If you've delved into "A Clash of Kings," the second installment of the sprawling fantasy saga upon which "Game of Thrones" is anchored, you'll appreciate its meticulous orchestration of characters into strategic positions, all building towards the explosive events of book three, "A Storm of Swords" (renowned for the harrowing Red Wedding). "Head to Head" mirrors this second-book template, albeit with a twist—I sincerely doubt Ada and the reverend will meet their fate at the hands of Bertha Russell during their nuptials. (Unless…? The intrigue lingers.)
In essence, this episode unfolds at a leisurely pace, akin to a gentle ripple before the storm. We gather tidbits about the Duke of Buckingham's impending arrival and Peggy's journey to Alabama. A drama-laden confrontation looms on the horizon involving George Russell's workforce in Pittsburgh, but for the most part, the narrative unfolds as characters lounge or stand in rooms, engaging in idle chatter. Truthfully, one might suggest a trip back to Newport for some tennis to liven things up!
Yet, nestled amidst the mundane, one pivotal scene unfolds this week, and as a soap opera enthusiast, I relish diving into its juicy details. I refer, of course, to the episode's clandestine centerpiece: The Naked Woman in George's Bed, an incident conveniently omitted from his conversational repertoire.
Imagine, if you dare, stepping into the shoes of an 1880s robber baron with scant regard for morality but an unwavering loyalty to his family. Yet, how can one genuinely empathize with such a figure without the cachet of a top hat collection to validate the persona? George has blundered. Bertha discovers the truth at her opera tea, where Miss Turner, now transformed into the affluent Mrs. Winterton, casually remarks, "Oh, George never mentioned us, did he?" Turner, you scoundrel! Bertha stands there, attired in a gown whose trim seems cobbled together from discarded lampshades by Fräulein Maria herself.
Bertha storms into George's office, demanding answers about his liaison with Turner. Extracting information from him is akin to wresting teeth from a jaw. He reluctantly reveals that Turner intruded upon his room, stripped, climbed into bed, and upon realizing it was she, not Bertha (ouch indeed), he summarily dismissed her. His reasoning for withholding this information from Bertha? He knew she "depended on her." What? What?! How dare you, sir! Bertha's fury is palpable. George's meager apology, "I'm sorry you feel you deserve an apology," rings hollow, a hollow non-apology if ever there was one. Bertha brands it betrayal and storms out, rightfully incensed. Bravo, Bertha! This is nonsense. You are social-climbing robber barons united. A Gilded Age partnership in New York, where one partner doesn't wield patronizing excuses when you've been inseparable since inception. SINCE INCEPTION, I repeat, sans textual evidence, but the sentiment stands as true as ironclad.
Later that same day, it seemed, George stormed into Bertha's chamber, desperate for her assistance at the luncheon hosting the Pittsburgh union representative. When he found her still seething with anger, he uttered the word "jejune," which promptly earned him a mental label of "asshole" from her. Who in their right mind employs such an archaic term? George, you're the one! And spare me the excuse that it was more prevalent back then; I did my homework, and the truth is, it was only "sort of" common. Bertha should have decked him right then and there, beard and all. If my spouse ever resorted to such pretentious jargon, I'd milk it for all it's worth, asking sarcastically, "Oh, is that too jejune?" about everything under the sun.
Post-luncheon with Mr. Henderson, the union representative, George was in a tizzy because Henderson hadn't instantaneously jumped at his offer of financial assistance. He sought Bertha out to thank her, only to learn she'd be dining solo in her room that evening. When he inquired about the duration of her cold shoulder, her vague reply about emotions being unpredictable after his deplorable actions prompted him to melodramatically declare, "It feels like a death sentence." For heaven's sake, George, it's been barely half a day! Are you serious? A death sentence? I picture George as a child in the marshmallow test, whining after five minutes, "Does this test span my entire lifetime? Am I doomed to perish in this very room?" George, really! He eventually conceded his mistake, but it was evident he didn't genuinely comprehend his wrongdoing. Better sort this out next week; how else are they supposed to steal kisses in the greenhouse if George persists in being such a turd! Ugh.
Now, about that ill-conceived Oscar Wilde cameo – firstly, it's amusing how the show pokes fun at poor acting, albeit Wilde's play, Vera, seemingly deserved every mock. Everyone deserves one dud before penning monologues that casting directors will dread hearing countless times for decades. That aside, I highly recommend delving into Act IV's dialogue between Vera and the czar; it's a treasure trove of gems, like, "For love of the people, I would have been a patriot. For love of you, I have been a traitor. Let us go forth together, we will live amongst the common people." I'll start greeting my wife with that last line every time we step out.
Incorporating historical figures in period dramas is a risky move. Before you fact-check, no, Wilde didn't sport an Irish accent during this period, so I'm good with that. However, featuring historical individuals often feels tacky, as if the writer is desperate for attention by exclaiming, "Hey, look who's here!" It can be done tastefully (Clara Barton's appearance last season was a delight), but this Oscar Wilde is anything but. He mainly mutters, "Oho, I see the John Adams character is a homosexual," as if being gay defines him. Besides, according to Wikipedia – take it with a pinch of salt – Wilde didn't indulge in homosexual relations until three years later. Enough with reducing him to a cliché of an arrogant homosexual when he was more about promoting aestheticism and penning uninspiring Russian plays.
As aforementioned, Peggy is embarking on a journey to Alabama, a prospect that fills her mother with dread. Yet, Peggy is thrilled to bits, for she is set to undertake reporting duties at the prestigious Tuskegee Institute. Through her and her editor, Timothy Thomas Fortune, who happens to be joining her, we are regaled with an abundance of insights about Tuskegee. It's worth noting that Fortune, indeed a historical figure, is a recurring character, thus fitting seamlessly into this narrative. Casually mentioning his past, Fortune reveals that during his last residence in Alabama, he was enslaved. "Somehow, I must put that chapter behind me," he remarks, leaving us to ponder the depth of his resilience. Perhaps? Or maybe not so easily? Peggy successfully persuades Fortune to grant her permission, but when she breaks the news to Dorothy, the latter understandably flips out, considering Peggy's lack of experience traveling to the South. Though it would have been enriching to hear Dorothy also acknowledge that conditions for Black people in the North aren't exactly roses either, her intense worry about her daughter venturing into a post-Reconstruction, former slave state is entirely justifiable. Regardless, Peggy is determined to go! Here's hoping nothing untoward occurs, for real life is stressful enough as it is.
Elsewhere, Marian and Dashiell continue to enjoy each other's company, while Oscar, Maud, Larry, and the widow maintain their harmonious vibe. Ada and the reverend, portrayed by Robert Sean Leonard, forge a connection over a comforting bowl of clam chowder. Meanwhile, Bertha lays down an ultimatum for George: procure the Duke of Buckingham for her, and they can discuss reconciliation. How's that for a clear-cut action plan? Fingers crossed that next week's episode features a ball, a croquet tournament, or some such event, complete with a good old-fashioned slap!
