One week ago, Mad Men ended with the image of Don Draper smiling into the camera. On the other side of the screen my face, as two ancient Greek theater masks facing each other, was rather the opposite: the face of disappointment. What a lacking finale –if not a complete disaster–, to the point that our own Homecoming Queen, who actually confessed to like the episodes, preferred to discuss the latest Penny Dreadful episodes over the series finales of a series of the relevance of Mad Men. This fact made look back to this year’s fiction and wonder: are we having a bad year?
As hard as I try, I still can not understand how someone can see a good entertainment in The Walking Dead, probably the most stupid, nonsensical hour of television for the last 5 years. I seriously doubt that 14 million Americans tune in every week for the same reasons as I do: the laughs and the wish of one of the characters getting chopped in a very, very explicit way.
Elevators are no-places; spaces where we just pass through such as halls, subway stations, airports, spots that do not mark our memory nor catch our attention, perishable. Awkward spaces that, by definition, bother and unsettle us. Of course, it is when we are located within one of them that we show something hidden about ourselves, a little tic, perhaps, or a original way of responding to some stimulus. Elevators become, thus, revealers of human nature.
Contemporary television, as the great study of human psychology that it is, has taken good note of this, and many relevant TV series have made of elevators a great narrative device.