Within the past year, there’s been a wave of media about doubles and split selves—think The Substance, Severance, and Mickey 17. However, this is by no means a new concept. Another period that focused heavily on split identities is the era of male-led prestige dramas of the early-2000s to 2010s.
In her book Cable Guys: Television and Masculinities in the 21st Century, Amanda D. Lotz traces the rise of prestige TV and identifies cable networks like HBO and AMC as the birthplace of complex portrayals of masculinity. Cable’s niche appeal—funded by both commercial ad revenue and viewer subscription payments—allowed it to “explore ideas somewhat outside the mainstream.” Lotz also argues that the prevalence of shows centered on complicated male protagonists during this era was as a means to build a male audience, borrowing tactics from the female-led dramas that dominated late-’90s broadcast TV.
Lotz makes the interesting observation that, while men have long been portrayed as both workers and husbands, they were rarely shown negotiating both roles at once. We can liken these male-led dramas to more feminine ones like Ally McBeal and Sex and the City—even complete with their own rendition of the age-old question, “can a woman have it all?” The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, and Mad Men exemplify these ‘split masculinities,’ revealing their implications and how they’re underlined by violence.
The split between identities in The Sopranos is probably the most subtle of the three shows—showcasing Tony as a mob boss and Tony as a family man. However, there’s a lot more going on under the surface, and the series manages to capture various conflicts of masculine identity. Lotz says that a key feature of these 2000s TV shows that aimed to explore contemporary masculinity is “protagonists unsure of how to be men and of what is expected of them in a society substantially different from the worlds of their fathers”. We see this very clearly as Tony grapples with his abusive father’s legacy, and trying to be a different man than he was. Tony’s struggle with the demands of modern masculinity, being both a good father and a good capo—which is especially challenging when said workplace is predicated upon violence—is wrapped up in the turn-of-the-millenium malaise that was well-represented in media of the time.
Films like Fight Club, Office Space, American Beauty, and The Matrix depicted the mundanity that comes with material comfort without emotional or spiritual satisfaction, and feeling of there being nothing worthwhile left to do, all undercut with the impending anxiety of the Y2K crisis. This feeling is echoed by Tony in the very first episode as he opines in his therapy session, “I feel like I came in at the end.” Of the three protagonists—Tony Soprano, Walter White, and Don Draper—Tony comes closest to the tension between the ‘patriarchal man’ and ‘new man’ as described by Lotz; the stoic head-of-household type vs. the type that goes to therapy.
One of the ways Tony’s internal conflict over the kind of man he wants to be often emerges is in his hopes for his son, AJ. Throughout the series, Tony is disappointed that AJ isn’t cut out for the ‘family business.’ In Season 2 when Carmela suggests that he get a vasectomy—a reflection of her own growing resentment over his affairs—Tony is far from enthusiastic. In one scene during an argument about the subject, AJ drops a tray of food, to which Tony laments, “this is my male heir!” Implying that he would like his son (or a son) that can follow in his footsteps. However, by the end of the series, Tony seems to be glad that AJ isn’t suited for the mafia. After AJ’s bungled assassination attempt on Junior, Tony reassures him: “it’s not in your nature…you’re a nice guy, and that’s a good thing,” adding that he’s “very grateful” for it.
Tony’s coma dream in Season 6 also reflects his conflicted desires. In it, he appears as an alternate, idealized version of himself—not involved in the mafia, but a salesman, with his children much younger and less complicated. However, even in this ‘dream life,’ he still deals in violence. His job as a precision optics salesman suggests a military connection, hinted at by his eagerness to attend a military conference and meet with a Colonel Colonna in particular. Like The Sopranos, Breaking Bad follows a ‘family man’ leading a double life of crime that blurs the personal and professional. Tony’s dynamic with AJ—his real son that he struggles to connect with—and Christopher, the surrogate son he takes under his wing in the underworld—parallels Walter White’s relationships with his son Walt Jr. and Jesse Pinkman. But unlike Tony, who is born into the life of crime, Walter White actively seeks it out.
At first, Walt’s meth enterprise is seemingly just to ensure his family’s financial security after he’s diagnosed with lung cancer, not necessarily to splash out on luxuries—an echo of the pressures of the Great Recession, with people having to go to greater and greater lengths just to end up with less and less. Yet his claim that he’s only doing it for his family are called into question throughout the series. In Season 2, Walt’s ego is revealed when he refuses financial help from Elliott (his former business partner who took control of their company, and stole Walt’s girlfriend). By the series finale, he leaves no doubt about his motivations, stating, “I did it for me. I liked it. I was good at it. And, I was really… I was alive”. Breaking Bad reinforces The Sopranos’ assertions: you can’t provide for your family, be satisfied in life, and uphold masculinity within the system—unless you’re willing to challenge both legal and moral codes.
Breaking Bad reveals the failure of the American Dream (which promises that hard work and determination will bring about success and prosperity) and instead grasps at the vision of masculinity that precedes it: the rugged individual. This emerges in the figure of Heisenberg, Walt’s alter ego. The name itself is a very fitting one: borrowed from the German physicist Werner Heisenberg, best known for discovering the uncertainty principle (which states that we cannot know both the position and speed of a particle), it captures the unpredictability of Walt’s dual identity. It’s first used in Season 1, Episode 6, when Walt—now Heisenberg—walks into the mercurial Tuco’s drug den, attempts to cut a deal, and, when rebuffed, triggers an explosion by throwing down fulminated mercury disguised as meth. Much like the uncertainty principle, Walt’s split identity is dubious and untenable. The Breaking Bad version of the rugged individual is almost cowboy-like, an outlaw navigating the deserts of New Mexico (and occasionally Mexico)—settings that hark back to ideas of the ‘frontier’ and the mythos of the ‘Wild West’. Reinforcing this association is the choice of costume. When Walt takes on the role of Heisenberg, he swaps his beige, boxy, school teacher garb for a sleeker, all-black ensemble, complete with a pork pie hat that resembles a cowboy hat.
If Breaking Bad utilizes split identities to reject the American Dream, Mad Men exposes the farce that it was built upon all along. The show offers possibly the most literal version of the split identity with its protagonist, Don Draper. Behind all of his suave, masculine elegance, Draper is revealed to be Dick Whitman, a soldier who hails from a poor, rural upbringing in the Midwest who assumes Draper’s identity after accidentally killing the real Lieutenant Don Draper in Korea. Through flashbacks, the show reveals how Dick’s duplicitous theft of Draper’s name—via a dog tag switch—lets him escape war and poverty to reinvent himself on Madison Avenue.
Similar to Breaking Bad, this backstory explores rugged individualism—a man ‘pulling himself up by the bootstraps’ by any means necessary—but also demonstrates the violence and crude opportunism that underlies it. Despite Don’s sophisticated job in the city and cushy home life in the suburbs, violence still permeates his new identity. Other characters routinely and unknowingly describe Don in military terms. In the very first episode of the show, Don’s underling Pete Campbell says he’d “follow [Don] into combat blindfolded,” while Don’s boss Roger Sterling calls him a “commanding officer.”
This language linking violence and war to white-collar work carries through till the end of the show, with a colleague in Season 7 demanding that Don “get in uniform, fix your bayonet, and hit the parade”. Ultimately, the distinction between Dick/Don is arguably moot as there are very few consequences throughout the series for the identity theft. In all the ways that matter, Dick Whitman is Don Draper. When Pete discovers Don’s real identity and takes the information to the big boss, Bert Cooper, hoping to get Don fired, Cooper simply shrugs: “Who cares? A man is whatever room he’s in”. In equal parts cynical and inspiring, the split identity becomes a symbol of the American Dream itself: a system where a fraud, a liar, a criminal—as Pete calls Don—can succeed simply by faking it until he makes it.
Overall, each of these shows use male protagonists with split identities to explore masculinity and discontent. In The Sopranos and Breaking Bad, the double life reflects a yearning for more than what modern life has to offer. Throwing Mad Men into the mix takes it even further—hinting that true fulfillment is and has been a lie all along, and that maybe Tony and Walt never even stood a chance. In addition, violence underpins the lives of all three protagonists, suggesting that it’s perhaps an integral part of masculinity that’s always there, lurking in the shadows. For the largely middle-class audiences watching on pay-television channels, these men’s struggles reflected their own—offering not just a character study, but a mirror to their own quiet dissatisfaction.