Have you ever pondered over the squandered potential of "The Gilded Age," contemplating how this series could deliver a profound commentary on our contemporary era yet instead chooses to stumble along, resorting to the safe haven of historical cameos and stiffness in dialogue, akin to taking the path of least resistance? Perhaps we're merely here to mock Mamie Fish's nightmarish millinery creations; they are indeed cringe-worthy.
In case you require a recap from the previous season, which concluded its broadcast in 2023: Oscar squandered the entire van Rhijn fortune in a railroad scam; Ada inherited her wealth following Robert Sean Leonard's exit from the show, be it due to his character's demise or departure; Larry and Marian have embarked on a romantic journey; and Bertha is devising a cunning plan to wed Gladys to the Duke of Buckingham, henceforth known as "Hector." Got that? Excellent, let us delve once more into our historical melodramatic tale.
Our narrative unfolds in the Wild West, specifically within the Arizona territory. The townscape resembles a high school stage set, but I shall extend them the benefit of assuming this was perhaps the authenticity of such dismal towns back in those days—as though high school students were entrusted with nails and paint buckets, tasked with recreating the set of "The Music Man's" Wells Fargo wagon scene. What brings us here? It's because George Russell and his assistant are embarked on constructing a railroad. George is in dire need of—more money, yes, more! However, the land he craves is laden with mines, and the miners are being utterly obstinate about relinquishing their sole possession to a man who already owns everything else. All the mine owners desire a collective meeting with George to discuss this matter, prompting him to dismiss them as ignorant bumpkins. How charming!
During their eventual encounter, the miners essentially convey, "We too wish to reap the benefits of your endeavors here." George is irked but lacks the luxury of time for debate, as another bank run necessitates his immediate return to New York! He entrusts his assistant with the reins. I ponder what might suddenly ignite my interest in this railroad land rights subplot. Perhaps if the entire series underwent a "Westworld"-esque transformation? But only if it were the first season of "Westworld." (Imagine the brilliance of Carrie Coon in such a realm!)
Back in New York, Ada reigns supreme over the van Rhijn household, her position secured by the generous finances of Robert Sean Leonard's family. She seems to be in a perpetual cycle of philanthropic enthusiasm, diving headfirst into a fresh cause every month, which, I must admit, strikes a chord with me. Only, while she "suddenly donates vast sums to the settlement house movement," I find myself "lavishing all my funds on Labubus, only for my toddler daughter to deem them her babies and claim them all as her own." Fair enough.
Currently, Ada has her sights set on temperance, a focus the show finds utterly ridiculous. The temperance meeting's leader proclaims, "Those who indulge in alcohol are condemned to the fiery pits of Hell," as if temperance activists' discussions revolved solely around Hell and not the plight of married women who had no legal claim to their husbands' income. These women, trapped with no means to stop their spouses from squandering it all on liquor, often had little recourse when abused or when their children suffered. Let us not overlook that the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union was once the largest women’s organization in the United States, providing unprecedented opportunities for women to speak in public. Instead, the show mocks these temperance advocates while overlooking their significant achievements, such as successfully raising the age of consent nationwide from as low as 7 years old (10 in numerous states) to 16 and 18. I am deeply dissatisfied with this portrayal! Appalled, even! Mocking the temperance movement is a lazy narrative choice, plain and simple.
We catch a fleeting glimpse of Broadway's royalty, Audra McDonald, as she bids farewell to her daughter Peggy, alias Denée Benton. If you haven't witnessed Audra McDonald's performance at this year's Tony Awards, prepare yourself for a mesmerizing experience. And do make a point to see Cole Escola's reaction to her winning Best Actress in a Musical – it's a treat. Additionally, though she appears briefly in this episode, they've thrown in another Tony winner for our viewing pleasure: Victoria Clark! Her son Billy is courting Gladys, a character I'm indifferent towards; he exists solely as an alternative for Gladys beyond Hector, the duke. However, I'd love to hear Victoria Clark belt out her iconic song from Titanic the Musical.
Victoria Clark and Billy find themselves at the opera, attending the third act of La Traviata. I tried to fathom why they'd choose only the third act when the entire opera is a masterpiece, depriving themselves of numerous delightful arias. Perhaps they sought solely to witness the soprano's poignant demise. An odd choice, indeed. Larry and Gladys were meant to accompany Aurora Fane (Kelli O’Hara!), but her husband informs her of his intention to divorce her during the 1880s, revealing he's having an affair with a woman named Elsa Lipton, whom I presume we'll meet soon. Initially, I thought he'd confess to being gay; there was a definite vibe. Perhaps "Elsa Lipton" is code. And seriously, a gay confession during PRIDE month? Where's the respect?
Aurora's husband insists that she journey to Newport to press charges against him for adultery, paving the way for their divorce. In response, Aurora retorts, "Whoa there, my dear. A divorce is the last thing I desire, and besides, you haven't even come clean about being gay." Over at Ada and Agnes's abode, Agnes solemnly informs Aurora that a divorce would undoubtedly preclude her from future dinner invitations. It seems everyone is acting particularly odious this week. Even Larry, who one might consider decent, sports an absurd bowler hat and refuses to allow Jack to attend their momentous clock meeting. Marian, ever the comedian, cracked jokes at the temperance gathering, while Bertha, embodying the miserly spirit of Ebenezer Scrooge in The Gilded Age, plots to ruin Gladys's life. The sole beacon of kindness amidst this chaos is Peggy, and yet, poor Peggy might be succumbing to consumption! Fed up with everyone's nonsense, Gladys decides to flee into the night.
