[Insert Zuul joke here.]
January Jones recently sat down for an interview with The New York Times where naturally she comes off bitchier than an ice storm made of bitch and ice, but she also surprisingly – albeit inadvertently – reveals the deep commentary Mad Men is making on how the American family has became an almost empty experience that we’re constantly trying to fill with material possessions and/or heightened interpersonal drama. But enough fancy words, she also says thing about who squirted in her hoo-ha making a spite baby.
The Superficial: Intellectual. Enlightened. Penis in Vagina.
January Jones, Her Own Feminine Mystique
It isn’t easy to coax a smile out of January Jones. Perched on a velveteen banquette at the NoMad hotel in the Flatiron district recently, Ms. Jones didn’t engage in the dithery banter that in Hollywood passes for charm.
What she offered instead was a credible impersonation of Betty Draper Francis, the sweet and sullen character she plays in “Mad Men,” the role that has turned her into an emblem of glamour as wintry as her name.
This is off to a good start.
Though Betty has appeared only occasionally on “Mad Men” this season, she remains arguably the series’ most polarizing figure. Some see her as a victim, deserving of empathy; others as a dolled-up variation on an American archetype, the uptight suburban matron.
“That was the fear for me,” Ms. Jones said, “that we’d be in the third season, and you’d hate the character.”
Ms. Jones regards Betty with compassion. “She is really searching for something, but doesn’t know herself well enough to know what might make her happy.”
So she’s a woman. Got it.
Unlike Betty, Ms. Jones, has demonstrated a fierce independence, as single mother to Xander, her 20-month-old son, whose father she has steadfastly refused to name. Was it the actor Michael Fassbender, as has been speculated? Or is it Mr. Vaughn?
“That’s my son’s business,” she said. “It’s not the public’s business.”
If the kid has a 20-feet-long penis, we’re gonna know. Just sayin’.
Fans might relate better to her if she did discuss her private life, but the prospect seems not to interest her. “Jack Nicholson once told me: ‘You should never give your personal life away, otherwise people will pick you apart. They’ll never believe in your character.’”
Wow, she honestly believes people don’t hate Betty. Jesus.
“Women should have lots of secrets,” she said, a rare gleam of mischief in her eye. “It’s our right to have secrets. Otherwise, what would we write in our memoirs?”
She accented the trim black Chanel dress she wore last week to the gala for the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art with messily coiled hair and masklike eyes, prompting self-appointed red carpet pundits to quip that she looked like Batman, or worse, like the white swan’s evil double.
So what? “Those people don’t have degrees in fashion,” Ms. Jones said. “Why would I care what they say?”
Hey! … Okay, she’s right. 90% of my shirts have superheroes on them.
Ms. Jones herself reads ravenously, up to three books a week, most recently the Patrick Melrose cycle of novels, whose protagonist seems in a hurry to kill himself with drugs and drink. The books affected her dreams, she said, “and my dreams affect how my day goes. I’d say for a time they darkened my outlook.”
Last year she read the Harry Potter books. They never did find those unicorns’ bodies.
In many respects she is still the girl from Sioux Falls, S.D., who ventured to New York to make a name for herself but hung on all the while to a stern Midwestern pragmatism. She is frugal. “I wasn’t brought up with money,” she said. “I don’t think I’d spend more than $150 on a shirt.”
Hmm, how sensible. *folds $6 Iron Man T-shirt from Old Navy, ignores holes in armpits*
Betty, as the series winds to a close next year, may never learn to embrace the unfettered joys of motherhood. Certainly, Ms. Jones suggested, life’s fundamental pleasures will continue to elude her.
As perhaps they should. “God forbid Betty becomes very happy,” she said. “Because then I’ll be bored stiff.”
Wait. Did January Jones just reveal the existential dilemma that women would be bored out of their minds if they allowed themselves to be happy instead of manufacturing drama? January Jones? *violently shakes, head explodes*