Winter Wednesdays, Part One, or Why Love (of Downton) is Better the Second Time Around

I don’t want my daughter to be married to a man who threatens to ruin her. . . . I want a good man, a brave man. . .  find a cowboy in the Middle West!

Oh girls, if only we knew that gemstone of sagacity way back when!!! C’mon you Downton addicts, need we even discuss exactly when, why, where and by whom this pearl was said??? You know these lines better than all the info you once crammed into your head during a college all-nighter right before an important final. You've practically memorized the episodes verbatim during the repeat airings of the show. Except this stuff you never forget because you loved it from the first and can see it again and again. And you ruminate on the wisdom of the words whilst wishing Lord Grantham were your dad, right? Castle of course included, gratis, a perk.

But Robert lord-of-the-manor in jolly ol’ Edwardian England isn’t always so soft on us rebels across the pond, like when he exhorts the indomitable dowager countess at one point: Are you afraid that someone will think you’re American if you speak openly?

Oh heaven forbid, not the specter of another noisy American!!!  Banish the thought. On this same, recurring theme, in a later episode we also learn from the ineffable, adorable Mrs. Patmore- as she contemplates the devising of yet another menu of pudding and soufflé like dishes- that we yanks are known to eat things like steak with gobs of ketchup. It seems, alas, that we simply are there for cultural contrast and in the end the Brits still rule, but who cares? How better to pass wintry Wednesday evenings than to immerse oneself in the cozy comfort of an all seasons rerun fest! It’s like a velvety, warm quilt with a silver tray of bon bons within easy hand’s reach.

So thank, you thank you whatever gods of Brit TV may exist for this wonderful gift that keeps on giving!!! And to PBS for offering it yet again from beginning to end on various Wednesdays throughout the winter!

In truth, not all the episodes were equally sumptuous, uplifting, impeccably furnished and gloriously costumed. Remember watching early on in the series as the doc informs a dying patient that his “periocardial sac” was “filled with fluid” (uh oh!) and then jabbing the poor sod with some crazy fluid-removing, suctioning needle thingamajig smack in the chest, at the behest of the ever enthusiastic Mrs. Crawley? Remember wanting to change the channel? But then again, clearly the brewing conflict between  a feisty Flo Nightingale and the ever frisky Dowager was worth hanging in for!

In these early days we also are treated once again to the spectacle of Bates and Anna getting warm and fuzzy together, making the watcher feel that perhaps all is occasionally right with the world. Yet as we get to know the staff better and begin to regard them as family, this good feeling is speedily tempered by our repressed rage at witnessing the ever malevolent O’Brien revealing Gwen’s typewriter to the entire downstairs crew in an effort to “secretary shame” the poor girl. Ugh!

It grabs you from the first we are reminded, and from the second, third and fourth time around as we begin watching all the seasons of Downton Abbey from the start. Amid Napier and Pamuk flying along with the hunt in cute hunting outfits on their majestic steeds, and then the handsome Turkish lover’s corpse being gingerly toted by the Crawley ladies through the dim hallways of the mansion after a wild night with Lady Mary, clearly all sorts of mischief are afoot here. And even though no one watching this believes for one second that Carson ever indeed was/could/want to be a song and dance man, we still accept that Lord G. must make short shrift of a would be blackmailer by throwing the threatening miscreant twenty pounds and essentially telling him to get lost. It seems Lord G. ain’t sayin’ adieu to the head butler anytime soon, so there. Put that in your after dinner cigar and brandy.

Oh yeah, you think you can do this ‘cause you’re a lord? Carson’s former vaudeville cohort spits out in anger as he grabs the dough.

You betcha he can!!!

The winter can be a tad dreary, can it not? But between the holiday marathon at Highclere, and now these heavenly Wednesdays, suddenly I am feeling young and ebullient again- comfortably immersed in a charmed life of delicious melodrama, plush cushions, impeccable manners, perfectly enunciated, aristocratic speech patterns that command, and gorgeous clothes over which to drool with envy and desire (to own, to wear, to be there)!                          

                                      (cont'd on March 17th)