At long last, the drama has unfurled with a vengeance, and indeed, my heart beams with satisfaction. Though we were spared the grim spectacle of a Red Wedding, Mrs. Winterton's machinations hint at such a fate lurking in the shadows. My humble request? An unwavering stream of high-octane melodrama, punctuated by the occasional, thrilling murder. Should another lady's tea party ensue devoid of sharp witticisms and covert barbs, I shall stage a protest at Julian Fellowes' country manor, rain or shine.
The narrative gears have finally engaged, albeit not the churning wheels of a railway, for it seems even the railway workers have taken to the picket lines—a foreshadowing, perhaps, of George Russell's workforce's impending strife. This week, we but catch a glimpse of that saga, embodied in a satirical 1880s political cartoon. Imagine being immortalized in such a manner; what an esteemed honor it would be. In this particular cartoon, George is depicted as crushing his workers beneath the oppressive weight of meager wages—a poignant reflection of reality.
George scampers about, seeking to regain Bertha's favor, who remains incensed by his deceptive omission regarding Miss Turner's unclothed presence in his bed. Such are the consequences of deceit, George! Earn her forgiveness through your actions! (And rightfully so.) Bertha requires reinforcement on multiple fronts: the Metropolitan Opera is broke, and Mrs. Winterton monopolizes the Duke of Buckingham's affections.
Speaking of the Met, its splendor is unveiled, a sight to behold! And there stands Kelli O'Hara, alias Aurora, upon its stage—a delightful sight, given her real-life performance history, albeit not in this very venue. The Met under construction is the Old Met, demolished in 1967 to make way for the current edifice. And might we presume, despite George's protests otherwise, that he secretly funded its timely completion for Bertha's sake? Such a romantic gesture befitting him—when he isn't withholding crucial truths from her.
Bertha also grapples with Larry's youthful indiscretions, which exude sheer exhaustion. Larry embodies the Ashton Kutcher to Mrs. Blane's Demi Moore, their affair blazing with intensity. They profess their love, a sentiment one might entertain, albeit with reservations. But does it truly matter? I find myself turning into a pragmatic realist when confronted with such scenarios in fiction. Fortunately, I am in harmonious accord with Bertha, who warns Mrs. Blane of Larry's inability to sire an heir (a debatable point, but let's roll with it) and the likelihood of him waiting impatiently for her demise in two decades. Harsh, perhaps, yet possibly truthful? While some cherish love above all else, sexual fervor wanes, and their acquaintance spans mere weeks. When Mrs. Blane breaks down in tears at her doorstep, severing ties with Larry (a moment I cherish), he expresses disbelief, envisioning a future of wedded bliss. Larry, you must broaden your horizons! This is an era where divorce carries grave societal repercussions. My continued support for Larry and Mrs. Blane hinges solely on their eloping to Italy. It would be an exhilarating escapade; they ought to seize the moment.
In the realm of Matters of Gravitas: Peggy and T. Thomas Fortune descend upon Tuskegee, Alabama, with the mission to chronicle the burgeoning Tuskegee Institute, soon to be renamed Tuskegee University. Upon arrival, Fortune promptly engages in a head-on collision of ideologies with Booker T. Washington, contemplating whether incremental change holds merit or peril (a timely contemplation, indeed!). Their differences simmer throughout a shared dinner with Washington's spouse, Fannie Smith Washington, whose familiar visage I recognized with delight from "Julia"!
The ideological sparring between Fortune and Washington escalates, with Peggy attempting to mediate the discord. This discourse will resonate for generations to come, Peggy! The dialogue between these two gentlemen strikes a historical chord, with Washington advocating for harmonious coexistence and Fortune championing a "philosophy of militant agitation." My sole reservation, as yet unspoken, is that the depiction of Fortune on the show fails to capture his intellectual demeanor adequately, as evidenced by his portrait on Wikipedia.
The interpersonal dynamics are gaining depth and intrigue. George and Bertha have resumed their passionate interludes in the parlor, much to my appreciation, writers! Larry indulges in a romance akin to a spring-autumn affair (perhaps more like summer's fleeting charm?); Marian and Cousin Dashiell remain an enigma, with her displaying scant interest. Ada and Reverend Forte's relationship is progressing at breakneck speed. As for Oscar and Maud, their story remains shrouded in mystery, particularly Maud's predicaments. Did I overlook a revelation in prior episodes? She repeatedly hints at obligations to her father, while her religious inclinations become apparent during a church fundraiser, where Marian engages her in conversation amidst tassel-adorned doorways. Oscar and Maud intrigue me, yet I ponder the possibility of her living a double life, a scenario hinted at with Gladys. I yearn for two gays to tie the knot and embark on their individualistic gay lives together! Let Maud embrace her homosexuality, allowing her and Oscar to enjoy a gentle, platonic union. Such a portrayal would mark a historic first for lesbians in one of Julian Fellowes' creations (note: my research beyond a Google search for "downton abbey lesbian" remains cursory).
Jane Addams was mentioned this week, and her sexual orientation, famously unspoken but widely speculated to be gay, gives hope for her potential appearance later in the series. While Hull House, her celebrated endeavor, will not be established for some years, her belief in art's pivotal role in community building aligns with Marian's aspirations, despite Miss Barnes's skepticism.
Ada's romance with Reverend Forte unfolds with such haste that I fear he harbors an attic wife. Have they not met merely a handful of times? True, they shared a "laughing in the rain" moment, yet that alone does not a marital bond forge. I am astonished by his proposal and her immediate acceptance! Ada, we possess half a season yet! Surely, dramatic revelations await concerning the reverend. Or at least, I fervently hope so.
But the headline attraction is undoubtedly the showdown between Bertha and Winterton. Drama unfolds with a bang! Initially, the Academy box, which Mrs. Winterton had been parading smugly in Bertha's face, is abruptly wrenched from her grasp by Mrs. Astor—a moment that filled me with an inexplicably schadenfreude delight. Serve you right for attempting to dismantle our beloved couple, you wicked seductress! (Mind you, I maintain a clear distinction between these fictional sentiments and real-life interactions.)
Mr. Winterton, a venerable gentleman of advanced years, remains blissfully unaware of his wife's former life as a lady's maid. When he expresses confusion over the box's confiscation, Mrs. Winterton jumps to the erroneous conclusion that Bertha tattled on her to Mrs. Astor. Perhaps there was a glimmer of possibility, but the exact means of Mrs. Astor's awareness remain shrouded in mystery, likely orchestrated through her clandestine grapevine. Thus, Mrs. Winterton finds herself box-less.
However, the intrigue intensifies! Bertha, with her clever machinations, swaps their reception place cards for the Duke of Buckingham's event, swooping in to steal him right under Winterton's nose! He will now be a guest of the Russells at Newport.
Confessing a personal indulgence, I thrill at scenes where characters, consumed by rage, hurl objects into the flames. This episode evokes such a sentiment, reminiscent of Mari's fiery act of throwing Kenny's birthday cake into the blaze on Bachelor in Paradise, fueled by her fury towards Demi. What an exhilarating season that proved to be! And look at them now—Mari and Kenny, happily married! Perhaps the fire-cake ritual does work its magic! By this rationale, torching the newspaper announcing Buckingham's defection to the Russells should conjure his return to the Wintertons. Only the passage of time will unveil the truth.
After reducing the newspaper to ashes, Winterton vows to inconvenience Bertha if it's the last thing she does. More like, "Yessss! YEEEEEESSS!" My sole critique is that "upset" barely scratches the surface. I crave the word "ruin," and "destroy" would suffice just as well. Her husband attempts to soothe her with the promise of other dukes, but Winterton erupts in a tantrum, storming up the stairs with a Veruca Salt-like petulance, declaring that she doesn't want any other dukes; she wants this particular duke, whom the wicked witch has wrested from her grasp.
THIS IS BY FAR THE BEST EPISODE ENDING! Exactly what we yearned for: an unbalanced, vengeful character wreaking havoc on our cherished social hierarchy. Forward, Winterton! Let chaos reign!
