Last week we got some pulp foot action, which lent a "Twin Peaks"-ish thrill to the proceedings. This week opens with a noir-ish mystery feel, with three forward-flashes (in medias res, to be fancy) on shots of recumbent characters. (Or as Jews ask at Passover, "Why on this night do we recline?") Don happens to be nose down on the grimy motel carpet, bleeding, while Betty, dressed daintily and watching the ceiling, faint with the vapors, is thinking about touching herself. I have to hold my nose here before I can describe the third scene: Duck and Peggy are post-coital …

The fog has lifted, but it cost an arm and a leg! Ba-bum. Although the episode was full of death, blood, and hacked-off limbs, it was still very merry, and easily the best of the third season.

"The Fog" opens with an early morning meeting in a sun-dappled classroom: Don sits respectfully wedged behind a miniature desk, while full-term Betty stands towering like the Statue of Liberty, alone in the harbor, blonde hair piled formally on top of her head. (Whereas Miss Farrell sports long, loose brunette waves, all the better to play the Veronica type Don usually goes for in mistresses as opposed to his own blonde Betty.)

R.I.P., Pope John XXIII and Eugene Hofstadt No. 2. Plus, blood and helmets. Skins and carcasses. A salt tooth. Peaches and curbs. And, "Not tonight, dear! I have a Patio commercial to direct!"

Roger performs in blackface! Red sings and plays the accordion! Sally steals! And Peggy inhales! There wasn't much action in this rather opaque episode -- at least in the classic car-crash sense. But the character details that emerged were like ice sculptures at a fancy shindig. You find them both tacky and beautiful, and can't stop staring.