I’ve been curious to know what all the fuss over Downton Abbey is about so last night I watched the first season on DVD. I was sorely disappointed when the rat poison didn’t make it to the dining room table in the first episode. They missed a great opportunity there. I’m also sorry to say I find the characters too well starched. And, I don’t buy the benevolent, all-wise Earl of Grantham bit – history shows the lord is more lech than liege.
As the story minces along we see the earl put wrongs to rights, the menials learning from his example. Spare me. If the conceit were indeed true, the house staff would be a crew of entitled loafers by season’s end. Downton Abbey perpetuates the myth that the wealthy deserve their pedestal of superiority and the rest of us who benefit from their philosophical wisdom, moral leadership, and puny wages dispensed from on high are meant to accept the status quo. There’s a scene in which Grantham tells Cawley that letting the help wait on him is actually a kindness to them (“everyone has a role to play”), a self-serving sentiment, if ever there was one. We all know the reality: the 1% are more debauched and fraudulent than exemplary, and trickle down of anything is unlikely, except for syphilis perhaps.
The Help at Curraghmore House, 1905, National Library of Ireland
A more interesting set of characters than the Edwardian paper dolls at Downton Abbey are the flesh and blood Brontes of Haworth. I recently read Juliet Barker’s meticulous biography of the famous authors and their father. In addition to writing a compelling, multi-dimensional narrative and character study of creative genius, Ms. Barker provides social and political insight into the first half of 19th century England. We learn, for example, that in the 1830s the Haworth mill owners were in a twist when new laws were passed to prevent 6-year-old children working more than 48 hours per week, and 12-year-old children working more than 60 hours per week. (Now we know how the Granthams made their money.)
Oyster shuckers, Port Royal, South Carolina, or as the oligarchs would say “the good old days.” Photo by Lewis Hines
Having already read Emily and Charlotte’s wonderful books, I was inspired to pick up Anne Bronte’s novel “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.” In contrast to Emily’s deep soul haunting and Charlotte’s feminist angst, Anne’s prose is charmingly domestic with delightful phrases such as “in correction for his impudence, [he] received a resounding whack over the sconce.”
So next Sunday will find me reading Bronte in my chair in front of the woodstove, instead of watching Downton Abbey.
The Bronte Sisters as painted by their brother, Branwell
Posted by Alice Gebura, Copyright 2013, All Rights Reserved.
Oh yeah, Downton Abbey. A confection and pathogen rolled into one. A measure of where the world viewers are at and what they crave. This little costume party must be most entertaining to the players. How they can keep straight faces I cannot imagine. Were rich folks of the era so afflicted with Head in Ass disease? Bring on the Kardashians……the mysterious people who have severely pussified Bruce Jenner.