Do you grasp the thrill I derive from a courtroom revelation? It stands unrivaled among all forms of unveiling! This episode merits five stars, despite the persistent nonsense surrounding Marian and Tom. While there are still a myriad of tangential storylines that could benefit from pruning, the show is finally honing its unique voice—a delightful blend of high-stakes business maneuvers and the frivolous antics of the social elite.
George Russell braces himself for the court hearing concerning his alleged role in the train disaster, while society folk adorned in whimsical hats engage in tennis matches in Newport. These constitute our twin narratives, interspersed with the mundane drama of Marian, Tom, and their engagement saga. George's case appears dire, given a note to his employee Dixon that hints at his directive to slash costs on train components. Yet, Bertha blithely heads to Newport, oblivious to the gravity of the situation! Bertha, really? I understand your resolve and faith in George's resilience, but people require support during trying times. I fear Bertha's relentless pursuit of social status may lead to a scene where George storms out, leaving her stoically gazing into a mirror, oblivious to the world around her.
The Russells, sans George, embark on their Newport journey, while preparations for Gladys's debut continue unabated in their absence. Apparently, the quadrille holds significant sway? Rehearsals are underway, accompanied by elaborate costumes. Upon researching the quadrille, I can only marvel at how monotonous life must have been before the advent of television and DJs. Even as someone who dislikes loud music, faced with a choice between watching a quadrille performance and dancing to the Black-Eyed Peas, I'd opt for the latter without hesitation.
Oscar van Rhijn too is bound for Newport, primarily to court Gladys. He confides in John Adams' descendant—also named John, much to my amusement—and Always Grumpy John, unsurprisingly, frowns upon the idea. He proceeds to declare his love for Oscar, quite audibly, in what appears to be a gentlemen's club. Seriously, man? With a waiter present and potentially fifty other men who could wreak havoc on one's life? He's teetering on the brink of outing Oscar, which is unacceptable. However, I empathize; as a man, controlling emotions can be challenging at times. (Hey-ooooo!) Furthermore, I幻想the original John Adams uttering, "I love my gay great-grandson," which would amuse me greatly.
Agnes fumes at the thought of everyone heading to Newport, questioning why Saratoga Springs isn't an option. Upon researching Saratoga Springs, I discovered its slogan: "Health, History, and Horses." Impressive! It gained popularity as a vacation spot due to its mineral springs, and in the 1860s, a racecourse opened, drawing gamblers. Yet, by 1881, it had lost its allure. Agnes's displeasure underscores her uncool demeanor. It's alright, Agnes; I'd also prefer skipping Newport. Mamie Fish forces you to indulge in games, making it less appealing.
As Aurora prepares to depart for Newport, she confides in Marian, voicing her misgivings about Tom Raikes. "Don't we all share those doubts?" Marian responds, exuding the unwavering confidence of youth, urging Aurora not to fret. But based on what, Marian? Is it your intuition speaking, when you barely know the man and he's undeniably loathsome? Boooooo, indeed. Undeterred by logic, Marian proceeds to share her brilliant strategic thinking with Peggy, announcing her intention to marry Tom – what?! – because it's the swiftest way to hush "the doubters." What? What?? So, to prove your aunt wrong, you'll tie the knot with Tom, the most odious character on this entire drama? It seems all schemes, no matter how harebrained, qualify as plans in Marian's book. She commits to marrying Tom despite their superficial acquaintance and mutual awfulness. Such is the current state of affairs.
Switching gears to Peggy, we finally uncover deeper layers to her past. Initially, I thought her anger towards her father stemmed solely from his lack of support for her writing aspirations, but oh, there's more to it! She eloped with her father's employee, whom she briefly mentioned before. They tied the knot in Pennsylvania and welcomed a baby, but tragedy struck as the infant passed away during childbirth. Her father discovered them, coerced Peggy's husband into nullifying their marriage, and ordered Peggy to erase it from her memory. Erase? Her marriage and her lost child?! Cancel men, indeed.
While Peggy shares this heart-wrenching tale with Marian in Peggy's room, their hand-holding underscores their bond, yet there's an undeniable spark between them. I couldn't help but shout "MAKE OUTTTT" at my screen. Yes, inappropriate given her tears over her shattered life, but their chemistry is palpable, and I'd be all for it.
This plot twist unfurls when Tom entrusts Miss Armstrong with a note for Peggy, revealing his search for the midwife. It feels like a setup for a "the baby didn't die; they lied" revelation. Of course, Armstrong can't resist reading the note and promptly gossips to Agnes, portraying Peggy as an unwed mother who deserted her child. Peggy sets the record straight with Agnes and decides to leave the house, unable to coexist with Armstrong anymore. Fair enough, Peggy! As for why Agnes doesn't dismiss Armstrong, it's because she dreads training a new lady's maid. Agnes acknowledges this as a poor excuse but remains kind to Peggy despite this misstep. I cherish every Peggy-Agnes scene and will mourn their separation.
Moving past the van Rhijn household saga, let's delve into THE COURT HEARING. George has struggled to amass evidence for his defense until Marian stumbles upon a pivotal break at Bloomingdale's. A woman dashes off, leaving her purse behind, prompting the store clerk to exclaim, "Mrs. Dixon!" Marian, recognizing her employer's name, volunteers to deliver it. It didn't dawn on me immediately, so when Marian informs George that his stenographer, Mrs. Dixon, forgot her purse, and he corrects her, saying she must mean Miss Ainsley, I was thrilled beyond measure. Allow me to quote my notes once more: "OH, MRS. DIXON IS HIS STENOGRAPHER. HE SAID, 'YOU MEAN MISS AINSLEY.' AHHHHHHHH. OMG, WHAT A MASTERSTROKE. THE SHOW HAS PULLED OFF A STUNNING TWIST."
Oh, how I adore those unpredictable twists in narratives; they ignite my fascination like no other, making this particular episode a *chef’s kiss* of brilliance. And then, at court, we were treated to a moment reminiscent of "My Cousin Vinny" (a film that never fails to delight) or the misunderstood glory of "Legally Blonde" (so wrongly parodied in "The Office"). Imagine the astonishment when the stenographer admitted her marriage to Dixon, promptly leading to the dismissal of the case. Hurrah! Though I find myself reluctantly rooting for a robber baron, such are the twists of fate.
Before we embark on our journey to Newport, let's revisit that enigmatic servant portrayed by Broadway luminary Michael Cerveris, who couldn't seem to keep his eyes off a lady across the street. This episode finally revisits that mystery (thank heavens, for my curiosity was insatiable), revealing that the lady had summoned Cerveris's character, presumably intrigued by his previous covert glances. Her bold maneuver of having her own servant fetch him was indeed daring. Surprised that she didn't recognize him, he introduced himself as Mr. Collier, only to see her visibly disturbed as she retreated indoors. What enigmatic subtext lies beneath this encounter? It evokes a "Shop Around the Corner"-esque plot, where lovers have only communicated via letters, yet here, I'm left utterly puzzled. And with just one episode remaining this season, our questions hang in the balance!
In Newport, Ward McAllister's moniker sounded suspiciously like Caleb Crawdad, while a descendant of John Adams has emerged, attempting to lure Gladys away from Oscar out of sheer spite. How very Adams-like in demeanor. Tennis was played with miniature rackets amidst a casino that, to my modern sensibilities, seemed more like a sun-drenched pavilion than a gambling den, devoid of the expected neon flicker. Bertha, meanwhile, navigated the social waters with Mamie Fish with commendable aplomb.
Conversations revolved around the Astors' opulent new abode, Beechwood, prompting Bertha, somewhat gauchely, to inquire about the renovation costs (a question I, too, would find myself curiosity-driven to ask). Eager to witness its grandeur, Bertha's wish was granted by Ward, who, despite Mrs. Astor's likely objection, devised a plan leveraging his acquaintance with the butler, Mr. Hefty. As fate would have it, their grand entrance coincided with Mrs. Astor's arrival, leading to a comedic spectacle as Bertha was hastily ushered through the basement, kitchens, and into the servants' quarters, amidst smoky air, plucked fowls, and rugs being beaten. She exited with what dignity she could muster, leaving me eagerly anticipating the season's climactic finale.
