In the past five days I’ve downed nearly two seasons of Downton Abbey. It’s been a bit of a binge, really. Sort of glutenous of me to see in short order what millions of television viewers have watched over two years.
And as if eating a whole pie in one sitting, I began to feel ill.
Season 1 set up all the characters, showed us the good guys, the evil and dark souls, revealed the rivalries, the love interests. It was filled with intrigue, twists, a bit of frivolity. Maggie Smith’s character, the Dowager, kept a very tight line between her class and the servants. It was fascinating to see the story unfold.
Season 2 centered around World War 1 and while we were spared the level of
detail of a Leaving Private Ryan, we learned very well the pain of war. Loved ones died in France, fiancés came back broken, William returned only to soon die but after marrying his beloved Daisy. Downton was turned into a convalescent home. A major hooked up with a housemaid and left her with a child, Patrick or Peter returned disfigured. There was so much more. Almost too much to digest in three hours last evening. But I kept going.
Lady Clare nearly died and it so pained her maid O’Brien to watch because of the later’s unspoken crime against her mistress. Lord Grantham – how could you? – kissed one of the maids (yes, I can see why you were disheartened with your wife’s negativity but you seemed above such indiscretions). Sir Richard not only Continue reading