The first two seasons were pitch perfect and nuanced; drolly parodying the notion of an American Dream. Don and Betty's unhappy union explored some dark, Richard Yates-like terrain. Mad Men had heft, and it probably should have stopped at season three. But it lumbers on: depressed Draper is philandering again, as is Pete, and Peggy is in the ascendant. It's morphed into an exquisite-looking, beautifully acted soap opera. But who, frankly, cares whether they bag the Sunkist account?