Mad Men

I have been watching the new series Mad Men, and greatly enjoying the over-the-top representation of life in 1960, as well as the intelligent, witty dialogue. The series revolves around an advertising agency where clients include cigarette companies, people who make aerosol products and Richard Nixon. Just in case having the agency only represent one of those wouldn't have made it clear enough that it is a soul-less, aggressive environment. (Of course, a better knowledge of history would have had the agency working for Kennedy, since he was far and away the greater hawk in 1960 and campaigned as such.)
The ad-men themselves, when they aren't drinking martinis for breakfast and smoking, are groping the hapless and/or slutty secretaries and making sexist and racist comments. The homelives of the ad-men are portrayed with equal subtlety. Every housewife is miserable and repressed -- though still managing some joyful smoking even while doing the dishes -- and every husband is adulterous -- though still around enough to drunkenly put together a dollhouse for his children. Every marriage fifty years ago, we are led to believe, was nothing but a loveless travesty, maintained for public perception only, secretly crushing the will to live of both partners.
In short, it's all great fun, but what I am enjoying most of all about Mad Men is the fashion and the etiquette. Say what you will about the role of women fifty years ago, but at least they didn't go out in flippity-flops or stretch pants, flab showing, hair out of control, even the wealthiest among them looking like they were on their way to the convenience store nearest their trailer-park in order to stock up on Doritos. And say what you will about the men, but they wouldn't have dared show up at even a casual weekend barbecue in crocs and shorts, wearing an "I'd rather be sailing" t-shirt or a baseball cap adorned with some silly sports logo, fingers poised to scratch inappropriate areas publicly. They were groomed and matching, even as personal happiness eluded them.
There was a wonderful scene in an early episode of Mad Men where the character portrayed by January Jones is walking the family dog. What is she (January Jones, not the dog) wearing? A late-1950s shirt dress, poofy skirt and all. She is smartly-coiffed. (I searched high and low to find a still from that scene, but the internets failed me.) Compare that image to the most recent picture you may have seen of Britney or Paris walking her dog (or in Britney's case, her babies), and shudder in horror.
After all, if one's life is nothing but a loveless travesty, is it not preferable that said loveless travesty look like this...

...as opposed to this?

I think so.