"Mad Men" is a parable of the constraints of modern life at the height of America's cultural supremacy. Over the course of six seasons, Don Draper and his associates have demonstrated how we, as a country, became better and better at selling a full-color fantasy of the good life to ourselves and to the rest of the world. But in the process, we slowly poisoned our own culture with skin-deep lies about what it takes to be happy. In the workplace and at home, we demanded that our stories look more and more like the idealized stories on TV and the pretty advertisements in our magazines, pumping up our expectations, and intensifying our disappointment in ourselves and those around us. Decades later, dissatisfaction is such an essential aspect of our cultural groundwater that pointing it out either feels hopelessly earnest or downright paranoid. We have become so good at telling pretty stories that we've brainwashed ourselves in the process. Our leaders are those who look the best on TV, who mouth the syrupy jingles that dovetail with the lies we're already telling ourselves, and who cover up their lies with more lies the most efficiently.

In its sixth season, "Mad Men" may have fallen short of our expectations partially because, in charting the inevitable downfall of the deeply fake American hero, Don Draper stopped fascinating us or eliciting our sympathy. Either his symbolic significance was blasting too loudly in our ears (whorehouse flashbacks, affairs with the neighbor's wife, liquor swilling at breakfast time), or his similarity to a surly, greatest generation alcoholic, behaving badly (but never really explaining himself), didn't come off as evocative so much as depressing. There weren't many moments where we were invited to feel for Don, to pity him, to hope that his life would improve – no therapist to talk to, no panic attacks, no ducks flying away, never to return. The parable of Don Draper sometimes took precedence over the quality of "Mad Men's" storytelling, and the show stalled out for the first time.

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Still, that stalling doesn't take away from "Mad Men's" status as one of the most colorful, smart and transfixing TV dramas ever made. On Sunday night, there were surely scores of "Mad Men" viewers who were disappointed to discover that Megan hadn't been murdered by a Manson-like cult or that Don hadn't been outed as a cheater in front of friends, family, neighbors and rubbernecking strangers alike, in a scene straight out of Megan's soap opera. Given all of the violence, fraud, greed and treachery spewing out of every circle-of-hell-inspired plot this season, it didn't seem that far-fetched to expect a sudden death, a divorce, an elopement, a suicide, an emotional breakdown, if not all of the above. But while the finale didn't offer the kind of fireworks we might prefer, it did clarify the lesson laid out by this elaborate parable. This season, each character moved from lies toward the truth.

Roger began the season worrying about disappearing suddenly and having been nothing more than a giant wallet for those around him. He ended the season trying to tell his son-in-law and daughter the truth, only to have Margaret confirm his worst fears, telling him that he can't come to Thanksgiving unless he continues to float her family financially. (His grandkid's drawing of him as a king holding bags of gold was a nice touch.)

Peggy began the season independent and strong at a brand-new firm, headed by her hero, Ted Chaough. By the end of the season, though, Ted was far from heroic, too afraid of "chaos" to reach for true happiness. So Peggy somehow found herself not only back in Don's fold without Ted, but preparing to inherit Don's corner office, cementing her fate as the next Don Draper.

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