Chaos reigns! A maelstrom of intrigue and subterfuge swirls around, yet I cannot be the sole soul unmoved by the mundane unveiling of the Brooklyn Bridge. Don't you perceive, Show, that matters of far greater significance are unfolding? Banish this talk of bridges from henceforth! Oscar has fallen prey to a brazen swindler. Indeed, we foresaw this fate, yet the revelation of Oscar being duped by a charlatan vixen strips bare the farce of Casterbridge Pacific. Do the unsuspecting viewers, who placed their unwavering trust in Maud and Casterbridge, mourn as deeply as Oscar? Perhaps not financially ruined, but imagine the disappointment of envisioning Oscar's fortune from this grand railroad venture, only to discover Maud is not visiting her aunt in Newport but, instead, indulging in Scrooge McDuck-like antics aboard a gold-laden railcar.
I confess, I misanticipated the trajectory of this deceitful saga. I envisioned Oscar uncovering the lies, learning a profound lesson, and embarking on a newfound purpose, perhaps in Italy, where he could indulge in homosexual escapades—a pastime popular among all. (Was there not a Merchant Ivory film hinting at homosexual undertones in Italy? And let us not forget 'Death in Venice'). When Oscar, heartbroken, reveals to his already devastated Aunt Agnes the near loss of the Van Rhijn fortune, and she urges him to retrieve it, I thought we were poised for a Season Three quest, where Oscar traverses seas to seek Maud and the Van Rhijn wealth, inevitably leading him to Italy and his homosexual escapades.
Instead, sorrow permeates, and the fun has evaporated! What prompts my continued viewing of this series, Julian Fellowes? To be reminded of humanity's darkest hours and the relentless despair that accompanies a cascade of calamities? Hardly! I tune in to witness the absurd hats adorning the heads of the affluent. I believed we shared an unspoken understanding, yet here I find myself, mourning the loss of a vibrant Robert Sean Leonard and worrying about Christine Baranski's next brooch purchase.
Fortunately, absurd hats still grace our screens, notably Bertha's, adorned with approximately fifty colossal white feathers arranged in a 'V'. It was the highlight of this episode, a spectacle akin to a giant, mutated swan perched backwards atop her head. I hope Carrie Coon savored this moment. The other hats, though adequate, paled in comparison, possibly intimidated by the Swan Butt Hat's grandeur.
Speaking of the Russells and the dire realms of human cruelty, it's somewhat reassuring to uncover George's underlying agenda in his refusal to condone soldiers' brutality towards his workforce. Now, speaking of brutality, when I recently solicited examples akin to the mill's turmoil, where soldiers nearly unleashed fire upon strikers, several of you kindly directed me towards the harrowing Lattimer massacre of 1897. That悲剧 day witnessed United Mine Workers miners being brutally slain by a sheriff's posse amidst their strike. Wikipedia boasts an entire entry detailing worker fatalities in U.S. labor disputes, reminding us that Vulture dot com doesn't solely dwell in the realm of whimsical hats; we delve into far more! (Though, admittedly, the hats are a delight.)
George bestows upon his workers safeguards, medical attention, a children's park, and a modest pay hike, yet these gestures are mere pawns in his scheme to divide the union and foster resentment towards "the Catholic immigrants and the Jews." How commendable of the show to remind us of George's ultimate loyalty—to his fortune. His assistant, Patrick Page, hailing from 'Hadestown,' beams with pride for his employer yet again.
Nonetheless, it's challenging to fully divest oneself from a modicum of pro-George sentiment, particularly when he shares a heartfelt scene with Bertha. Mrs. Astor extends an invitation to Bertha for a box at the Academy, an aspiration Bertha has long harbored. However, Bertha has pledged her allegiance to the Met. Their conversation, presumably unfolding in her grandiose chamber, is eclipsed by an entirely different spectacle—Bertha's hair cascading freely. Her hair, flowing freely. My ears were deaf to their dialogue, enraptured as I was by Carrie Coon's captivating aura. I rewound the scene, entranced once more. It's akin to Victorian gentlemen losing their composure at the mere glimpse of an ankle, albeit in 2023, and with Bertha Russell's enchanting tresses as the catalyst.
George reminds Bertha that the Academy shuns those who shape society, whereas she can reign supreme at the Met. A truthful observation. Moreover, did we all witness the climate protesters disrupting the opening night of 'Tannhäuser' at the Met? Many were outraged, yet one could argue that such actions breathe new life into opera. Countless social justice groups, eventually vindicated, have employed similar tactics throughout the last century. Perhaps we should embrace our role in this historic juncture. Additionally, the premiere of that very opera in Paris was famously interrupted, making this protest a delightful repetition of history. Only now, instead of the Jockey Club missing the ballet in disgust, people are underscoring the urgent need for action against our planet's demise. Thrilling, isn't it? Oh, and what a delightful coincidence—the protest coincided with 'The Gilded Age' cast's visit to the Met.
Amidst the chaos, Peggy finds herself at the forefront of a battle to salvage Black-run schools from the school board's axe. Principal Sarah Garnet, in a heartfelt plea, emphasizes to Dorothy and Fortune the necessity of enrolling white students and hiring white educators to keep their doors ajar. Peggy's brainstorm, however, takes an unexpected turn—she suggests Marian, who isn't even a teacher! Those days had schools dedicated to nurturing educators; why not hire a recent graduate? Marian, a watercolor instructor, may seem an unlikely candidate, but here we stand, nonetheless.
Dorothy, ever vigilant, has her suspicions about Peggy and Fortune's machinations, and her disdain is palpable. I, too, would share her sentiments, Mrs. Scott! A silver lining amidst the drama: Dorothy and Peggy don their finest frocks at the rooftop soiree atop the Brooklyn Bridge, a vision of elegance and grace.
Alas, Reverend Luke's fleeting presence in Ada's life was but a momentary gleam of sunlight, now extinguished, plunging her world into gloom once more. One wishes for a deeper emotional engagement with this narrative thread, but perhaps Robert Sean Leonard's schedule permitted only fleeting appearances, and that, I respect.
Amusingly, people marvel at Cynthia Nixon's transformation post-Miranda from Sex and the City. As one who has yet to indulge in SATC but has witnessed Nixon's somber portrayal in A Quiet Passion, a biopic on Emily Dickinson filled with interminable deathbed scenes, Nixon's role here feels par for her dramatic course. (Far livelier and delightfully queer is Wild Nights with Emily.)
Now, to Reverend Luke's passing, swift and unexpected. He collapses at Agnes's, defying his wish to spend his final days at home, instead lingering in her care. Agnes ensures Ada tends to herself, however minimally, and they share a poignant conversation with the reverend before his demise.
Larry and Marian share a poignant moment, hinting at a potential romantic blossoming by the series' end. It's evident; he checks in on her after the bridge dedication, seemingly having moved past his previous infatuation. Their stroll together hints at a possible breakup with Dashiell in the near future.
As we conclude, where oh where is Mrs. Winterton? The air is thick with foreboding, and I yearn to witness another of her devious schemes, perhaps as devilish as her soup conspiracy. Imagine a thumbtack under Bertha's chair! Instead, we're denied even a glimpse of her pensively gazing into the flames, her hands tearing up a newspaper illustration of the Russells. Her absence suggests life's injustice, granting us rarely what we desire but, occasionally, what we need—like Bertha Russell with her hair cascading freely.
