By Amanda Dobbins
It is time, finally, to speak some truths about Downton Abbey. Let's all put away the Austen and the Remains of the Day references, shelve the class politics, forget the word entail, and be honest with ourselves: This is a crazy soap opera. It secretly always has been; Jane Austen would probably kill us for ever comparing her work to a television show that included a Turkish gentleman dying mid-coitus. But Downton took a sharp turn towards Aaron Spelling Land last night, and at this point it's impossible to hide behind the Masterpiece imprimatur and talk down to people who still watch Desperate Housewives. Downton Abbey just pulled out the stranger-from-the-past double-reverse-amnesia plot line on us. There is no high ground anymore. We are all just people, in front of a screen, watching burn victims try to steal money from gullible millionaires.
Is it giving PBS too much credit to wonder if the Patrick Gordon Affair was scheduled purposefully for the same night as the Super Bowl? No one would actually skip Downton altogether, but maybe the whole fake heir English Patient scenario goes down easier after fifteen chicken wings and a Madonna halftime show. (Somewhere near his Emma tree, Julian Fellowes just fainted from disgust. We know how you feel, buddy.) If your comparative viewing did in fact make for a more enjoyable experience, then congratulations, because this wingless recapper is all kinds of annoyed.
I hit my head, forgot everything, and turned Canadian, but then I whacked my head again, and I’m cool. I still speak like a Canadian, though. Seriously, P. Gordon? And seriously, Edith? It’s hard to pick the most objectionable aspect of this nonplot, though the cutesy hand signals to Lord Grantham and the absurd brain science would certainly make the list. (We have enough Edwardian medical troubles on our mind with the Matthew Crawley penis situation.) Poor Laura Carmichael must have been tearing her hair out when this script arrived — she’s worked so hard all season to make Edith bearable, and now she’s stuck crying over a gargoyle. For 30 minutes. And then he’s gone again.
Back to making pinched faces in the shadows, Edith! For what it’s worth (zero, at this point), we’d argue that resurrecting Patrick Crawley — the real Patrick Crawley, without the bandages — would have made for a fairly spicy and not totally unbelievable inheritance development. (Gets rid of Carlisle, reignites the Mary-Edith war, maybe solves the whole “no Matthew Jr.s” issue.) But we draw the line at Z-list Almasys.
The only bright spot in the whole Patrick Affair is the opportunity it affords Lady Mary to rain regal fury down on the entire household. Good Lord, do not try to take Downton away from Mary Crawley’s beloved, because she will wreck you. Related advice: Do not parade around with Matthew Crawley in front of Richard Carlisle, because he will pin you against a column, threaten you, and then viciously kiss you. Yikes.
We remain Team Matthew, in spite of the broken penis and the Crap E-mail from a Dudelike speeches (“If you were not engaged to be married, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near me.” Ugh), but let’s all admit that Mary and Carlisle do make for a terrifying-yet-equal match. And while we’re at it, let’s all agree with Lord Grantham that it is, in fact, totally messed up to throw sad virginal Lavinia under the bus just because Matthew and Mary can’t be in a room without making googly eyes. (Or just openly declaring their love for each other. That garden scene was nuts!) It’s even crueler to pit Lavinia against Lady Mary in War Mode — that poor girl is going to get eaten for dinner with Mrs. Patmore’s rations run out. And then, we fear, Carlisle will publish the Pamuk story and Matthew will dump Mary all over again, just in time for Season Three.
Read more: http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2012/02/downton-abbey-recap-season-2-episode-5.html
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