Let me stake my claim right here and now: "Outlander" is an EPIC ROMANCE woven through with tales of exquisite knitwear and mind-blowing intimacy, not a lesson in Scottish history, and no amount of persuasion, not even from Diana Gabaldon herself, will sway me otherwise. I shall endeavor to avoid fabricating dates and battle names solely to rile the purists amongst you.
As we rejoin our plucky heroine at the conclusion of season two, she and her exasperating daughter, Brianna, had just witnessed Geillis disappearing through the stones at Craigh na Dun. Back in 18th-century Scotland, Jamie breathes while Dougal rests in eternal slumber. (Rest in peace, you crazy bald villain!) Now, let us delve into the episode.
This installment is a stone-cold downer. It’s devoid of any romantic entanglements whatsoever. Moreover, it’s laden with plot exposition, which is quite forgivable in a season premiere, particularly for a show juggling as many narrative threads as this one.
We're greeted by a tattered St. Andrew’s Cross flag and a battlefield strewn with Scottish corpses like fallen leaves. Jamie, a somber shade of grey, appears on the brink of death, with a (dead?) Black Jack Randall draped over him. "Outlander" cannot resist framing Jamie and Black Jack as lovers through its visuals (guys, you must cease this immediately), so it’s hardly surprising when Jamie’s mind drifts back to the battlefield, where their eyes lock in what feels like an "Enchanted Evening." The scene takes a turn for the surreal, resembling "Alien vs. Predator" as the two engage in a fierce battle, hacking, grappling, and bleeding profusely. I won’t believe Black Jack is deceased until I witness his body laid to rest, but for now, he is ostensibly no more. As Jamie drifts into unconsciousness once more, he hallucinates Claire rushing towards him across the fields. (In reality, it’s Rupert, poor soul.)
Speaking of the Randalls, Black Jack’s ill-fated descendant has just arrived in Boston, accompanied by a pregnant Claire. They settle into a Back Bay mansion that, in modern times, would undoubtedly fetch an astronomical price. We’re treated to Tobias Menzies’s attempt to utter, “Rustle me up some vittles” in a Western accent, which alone is worth the price of admission for this episode. And let me make this clear: I have a fondness for Frank. He’s exceedingly handsome and genuinely desires to make their relationship work, which is all I truly seek in a partner.
When it comes to men during our sojourn in Boston, it's as if we've stepped into a sequel of sorts to "Mad Men": Claire Encounters Modern Misogyny Redux. Each male encounter, save for Frank, unfolds like a grotesque cartoon depicting the epitome of sexism. The show poses a pertinent question: "What if old Scotland wasn't any worse than modern America?" Claire sits through a dreary faculty lunch with Frank's boss, who openly suggests that women belong confined beneath an oak chest, tucked away under the bed. (Incidentally, we're also enlightened about Harvard Medical School's recent acceptance of women, to his utter dismay.)
To underscore the contrast between Claire's intelligence and Frank's boss's ignorance, they engage in a debate about Dewey and Truman. You might be surprised to learn that Frank's arrogant, sexist, and ill-informed boss is convinced that Dewey has the presidency sewn up! Meanwhile, Claire, perhaps wiser from her experiences and refraining from spearheading feminism wherever she goes, refrains from correcting him and feigns delight at having left her days as a combat nurse behind, now free to create a home for Frank and their impending child.
As days turn into weeks in Boston, Claire's demeanor increasingly resembles that of Mia Farrow in the twilight scenes of "Rosemary's Baby." The spark in her marriage to Frank has faded; she repels his touches, and it's evident that their marital intimacy has yet to be rekindled. Frank, in my humble estimation, displays remarkable reasonableness in seeking to address their issues, prompting Claire to accuse him of mere lust and hurling a heavy glass ashtray at his head. Claire is notoriously inept at handling others' complex emotions. (Witness her awkward attempts to cheer Jamie up amidst his PTSD struggles last season.)
Elsewhere, Jamie awakens in the decrepit barn where Rupert has dragged him. Stragglers from the battle have gathered there, hoping to evade detection and slip away under the cloak of night. The Redcoats, however, have other plans, arriving to announce their intent to summarily execute them all. The Redcoat-in-Charge, embodying that peculiar English sense of fair play that means much while signifying nothing, insists that soldiers too weak to stand will be propped up for their execution, allowing them to die with dignity. Jamie, having lost both Claire and his rebellion, seems ready to embrace his fate, but something tells me his journey is far from over. Rupert, the steadfast soul, knowing he's about to meet his demise, reconciles with Jamie over the Dougal killing and bravely faces his maker with admirable nonchalance. Farewell, Rupert! I hope Jacobite Heaven is teeming with jolly, plump ladies eager to make your acquaintance.
In Boston, immediately following the chaotic ashtray-hurling incident, Frank attempts to seek solace on the couch, only to find sleep elusive. Rising in frustration, he begins drafting a letter to our beloved reverend, detailing his concerns about Jamie. This poignant endeavor is abruptly halted by Claire's startlingly serene declaration that her waters have broken. At this juncture in the narrative, allow me to confess that my tears over Rupert's fate have yet to dry, and with a one-week-old baby girl nestled at home, consider me a sobbing mess from this point onward until the credits gracefully unfurl.
Back at the farm, the Redcoats lie defeated, their ranks thinned by injury and exhaustion. Jamie steps forward, volunteering for whatever comes next. However, as he announces his name to the recorder, the Redcoat-in-Charge turns a shade of purple, exclaiming in disgust, "Ugh, it's Red Jamie!" It transpires that the officer's younger brother is none other than the lad Jamie once rescued in the forest, owing him a debt of honor that now binds them. This unforeseen twist throws a wrench into the Redcoat-in-Charge's meticulously laid plans, forcing him to bide his time until nightfall, ultimately consigning Jamie to a bouncing wagon ride back to Lallybroch. Upon awakening, Jamie finds Jenny standing over him, her presence a comforting assurance of his safe return.
Switching gears to "Mad Men Take Two," Claire's obstetrician proves to be yet another repellent specimen of sexist swine. He fits the archetype perfectly: addressing only Frank, rendering Claire unconscious against her will, and patronizingly patting her on the head. Nonetheless, I found amusement in his dismissive directive to Frank, sending him to the fathers' waiting room with the quip, "Follow the scent of cigarettes and sweat." Just as Frank is about to depart, he learns, almost incidentally, of Claire's miscarriage but wisely refrains from stirring up trouble.
Claire awakens disoriented, panic-stricken, and worried sick about her newborn. Fortunately, her baby is promptly brought in by a smitten Frank, their eyes meeting in a fleeting moment of marital bliss. She confesses her harsh behavior towards him, and he forgiveness freely offers, pledging a new beginning and reignited love. But just as this tender moment peaks, the DAMN NURSE interjects, "Where did she get that red hair?" The question drops like a lead weight, shattering the fragile harmony of the moment.
