There’s no doubt in my mind that this is a new golden age of television – and I know why too:  lousy treatment and lack of artistic control chased all the good writers out of the movies.   The Sopranos, The Wire, The Shield, House in its early years – any one of these is better than anything you’re likely to see in a theater currently.

And of course, Mad Men, which just ended its third season.  It’s a terrific show – a little too aimless sometimes, a little too pleased with its own look, and a lot too smug about the superiority of our times to the past – but still, it has a genuine artistic vision of America in the early sixties and, through that vision, a vision of the human condition.  It’s beautifully written and acted.  It’s good stuff.

And it ought to end.  I won’t spoil the finale, but it summed up the series perfectly and took it to its natural conclusion.  Anyone could see it.  And I strongly suspect the show’s creator Matthew Weiner knows it.  But the trouble with TV even in these best of times is that the rewards of continuing a success far outweigh the wisdom of ending it.

The shark is in the water and Mad Men is skiing toward the ramp but how is brother Matthew going to explain it to his broker – let alone his wife – if he doesn’t make the jump?