There's a delectable symmetry between "Ally Mcbeal," that late 1990s paean to feminist disquietude and solipsism manifestation, and "Mad Men", the irresistable swanky memento of 1960s cultural revolution. Despite belonging to two distinct genres, the programs do have a few eerie commonalities.
For starters, they imparted a specific aesthetics related to a milieu foreign to the common folks. While the life lessons and idiosyncratic protagonists seem diametrically opposed in many ways -- "Mad Men," set in early 1960s New York, before she was drowned in the countercultural revolution, whereas "Ally Mcbeal," set in Boston, tracked the anxiety and vulnerability of single women -- they are ultimately about something even more universal than culture and feminism: What it means to be an adult.
"Ally Mcbeal" featured the Fish and Cage Law Firm, helmed with Ivy League arrogance by Richard Fish and his best friend. Compared to "Mad Men's" Madison Avenue firm Sterling Cooper, we actually can spot the similiar tension. TV advertisement executives then and lawyers now struggle incessantly with the gulf between reality and aspiration, the characters' actual lives and those they envision for themselves.
I was in secondary school when "Ally Mcbeal" premiered and was hardly its target audience. But I found it mesmerizing and oddly inspiring. Even though TV was filled with adults -- politicians on "The West Wing", mafia on "The Sopranos" -- "Ally Mcbeal" was the first program whose main subject seemed to be adulthood itself. Such joy to revel in the characters' self-conscious pop culture references and witty one-liners.
A decade gone, I'm 26, still I cannot relate to "Ally Mcbeal" characters. From having fashionable clothes and spacious homes to lavish wedding and painful divorce are the barometers for maturity, people on TV dictate adulthood effortlessly every time. That isn't the whole explanation; the concept of adulthood really is subjective, not to mention relative. As much as Ally and Billy still make me feel like a teenager, I'm an infant compared to world-weary Don Draper on "Mad Men." The guy acts like he's in his 50s, but he's supposed to be 36.
Adulthood isn't an objective truth. It isn't even -- as many might argue -- a state of mind. It's an idea sold on TV season to season. And once you get it home, it never looks quite like it did in the ad.
For starters, they imparted a specific aesthetics related to a milieu foreign to the common folks. While the life lessons and idiosyncratic protagonists seem diametrically opposed in many ways -- "Mad Men," set in early 1960s New York, before she was drowned in the countercultural revolution, whereas "Ally Mcbeal," set in Boston, tracked the anxiety and vulnerability of single women -- they are ultimately about something even more universal than culture and feminism: What it means to be an adult.
"Ally Mcbeal" featured the Fish and Cage Law Firm, helmed with Ivy League arrogance by Richard Fish and his best friend. Compared to "Mad Men's" Madison Avenue firm Sterling Cooper, we actually can spot the similiar tension. TV advertisement executives then and lawyers now struggle incessantly with the gulf between reality and aspiration, the characters' actual lives and those they envision for themselves.
I was in secondary school when "Ally Mcbeal" premiered and was hardly its target audience. But I found it mesmerizing and oddly inspiring. Even though TV was filled with adults -- politicians on "The West Wing", mafia on "The Sopranos" -- "Ally Mcbeal" was the first program whose main subject seemed to be adulthood itself. Such joy to revel in the characters' self-conscious pop culture references and witty one-liners.
A decade gone, I'm 26, still I cannot relate to "Ally Mcbeal" characters. From having fashionable clothes and spacious homes to lavish wedding and painful divorce are the barometers for maturity, people on TV dictate adulthood effortlessly every time. That isn't the whole explanation; the concept of adulthood really is subjective, not to mention relative. As much as Ally and Billy still make me feel like a teenager, I'm an infant compared to world-weary Don Draper on "Mad Men." The guy acts like he's in his 50s, but he's supposed to be 36.
Adulthood isn't an objective truth. It isn't even -- as many might argue -- a state of mind. It's an idea sold on TV season to season. And once you get it home, it never looks quite like it did in the ad.
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