Immersed in the joys of life, I find immense satisfaction in being readily awed. Hence, this particular episode enchanted me from its inception, when George ignited a miniature replica of a train station, sending waves of astonishment rippling through the crowd – myself included. Our focus this week being electricity, the surprise appearance of a thirty-something Thomas Edison was nothing short of astonishing, given my persistent mental image of him as Gene from Bob’s Burgers adorned with an elderly white wig, a mere couple of years after his invention of the reliable lightbulb and a few years before his alleged mistreatment of Tesla. As my notes scribe, what an insensitive nitwit he proved to be.
The grand spectacle of the evening was the illumination of the New York Times building, drawing everyone into a frenzy of excitement, organizing excursions to bear witness to this historic moment. Miss the event? You’d be branded a social pariah. Enter Marian, left out in the cold as Bertha’s limited seating in her two carriages (imagine someone boasting about their two carriages yet having no room for you) excluded her. Marian was told she couldn’t come unless Bertha invited Tom, ostensibly for the balance of genders. Why? A mystery for the ages!
Granted, this might not adhere to contemporary social norms, but had I been Marian, I’d have been dashing off invitations to my carriage-owning friends, eagerly declaring, “Hey, fancy joining me for this?” Fear of missing out, after all. Agnes declined, fearing the presence of ruffians and thieves, which could very well have been a plausible concern. Oscar could have accompanied them, but Agnes was still seething with him over a hypothetical affair with the now-fired Miss Turner. Yes, the unemployed Miss Turner.Agnes, who was currently in a silent protest with most of her acquaintances due to various disputes, instructed Marian to cross the street and request Bertha to terminate Miss Turner’s employment. When Marian complied and Bertha inquired about the reason, Marian cited an improper relationship without naming names. Bertha conjectured it was Oscar but, upon catching Larry in conversation with Miss Turner, promptly dismissed her. I’d feel pity for her if Miss Turner weren’t such a deplorable character.
Regarding the downstairs ensemble of the series, does anyone else struggle to recall which servants belong to which household? They scarcely grace our screens, lately intermingling freely despite living just across the street from one another. I recognize Bannister and Church, but whenever Miss Armstrong comes to mind, I find myself pondering, “Ah yes, she…serves…somebody.”
Alright, let us all eagerly anticipate Miss Turner's Retribution, whose arrival is as inevitable as the dawn. They whisper of a scenario where George may ultimately succumb to her not-so-subtle wiles of seduction, and should that happen, I vow to cast this spectacle into the depths of the ocean. Grant me this couple consumed by ambition, bent on achieving social and economic supremacy! Let their bond be unbreakable, extending perhaps to their offspring, devoid of infidelity, for we find ourselves in tumultuous times yearning for a semblance of stability, if you please.
The Russells' marital discord seems to be reaching a boiling point, as George's patience wears thin with Bertha's relentless pursuit of social elite status. What drives individuals to such lengths? I, too, recall spending countless hours mastering spelling-bee words in grade school, driven solely by the desire to best my older brother—a feat I accomplished with immense satisfaction.
What, then, is Bertha's equivalent of triumphing over her sibling in a spelling bee? One can only speculate wildly. My hope is that it transcends the mundane, like, "They called me common; hence, I shall ascend above them all!" No, I crave a grander scheme for Bertha: to attain the zenith of society solely to dismantle it. Imagine her, addressing the masses, shouting, "YOUR OVERLORDS ARE NO MORE," as she dramatically tears apart the printed list of the Four Hundred, its pages marred by splashes of blue ink—a stroke of symbolic brilliance.
For now, the Russells are locked in a battle, Bertha's concerns centered on George's potential imprisonment jeopardizing Gladys's social debut. BERTHA, indeed. George, meanwhile, informs Larry that a career in architecture is out of the question, as he must succeed him in the family business. Larry counters with a persuasive argument, asserting that if he follows in his father's footsteps, he will forever be in George's shadow, deemed inadequate. On the other hand, pursuing a different path would spare him such comparisons. This prompts one to ponder the wisdom behind Meryl Streep's offspring all embarking on acting careers. George seems receptive, hinting that Larry might just forge his own destiny. By "forge his own destiny," I mean leveraging the family's wealth and extensive connections to secure a career of his choosing.
As for Peggy, she continues her writing gig at The Globe, where T. Thomas Fortune (a joy to write, indeed) invites her to accompany him to an electricity exhibition, tasking her with interviewing attendees. Their conversation about Edison naturally segues into the mention of Black inventor Lewis Latimer, who enhanced the carbon filaments in light bulbs. Peggy, optimistically, remarks that Mr. Edison will surely acknowledge Latimer's contributions at the ceremony. They share a laugh. Later, at the event, Fortune places his hand on Peggy's back, leaving me conflicted, for what if he, like in real life, is married?
Tom and Marian... they truly are the epitome of unpleasant. I can somewhat tolerate Marian when she's with others, but her interactions with Tom lack any semblance of chemistry, and the show incessantly insists on dwelling on this dreary duo. They occupy an exorbitant amount of screen time together, time that could be devoted to virtually any other, more captivating character. Why was that mysterious servant spying on that woman entering a house a few episodes back? That's the kind of intrigue I crave! Instead, I'm forced to endure Tom, with his fake American accent, telling Marian that their love will suffice and they ought to tie the knot while they're still young, before they stray down the wrong path. What? Really? What on earth does that even mean? Oh my goodness, he is absolutely dreadful. I detest this storyline. I loathe it with every fiber of my being.
The ending, however, is absolutely enchanting. Dining in an open carriage appears to be an exhilarating experience, with vast crowds eagerly awaiting in the inky blackness as the New York Times building gradually comes to life illuminated by electricity. The whole scene exudes a sense of awe and wonder. Ward McAllister labels it a pivotal moment in history, pondering whether they're on the right course. Bertha responds by asserting that we must embark on the journey that history dictates, which is commendable, but I would have expected Bertha to utter something akin to, "A true woman pens her own history." Bertha is a woman of initiative! She follows no one's lead but her own, except perhaps for the social registrar and whatever Aurora Fane commands her to do. And thus concludes this episode!
