At the tender age of six, I beseeched a boy in my first-grade class, Timmy, to be my beau. He obligingly agreed. However, within the span of an hour, he penned a love letter—a mere doodle of a heart—to a girl named Savannah, much to my astonishment. Thus, our fledgling romance came to an abrupt end. The relationship dynamics between Tom and Marian in this series exhibit a similar lack of depth, and their meager disintegration in this episode left me utterly bewildered, murmuring, "What on earth...?" Just as Timmy opted for Savannah despite my undeniably charming bowl haircut, this narrative thread seems utterly nonsensical.
At the dawn of this season, I harbored no illusions of ever uttering, "I adore this show." Yet, the recent episodes have completely turned the tables for me. We've bid adieu to the mundane plotlines, transitioning from a gripping courtroom drama last week to a social spectacle in the season finale. Marian is poised to elope with Tom, Bertha is menacing Mrs. Astor, George lounges aimlessly around the house, and Peggy—oh, Peggy is enduring a trying time indeed.
Following Peggy's bombshell announcement last week about her marriage, motherhood, and the tragic loss of her child, the air was thick with whispers suggesting that "the baby might still be alive." And, lo and behold, it transpired! Dorothy, alias Mrs. Scott, alias Peggy's mother, discovered a note tucked away in her husband Arthur's trousers (so cliché, yet so telling), hinting that Peggy's son is very much alive and residing in Pennsylvania. Arthur appears to have masterminded this entire charade, ranking it among the worst deeds one could inflict upon a child. This revelation sheds light on so much! Earlier, it seemed that Peggy merely resented her father's lack of support for her writing aspirations (a valid grievance, indeed), but this行为 borders on the villainous pantomime.
Upon Arthur's return, Dorothy confronted him, to which he responded with defiance, asserting that they would never locate the baby and expressing no remorse whatsoever. Arthur! You occupy no moral high ground here! You may think you do, but eventually, you'll realize you're plumbing the depths of an abyss. Peggy and Dorothy conclude the season on a quest to find Peggy's son, whom we eagerly anticipate seeing next season, accompanied by a genuine transformation in Arthur's demeanor. I'm talking about profound contrition, Arthur.
The remainder of the finale revolves around Marian's aborted elopement and Gladys's coming-out ball. Additionally, they dwell excessively on the revelation that Monsieur Baudin hails from Kansas, an unnecessary tangent that feels overly prolonged. I do not require this storyline—cut, prune, excise! Moreover, does every servant harbor a mysterious secret? Bridget the maid, the cook, JohnJack (they flip-flop between names, hence my amalgamation), Miss Armstrong, Mr. Watson (the gentleman who spies on a married lady from behind a tree). I am genuinely intrigued by Mr. Watson's shadowy pursuit of this married woman and her recognition of his name, followed by her dramatic entrance at the Russells' opulent soiree with her husband! Why couldn't we have dedicated the finale to unraveling that mystery instead of "you thought I was French, but I'm not"? One star deducted!
Alright, let's dive back in. Marian. MARIAN, I say! Look at the tapestry of your life, the choices you've woven! This narrative thread is utterly insane—as if crafted solely to keep Marian occupied and pave the way for her union with Larry in the ensuing season, following the bitter disappointment of a shattered engagement.
Yet, it defies all logic. Tom and Marian cross paths in the park, and he professes his undying love for her, claiming this very moment tops all their previous encounters (really, Tom? From the few fleeting minutes you've shared?). They contemplate eloping the very next day—a detail crucial to the plot, albeit the timeline in this series remains as murky as a London fog. It might as well have been within the same week. When Peggy inquires about their future abode, Marian, believe it or not, speculates they'll reside in Tom's apartment. She hasn't a clue! Marian, for heaven's sake! What if he doesn't even possess one? He's been in New York for a mere three weeks, likely domiciled in some transient hotel. Oh, the absurdity!
Ada uncovers Marian's harebrained scheme, and when Marian justifies their impetuosity by saying they both wanted to wait, Ada aptly counters that Tom, evidently, did not share that patience. A keen observation, Ada. This ordeal serves as a lesson for Marian, akin to what one might expect a naive sixteen-year-old to endure in this era. If Gladys Russell were in Marian's shoes, it would be par for the course. But Marian has portrayed herself as a discerning woman in her twenties, and her decisions are as bizarre as they are bewildering. Agnes notes Marian's immersion in Henry James, hinting at a possible "Washington Square" allusion—hopefully so, considering its publication in 1880, barely a year prior. Take heed from your literature, Marian! Or, for that matter, from anything but your flawed instincts. If my scrutiny of Marian seems harsh, know that it will persist until she starts exercising even a semblance of prudence. Old Marian, as imprudent as shoes in a carpetbag.
Tom fails to materialize at the elopement. Of course, he doesn't, yet his absence is bafflingly bizarre. He opts for the heiress, Miss Bingham, a decision that lacks coherent setup. Why was he so intent on eloping with Marian? Must we strain to believe he sought matrimony before his avarice overtook him, leading to Marian's jilting? That's preposterous, and I refuse to entertain such nonsense.
However, it's commendable that Aurora, upon witnessing Tom with Miss Bingham at the Academy of Music while a soprano serenaded with Bellini's "Vaga luna che inargenti," rushes to inform Marian. Her prompt action is admirable and just. Aurora is the Mercury of this series, swift and truthful. Marian, whether deserving or not, is backed by an array of formidable women in this episode—Aurora, Mrs. Chamberlain, Peggy, and Ada.
A side note worth mentioning is Marian's daring gesture of presenting Mrs. Chamberlain with a painting she did of a bird, amidst a backdrop of masterpieces adorning every corner of the latter's home. The sight of Marian's humble bird-painting amidst such artistic grandeur evoked hearty laughter from me. Now, let us delve into the grand ball and the epic social showdown of "The Gilded Age," featuring the formidable duo of Bertha Russell and Lina Astor.
The crux of the matter lies here: Mrs. Astor and Mrs. Russell, two titans, face off in the same room, vying for social supremacy. This tale is grounded in real-life events, or perhaps a tantalizingly plausible anecdote. As expected, the role of Bertha was masterfully portrayed by Alva Vanderbilt, who famously withheld an invitation to Carrie Astor's ball until Mrs. Astor paid a visit to the Vanderbilts. In the real-life scenario, it wasn't Gladys's coming-out ball but a mesmerizing costume ball, and I am deeply disappointed that the show didn't embrace this route. Imagine guests arriving as a phoenix rising from the ashes, a wasp, and even someone whose dress seemed to have been adorned with countless peacock feathers, undoubtedly the result of many feathered casualties. The spectacle was nothing short of breathtaking.
Prior to the ball, we witness a pivotal encounter between Lina Astor and Bertha. Two giants clash. Mrs. Astor politely declines to sit, asserting that her visit fulfills the requirement for Carrie to attend the ball. Bertha cleverly counters, pointing out that her visit occurred during a time when few were likely present. I must confess, I was momentarily distracted by the ravishing beauty of Carrie Coon in this scene. The drama itself was intoxicating, but the aesthetic appeal was an added bonus. Bertha exudes power and is acutely aware of her social clout, making for a captivating spectacle. She lays down her demands: Mrs. Astor must attend the ball, and she must also ensure the van Rhijns' presence ("WOW. WOW," my notes exclaim). Bertha, the captain of the social industry! She commands her butler, "Mrs. Astor is leaving," setting the stage for exactly what I had craved from this show.
Mrs. Astor reluctantly concedes to Bertha's stipulations, and Carrie secures an invitation to the ball. At the ball, while I wasn't particularly fond of Bertha's dress, it suited the occasion. Carrie Coon, who was reportedly eight months pregnant at the time, was masterfully disguised by the costume designers. Perhaps this dress was all the rage in 1881's high fashion; I am no expert in such matters. The van Rhijns have arrived! Mrs. Astor enters with Carrie, and the room falls silent, creating a momentous atmosphere. A triumphant moment for Bertha!
We are compelled to endure the highly anticipated quadrille, a spectacle where dancers adorn themselves in resplendent 18th-century attire, accessorized with minuscule parasols that flutter delicately. The gentlemen, donned with equine heads, prance about with an air of bombastic grandiosity, creating a scene far removed from the waspish or peacockish garb one might expect. Yet, it suffices as a curiosity. Amidst the dance, Mrs. Astor whispers threats of ruin to Bertha, a moment that renders Donna Murphy's portrayal all the more captivating, both now and perpetually.
Oscar attempts to coerce Gladys into a waltz, but she sternly rebuffs him, asserting her autonomy – a hint at the defiant spirit to come in the next season! The ballroom thrums with life as couples twirl, painting a picture of breathtaking elegance, precisely the opulence I yearned for from this series. Tom's arrival with Miss Bingham is brazenly obvious, and his claim to Marian that he hadn't anticipated her presence rings hollow. He insists his declaration of love was sincere, yet she replies that love alone is insufficient, before retreating in tears, leaving an emotionally barren aftermath. Such a clumsily handled narrative thread!
Larry approaches Marian, inquiring about Tom, to which she dismissively replies that he is merely an acquaintance from yesteryear ("Somebodyyyyy"). As dawn breaks, guests disperse, the scene resembling the chaotic conclusion of a Bachelor premiere. Larry chivalrously escorts Marian across the street to the van Rhijn residence, where she laments sharing too much with him. Does it seem as though a significant portion of the evening has been excised from our collective memory? As though we experienced a collective blackout, only to awaken to Marian Brook confessing her indulgence to Larry Russell? When did this confidential exchange transpire? Perhaps during our animated conversations with Miss Rockefeller about her clever peacock ensemble, followed by indulging in one too many punch bowls.
Back at home, Marian confides in Ada that she will one day unravel the mystery behind the aborted elopement. Butlers acknowledge one another from across the street with a knowing nod, while servants meticulously roll up the red carpet and stack chairs, signaling the end of season one. Huzzah for more melodramatic escapades and another grand ball in season two!
