
Earlier, a subplot involving Pete and Harry Crane offers a darker shade of period-specific cynicism. Reminiscing about college pranks, they hatch a plan to flood the electorally crucial state of New Jersey with television advertisements for a laxative client. The goal is to force the Kennedy presidential campaign to abandon the airwaves and switch to radio, a tactic that delights Bert Cooper as a clever, if underhanded, way to curry favour with the Nixon campaign. It is a reminder that the “creative” in advertising often borders on the amoral.
The script, by Chris Provenzano and Matthew Weiner, excels in character exposition, particularly regarding Betty Draper. Through her interactions and memories, we gain deeper insight into her past, her complex relationship with her late mother, and the profound loneliness that underpins her perfect façade. Where the episode is less successful, however, is in traditional plot progression. In the first season the narrative engine is deliberately subdued. The major potential developments—Don moving to McCann, Betty restarting her modelling career—are resolved in a manner that will seem obvious to even the least perceptive viewer. Yet, this is not necessarily a weakness. So early in the series, it would be unrealistic to expect seismic shifts for the central characters. The script handles this with psychological realism: Don intuitively recognises that McCann Erickson is too vast, too impersonal, and too corporate for a self-invented man who prizes his autonomy. He also perceives the offer to Betty as a transparent manipulative ploy and refuses to become a pawn in such games.
The direction by Paul Feig, who would later find great success in comedy, is assured and effective. Two scenes stand out: first, the casual stroll of Don and Roger through the office, their conversation continuing uninterrupted as a fistfight erupts and is subdued in the background—a brilliant visual metaphor for the show’s focus on the personal amidst the professional chaos. Second, the final tableau of Betty, a spectral figure in the moonlight, taking aim with her BB gun. It is one of the most memorable and iconic images of the series’ early run, perfectly encapsulating the quiet desperation simmering beneath the polished surface of American life in 1960.
Shoot may not advance the overarching plot in significant ways, but it serves a vital purpose in deepening our understanding of its characters, particularly Betty Draper. By leveraging the real-world weight of McCann Erickson, it creates a credible pressure point that exposes the ambitions and vulnerabilities of the Draper marriage. It is a finely observed, beautifully acted, and deftly directed piece of television that reaffirms Mad Men’s commitment to character over contrivance, and to the potent truths hidden within historical detail.
RATING: 8/10 (+++)
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