No jowl would dare cast the scantiest shadow on Roger Sterling’s chiselled chops. You could cut glass with that jaw line and set your watch by his haircut.
Even among the meticulously coiffed, liberally brylcreemed and pristinely manicured cast of Mad Men, Sterling stands out as a bastion of elegant insouciance. Americana’s riposte to Beau Brummell.
Complete with immaculately cut jib, cigarette clamped between sneering lips and a bottomless reservoir of withering witticisms, Sterling struts the blurry line between the American dream and unabashed decadence.
And he makes smoking look horrendously cool.
Apparently when JR from Dallas got up to prepare himself a whiskey, something like 80% of the viewing public somnolently did likewise*. Similarly, when Sterling unsheathes a lucky strike, I’d roll up and smoke my own mother if no more conventional ingredients presented themselves within easy reach.
I whimpered myself to sleep when the otherwise unimpeachable writers decided to give our Roger a heart attack in series 1. But I suppose it is appropriate justice for a man to whom every hour the good lord sends is cocktail hour. Still. For me, it was like that crashing moment in a young boy’s childhood when he realises his father is a mere mortal.
*Stat may be bollocks