They absolutely must expedite Tom's unveiling as the antagonist; my patience grows thin, desiring his prompt departure from this narrative. With an array of characters demanding our attention, his presence serves as a void—a void that sucks the life out of the story! Pull yourself together, Marian; you're looking quite the scruffy potato patch at this juncture. Larry's role as the ultimate protagonist is a given; let's press on without delay.
Tragedy strikes when one of George Russell's trains derails due to a worn-out axle, claiming five innocent lives. Realizing one of his employees was culpable for procuring those faulty parts, George commissions Pinkerton detectives to unravel the mystery. Initially, Pinkerton Detective Agency sounds intriguing—imagine the espionage! A lady detective during the Civil War? However, upon further scrutiny, their involvement in spying on unions and disrupting strikes casts a dark shadow over their reputation.
To my surprise, Clara Barton features prominently in this series. Was Julian Fellowes determined to incorporate a women's social activist and opted for the iconic nurse? Subsequently, she pops up in numerous scenes like a jack-in-the-box. Don't get me wrong; I'm not dissatisfied; merely taken aback. Barton's appearance coincides with Peggy and Marian's visit to a Red Cross meeting, accompanied by Aurora Fane. Mrs. Morris, yes, the very one, is in mourning, her grief tinged with a vengeful zest to bring down the Russells, whom she deems responsible for her loss. The meeting's apparent agenda? Electing Bertha to the board, which promptly prompts Mrs. Morris's exit. Bertha's influence spreads!
Back at the van Rhijns', Agnes rails against the new opera house, declaring her refusal to patronize such pretentious establishments. That line, "jumped-up opera houses," is a gem, encapsulating the pretentiousness people adopt to appear chic.
Am I the only soul who watched 'Bad Teacher' and identified with the ex-boyfriend at the onset, shouting about the demise of opera sans audiences? His plight resonated deeply; I couldn't care less about this so-called Opera War, incessantly referenced by our budding snobs. Historically frivolous, it remains so within the confines of this show.
The Old Guard in NYC had a monopoly on the Academy of Music, thwarting the Vanderbilts, Morgans, and ilk from acquiring boxes. Hence, the nouveau riche erected their own opera house—the Metropolitan Opera, still thriving today and, coincidentally, staging a production featuring Kelli O’Hara, alias Aurora Fane, later this year. The Academy of Music crumbled swiftly after the Met's inception, a satisfying twist, yet one wonders why two opera houses couldn't coexist. More opera for all, after all!
In this episode, Bertha emerges as a delicate, endearing morsel of vulnerability, though please keep my assessment under wraps, for I'm confident she'd devise a plan to dash my aspirations into smithereens. When Aurora breaks the news to Bertha that Ward McAllister desires a visit to the Russell abode, Bertha finds herself in a quandary, and her indecision is oh-so-charming. Clueless about the Astor circle, she's at a loss as to whom to extend an invitation. Aurora, ever the guide, advises her to replicate the guest list from McAllister's previous visit to her own home. The catch? The service must adhere to English standards. Aurora's warning that Bertha has but one shot at this makes the episode resonate with the timeless sitcom cliché of "the boss's impending dinner visit," albeit minus any comical mishaps—except for Agnes's eventual dramatic entrance, but that's a story for later.
The English service element throws a wrench into the works, as the Russells' butler, Church, is unfamiliar with English etiquette. Bertha inquiries about his proficiency, to which he nonchalantly responds, "... yep." However, we all recall Bannister's tutorial on forks and finger bowls, rendering it inevitable that Bertha诱惑him with a generous sum of $100 (a whopping $2,700 in today's currency!) to oversee the luncheon. Church, understandably, is less than pleased.
Remember T. Thomas Fortune from The Globe? Peggy pays him another visit, reigniting my hope for a budding romance between them, for Peggy truly deserves happiness. Alternatively, their camaraderie could flourish purely on a platonic plane, given Peggy's career-oriented demeanor. Fortune praises Peggy for boosting their subscription rates through her writing, a remarkable feat indeed. He urges her to continue contributing. Peggy then visits her mother, the legendary Broadway icon Audra McDonald, who inspires us all. Knowing full well that a musical moment wasn't in the cards, I couldn't help but wish for one when Audra began tickling the ivories. Imagine an Audra McDonald–Denée Benton duet with Peggy; my dream for this series would be fulfilled.
Fancy a musical episode of The Gilded Age à la Buffy? Practically every cast member possesses the talent to pull it off, and considering the show's audience likely harbors a fondness for musicals, it's a recipe for success. Would it be unconventional? Absolutely. Yet, we'd embrace the quirky charm.
Peggy's mother commends her on her journalistic triumphs, both acutely aware of her father's continued disbelief in her career's potential. I feared Mrs. Scott might enforce an ultimatum, such as, "It's us together or not at all," but wisely respecting her daughter's boundaries, she instead inquiries about meeting without him. Kudos to Mrs. Scott for fostering a relationship while respecting Peggy's choices.
As George delves deeper into discussing the train crash with Bertha, her mind remains narrowly fixed on its potential disruption to her lunch engagements and her aspirations to ascend into high society. George has displayed remarkable patience concerning her objectives, but his composure finally snaps, convinced that the gravity of the crash—five lives lost—far outweighs her social pretensions. A valid stance, indeed! Yet, George, you know full well whom you married; a woman determined to gain entry into the upper crust of society, come hell or high water, even if it meant eliminating every obstacle in her path.
We uncover a startling revelation: Bertha has been intercepting all of Gladys's mail. By the way, I stumbled upon an intriguing article defining mail crimes (it seems Bertha is treading on shaky ground, and the U.S. Postal Service would hardly commend her efforts). Archie Baldwin, the young man Gladys was surreptitiously meeting, has penned a letter to her. George is plagued with guilt over potentially scuttling his daughter's romance and confronts Gladys about her mother's aspirations for her. Bertha dreams of a marriage that is "special," though her reluctance to openly declare her yearning for Gladys to wed into English nobility or peerage merely mocks our expectations as viewers. Their persistence in shrouding this desire in mystery is both perplexing and intriguing. What could a "special" marriage entail? I eagerly await the revelation, perched on the edge of my seat.
Watch Bertha announce to Gladys her engagement to a man who laid claim to a portion of Chicago through squatter's rights. Now, that would certainly qualify as unique!
The overarching theme of this season could be summed up as, "Agnes is almost invariably correct." The qualifier "almost" permits her occasional misjudgments, such as her mistake about the Russells and her less-than-cordial treatment towards affluent newcomers. However, Agnes shut down Miss Armstrong's meddling concerning Peggy, fended off the gold-digger pursuing Ada, has shielded her family for years, and senses something amiss with Tom, despite Marian's denseness on the matter. Admittedly, she was also wrong about Bannister, but it seems she acknowledges that. Agnes is simply phenomenal.
Good heavens, I nearly overlooked the doll party! Mamie Fish hosts a peculiar doll tea party for the younger set. It's bizarre beyond comprehension, yet I would attend in a heartbeat. There, we witness Larry—so dashingly handsome—and Gladys, permitted to attend solely because Caroline Astor will be present, and Bertha recognizes a prime opportunity when she sees one. Gladys and Caroline forge a bond over their trying mothers—a powerful connecting thread indeed.
Marian and Tom are stealthily arranging to rendezvous at Mrs. Chamberlain's abode, their clandestine encounter aimed at delving deeper into each other's company. I loathe this arrangement, unless Mrs. Chamberlain uncovers Tom's true colors and exposes him for the less-than-stellar individual he is.
The climactic scene of this episode unfolds during the luncheon hosted by Ward McAllister. McAllister, entranced by the Russells' opulent mansion, peppers his conversation with references to Catherine the Great, much to Bertha's obvious bewilderment. Yet, no one mocks her ignorance; the atmosphere remains civil. Upon seating themselves, each guest finds a present awaiting them on their plate, reminiscent of my family's Thanksgiving tradition where gifts magically appeared, courtesy of the Thanksgiving Fairy. However, whereas I received a VHS tape of 'Casper,' McAllister is bestowed with a luxurious gold cigarette case.
A clandestine note, whispering tales of Bannister's betrayal of Agnes's cherished snobbish values, finds its way into Agnes's hands. Enraged, she storms across the street, bursting into the Russells' dining room, where a multitude of people and an abundance of footmen fill the space, despite the guest list not being excessively long. Marian and Aurora intervene, gracefully salvaging Agnes's dignity, allowing her to exit with dignity, her parting shot to Bannister a stark warning that lesser offenses have led to grave consequences.
As the episode draws to a close, Agnes discovers her son's unauthorized friendship with Miss Turner, while George learns of a malicious accusation within his company, singling him out as the scapegoat for the train accident. The dramatic strings swell as Bertha confines George in the library, leaving us on a tense cliffhanger. The end of this episode.
