Behold, it has been done! "The Gilded Age" concluded its season with a finale that was solidly crafted, if not flawless. Could perfection have been achieved? Perhaps, but critiquing it further would be akin to nitpicking at a burrito joint down the street with a 2.5-star rating on Yelp; you know exactly what to expect, and occasionally, that joint serves up a pretty darn good burrito. (Indeed, on rare occasions.)
Yet, to contradict my earlier sentiment, allow me to share a few musings: Why does it adhere so steadfastly to historical accuracy? The truth is, it scarcely matters! If I craved a documentary on the Gilded Age, I'd simply tune into "American Experience: The Gilded Age" on PBS, which I have, in fact, watched! This show feels like Julian Fellowes indulging in a dollhouse fantasy, playing the role of the child who insists on sticking rigidly to the movie's storyline while playing with toys, refusing to let Belle elope with Ariel despite their mutual fascination and zest for life. Rest assured, the History Police aren't going to come after you, JF. As the self-appointed Chief of the History Police, I declare that historical precision is immaterial when your primary characters are merely "inspired by" real-life figures. Besides, only a handful of individuals would bat an eye if you deviated from the script of 1880s America. This isn't Tudor England; very few people are emotionally tied to the actual facts.
The finale delved into Bertha's rivalry with Mrs. Astor in their opera war, the Van Rhijn family's downfall, the potential shutdown of Black (and now Irish!) schools, and some romantic entanglements. Regarding the opera war, unfortunately, we stuck closely to the historical script concerning Gladys' fate. We all suspected it, and there it was! Bertha pawned her daughter off to the Duke of Buckingham to outshine Mrs. Astor's opera house. One might argue, "But Consuelo Vanderbilt married the Duke of Marlborough, so how accurate is this, really?" To that, I raise an arch eyebrow, silencing you with a glance of disdain, for the specific duke in question is beside the point. Consuelo was once engaged to a man named Winthrop Rutherfurd before being coerced into marrying the duke, and it seems our Winthrop equivalent is Billy Carlton.
Bertha, terrified of publicly losing to Mrs. Astor after all her social climbing, stakes her claim on who could win the duke's attendance at their respective opera house openings. Gentlemen, there are genuinely momentous events unfolding in the world. Nevertheless, Bertha first led the duke to the Metropolitan Opera, then Mrs. Astor enticed him with social connections, and finally, Bertha, in a desperate bid, seemingly offered, "I shall give you my eldest" (daughter), akin to the Baker's father in "Into the Woods," to which the duke, surprisingly, agreed. This is the consequence of coveting magical beans and/or buying into a social system doomed to become but two colossal, lifeless legs of stone in the desert one day.
Bertha's triumphant moment at the Metropolitan Opera is undeniably amusing, as the show's theme resonates grandly through the air, drawing every gaze towards her as she grandly enters the center box. Mrs. Winterton, seething in one of the side boxes, watches the spectacle unfold. Mamie Fish arrives, pronouncing the Academy as lifeless as a morgue and claiming that American society has undergone a renaissance tonight—though her exaggeration (haha, Mamie, this isn't a bicycle factory relaunch!) falls flat. Bertha orders Gladys to sit beside the duke and strictly forbids her from visiting Billy Carlton's box, adding an unwelcome twist to the evening. Alas, the Russells are headed for divorce, their hearts shattered, all because Bertha craves social supremacy in 1880s America. And who stands as her rival? An Astor? The very family who amassed their fortune by decimating the beaver population? Oh yes, she must truly impress them. This situation is utterly lamentable.
On a somber note, Peggy's father, Arthur, discovers that the board of education cunningly changed their meeting time to deter Black parents and teachers from attending and advocating for their schools. Fortunately, Arthur arrives just in time, accompanied by Dorothy, Sarah Garnet, and other fervent school supporters. Together, they persuade the board to keep at least two out of three schools open—a hard-won victory, indeed. Amidst this struggle, Peggy encounters T. Thomas Fortune's wife and their newborn baby. Sir, no. Absolutely not. She decides then and there to quit her job at the newspaper and devote herself to her novel. While her decision to focus on her literary pursuits is admirable, it is distressing that she feels compelled to resign due to her boss's failure to maintain appropriate boundaries now that he is married with a newborn. Boo, sir, boo indeed. Peggy has endured enough turmoil this season.
Marian and Dashiell's storyline this season has been so overplayed and forced that it seems even the writers themselves found it unpalatable. (I'm pretty sure this is the case.) Marian goes along with the flow, until she abruptly realizes she doesn't want to marry her cousin, who, in a moment of carelessness, addresses her by his deceased wife's name. Their breakup is remarkably civil and painless, leaving Agnes and others nonchalantly indifferent. The entire storyline could have been excised without leaving any void. This season, I find Marian far more endearing as a supportive background character, but I have no desire to embark on an emotional odyssey with her that might end with her serenading "Back to Before" from Ragtime (Oh my god, if only that were the case).
Immediately following the opera's conclusion, Larry Russell escorts Marian back to her abode just across the street, where they share a passionate kiss on her doorstep. How brisk our romantic narratives have become! Why must every union in this series spring forth fully blossomed, like flowers in an accelerated time-lapse? The mere hint of Larry's romantic inclination towards Marian sends us hurtling into the depths of love's turbulence. The concept of a gradually kindling affection seems to make Julian Fellowes retch in disbelief. "Unresolved sexual tension? Pah!" he might exclaim. "No, the audience revels in the subtle hint of attraction, swiftly culminating in matrimony. It's a satisfying spectacle for all concerned." Why couldn't Marian gradually awaken to her feelings for Larry, while still engaged to Dashiell, her sense of honor holding her back? Imagine a tender moment where Larry hands her a teacup, their fingers briefly grazing, accompanied by a meaningful glance – a glance! And then, perhaps, a single, stolen kiss in a conservatory (a quintessential Russell maneuver), only for her to abruptly end it, fleeing in tears. Now, that would be captivating. Instead, they're contentedly canoodling on a doorstep. Oh well, such is the whimsical world of this show. I recounted this segment to my wife, who remarked on the uncanny specificity of these events, prompting me to confess they had eerily mirrored scenes from 'Days of Our Lives' in 1997.
Now, let us conclude with the Van Rhijns. I was genuinely fearful that Oscar might harm himself! And then, to my astonishment, I realized I had grown invested in one of the characters from this otherwise absurd drama, and I chided myself for being so easily ensnared, much like Oscar! Agnes shows him no mercy, declaring that he has squandered centuries of their family's work, leaving her to beg for scraps on street corners. Her tirade is a classic Lucille Bluth moment – over-the-top and melodramatic, kindling an urge within me to ignite myself in solidarity with my exasperation. To clarify, they are not penniless; they merely need to sell their mansion and relocate downtown.
However, in a stunning twist worthy of my most fervent letters to JF, Ada discovers that her late husband had secretly amassed a fortune, allowing the Van Rhijns to retain their mansion, servants, and couture. The delightful twist here lies in the swift transformation of the household's power dynamics, with Ada now footing the bills. I am absolutely thrilled. If the Reverend Luke and Ada's two-minute marriage was orchestrated solely for this purpose, then it was a venture worth undertaking. Indeed, this shall be the primary impetus driving my return for the next season. Onward, brave hearts!
