Express Co.UK
HOW WILL WE SURVIVE WITHOUT DOWNTON ABBEY?
IT WAS a tense Sunday night on our sofa. Who was in trouble?
Who was up for eviction? No, not from the X Factor – from the Abbey, of course. Downton Abbey.
Five minutes in, it was a choice between Lady Cora, Lavinia Swire and Carson the butler – as they murmured in turn: “I’m not feeling very well”… “neither am I”… “nor me” and keeled over with Spanish flu before you could say
“first commercial break”.
The concluding episode of the second series and writer Julian Fellowes was juggling more balls than a lottery draw machine as it pulled in record ratings of more than 10 million.
This series opened with Downton Abbey transformed from a gracious, stately family seat to a convalescent home for First World War veterans.
Each episode saw an adjustment in many of the characters’ personalities. Mrs Crawley (Penelope Wilton) emerged from shy incomer to bossy boots hospital manager; Lady Edith became less of an irritating sneak and much more flirty and sympathetic – albeit with a dash of self-pity – as she contemplated being a lonely old maid, only to be told by her formidable grandmother: “Don’t be defeatist dear, it’s so middle class.”
Ah yes, the Dowager Countess Violet (Maggie Smith) showed us a surprisingly touching side as she tried to broker Matthew and Mary’s romance but balanced this with Lady Bracknell-style one liners such as: “What is a weekend?”
BUT most of all series two was about sex.
Upstairs, downstairs – and on the stairs. They were (almost) all at it – or would like to have been – with the obvious exception of Carson and Mrs Hughes – although there was a definite frisson when she thought he was going to leave Downton to work for Lady Mary.
Love – or at least lust – crossed class barriers as housemaid Edith had a night of passion, and a baby, with Major Bryant; Lady Sybil and the chauffeur romped in the garage and Lord Grantham kissed a serving girl and liked it.
Five minutes in, it was a choice between Lady Cora, Lavinia Swire and Carson the butler – as they murmured in turn: “I’m not feeling very well”… “neither am I”… “nor me” and keeled over with Spanish flu before you could say
“first commercial break”.
The concluding episode of the second series and writer Julian Fellowes was juggling more balls than a lottery draw machine as it pulled in record ratings of more than 10 million.
This series opened with Downton Abbey transformed from a gracious, stately family seat to a convalescent home for First World War veterans.
Each episode saw an adjustment in many of the characters’ personalities. Mrs Crawley (Penelope Wilton) emerged from shy incomer to bossy boots hospital manager; Lady Edith became less of an irritating sneak and much more flirty and sympathetic – albeit with a dash of self-pity – as she contemplated being a lonely old maid, only to be told by her formidable grandmother: “Don’t be defeatist dear, it’s so middle class.”
Ah yes, the Dowager Countess Violet (Maggie Smith) showed us a surprisingly touching side as she tried to broker Matthew and Mary’s romance but balanced this with Lady Bracknell-style one liners such as: “What is a weekend?”
BUT most of all series two was about sex.
Upstairs, downstairs – and on the stairs. They were (almost) all at it – or would like to have been – with the obvious exception of Carson and Mrs Hughes – although there was a definite frisson when she thought he was going to leave Downton to work for Lady Mary.
Love – or at least lust – crossed class barriers as housemaid Edith had a night of passion, and a baby, with Major Bryant; Lady Sybil and the chauffeur romped in the garage and Lord Grantham kissed a serving girl and liked it.
Meanwhile, Lady Mary did a masterclass in straight-backed smouldering as she tried to be nice to Matthew’s limp fiancée Lavinia.
This series has taken some flak for veering between strong, believable stories and flights into barmy unbelievablity.
But I don’t have a downer on Downton. Far from it. As a TV writer myself I have huge admiration for Julian Fellowes’ achievement in entertaining us over two fantastic series, with complex storylines for more than 40 characters.
And last night, he still kept us guessing. Who would succumb to Spanish flu? My early bet was on Lady Cora, feverishly thrashing with only the malevolent Mrs O’Brien crouched at her bedside – less out of devotion to her employer and more because she wanted to confess that, a series ago, she’d put a piece of soap on the floor by her bath and caused her mistress to miscarry.
I only went to put the kettle on and suddenly Lady Cora was better but Lavinia, who seemed positively chirpy last time I looked, sitting up and chatting to fiancé Matthew about their future nuptials – had decided to leave her sick bed and wander downstairs – just in time to see her fiancé and Lady Mary locked in a clinch.
No doubt she overheard the words “Can you manage without your stick?” and imagined the worst – but they were only dancing.
Nevertheless, within minutes she was prone and lifeless on the coverlet. Spanish flu was a disease that could take “savage turns”, noted the doctor.
Never mind. Nice girl and all that but definitely blocking the path of true love as she was good enough to admit before pegging out.
As they took down the floral garlands for the wedding that was not to be I thought: “Leave them up! They’ll do for Matthew and Mary’s!” But no.
When Mary gave him “now the path is clear” glances, Matthew rebuffed her, claiming that Lavinia had obviously died of a broken heart and therefore they could never live with the guilt nor be happy together.
“Cliffhanger”, flashed in neon lights because I’m sure the woman who heaved a dead lover out of the house at night will have no difficulty in persuading Matthew that sensitivities are all very well but are no reason to deprive the viewers of a happy ending.
WE DID get a wedding – but not the one we expected. No carriages or cascades of rose petals but we were off to Ripon Register Office with that nice Anna and Robert Timmins from Lark Rise To Candleford – oh sorry, I mean Mr Bates.
Having been given one of the 200 spare rooms as a honeymoon suite their morning after was rather ruined when the police clapped the groom in handcuffs and arrested him for his wife’s murder.
And that’s where series two ended, not with a bang but with a whimper, from Anna, as Bates, her new husband, was led away to jail.
Escapist, absorbing, funny and exasperating at times, Downton took us to another place, another age and we want to go back there again.
As I wandered up to bed I found myself singing an adaptation of Petula Clark’s Sixties hit: “We can forget all our troubles, forget all our cares and go Downton! Things’ll be great when you’re Downton – don’t wait a minute for Downton – everything’s waiting for you!”
But we’ll have to hold out for the Christmas special and a third series next year. Millions of us can hardly wait.
This series has taken some flak for veering between strong, believable stories and flights into barmy unbelievablity.
But I don’t have a downer on Downton. Far from it. As a TV writer myself I have huge admiration for Julian Fellowes’ achievement in entertaining us over two fantastic series, with complex storylines for more than 40 characters.
And last night, he still kept us guessing. Who would succumb to Spanish flu? My early bet was on Lady Cora, feverishly thrashing with only the malevolent Mrs O’Brien crouched at her bedside – less out of devotion to her employer and more because she wanted to confess that, a series ago, she’d put a piece of soap on the floor by her bath and caused her mistress to miscarry.
I only went to put the kettle on and suddenly Lady Cora was better but Lavinia, who seemed positively chirpy last time I looked, sitting up and chatting to fiancé Matthew about their future nuptials – had decided to leave her sick bed and wander downstairs – just in time to see her fiancé and Lady Mary locked in a clinch.
No doubt she overheard the words “Can you manage without your stick?” and imagined the worst – but they were only dancing.
Nevertheless, within minutes she was prone and lifeless on the coverlet. Spanish flu was a disease that could take “savage turns”, noted the doctor.
Never mind. Nice girl and all that but definitely blocking the path of true love as she was good enough to admit before pegging out.
As they took down the floral garlands for the wedding that was not to be I thought: “Leave them up! They’ll do for Matthew and Mary’s!” But no.
When Mary gave him “now the path is clear” glances, Matthew rebuffed her, claiming that Lavinia had obviously died of a broken heart and therefore they could never live with the guilt nor be happy together.
“Cliffhanger”, flashed in neon lights because I’m sure the woman who heaved a dead lover out of the house at night will have no difficulty in persuading Matthew that sensitivities are all very well but are no reason to deprive the viewers of a happy ending.
WE DID get a wedding – but not the one we expected. No carriages or cascades of rose petals but we were off to Ripon Register Office with that nice Anna and Robert Timmins from Lark Rise To Candleford – oh sorry, I mean Mr Bates.
Having been given one of the 200 spare rooms as a honeymoon suite their morning after was rather ruined when the police clapped the groom in handcuffs and arrested him for his wife’s murder.
And that’s where series two ended, not with a bang but with a whimper, from Anna, as Bates, her new husband, was led away to jail.
Escapist, absorbing, funny and exasperating at times, Downton took us to another place, another age and we want to go back there again.
As I wandered up to bed I found myself singing an adaptation of Petula Clark’s Sixties hit: “We can forget all our troubles, forget all our cares and go Downton! Things’ll be great when you’re Downton – don’t wait a minute for Downton – everything’s waiting for you!”
But we’ll have to hold out for the Christmas special and a third series next year. Millions of us can hardly wait.
No comments:
Post a Comment