Post Dramatic Stress

Let me make one thing clear:  I do not have writer’s block.  I am not unable to write; nor do I have a lack of stimulating topics on which to pontificate.  My affliction is more specific.  I am stuck, for sure; but I am stuck in another time and place.  It is just after the end of World War I and I am stuck at Downton Abbey.

Over the weekend, my husband and I fulfilled a pledge we have been making to each other for some time to watch the much-acclaimed Masterpiece classic series.  Thanks to a bleak weather forecast, Netflix On Demand, and a peculiar little gadget called Apple TV, we dialed up the first episode to take a look at what all the fuss was about.  Fifteen minutes later, we were hooked.  I no longer cared what chores I needed to accomplish during the weekend.  The bed went unmade and the laundry unwashed.  I never left the house.  The only force capable of diverting this plan was the Boston Bruins.  Their two scheduled play-off games commanded the TV, first for three hours on Saturday and then for another three (including a sudden death overtime) on Sunday.  No sooner were the players off the ice than we were back in the English countryside.

There are sixteen hour-long episodes of Downton Abbey.  We watched every last one.  Avid Anglophiles and lovers of period dramas, we were captivated by the plight of the Crawley family and the behind-the-staircase intrigue among the house staff.  We enjoyed the plot twists that kept Mary and Matthew apart, knowing with confidence that they would come together in the end and wondering who would be sacrificed to make it happen.  We loved the mysterious Mr. Bates, whose suspicious demeanor made it hard to trust in his apparently virtuous heart.  And we laughed at the less-than-subtle battles of wits and words between the two dowager hens, Violet and Isobel. 

Even more interesting was the snobbery between the liveried footman and the backroom cooks and maids.  The attitudes and aspirations of this servant class were an interesting parallel to those who were welcome at the front door.  Each group ran the full gamut, possessing in equal measure snobbery, upward aspiration, hope, futility and a desire to escape.  Though the pace was as slow moving as the practiced indifference of English nobles, the drama itself was surprisingly suspenseful.  Would Matthew walk again?  Would Sybil run away?  Would Bates hang?  Would Richard reveal Mary’s secret?

That Downton Abbey was an obvious nod at two of my favorite pieces of literature—Pride and Prejudice and Les Miserables—only made it that much more enjoyable.  I never tire of these stories where those who “have” are admired for doing nothing, while those who “have not” are admired for how much they do without being observed.  What makes Downton Abbey interesting is that the players on both sides question their roles openly in their social charade, letting us in on the irony as a new era dawns.  Even while preserving the strict trappings of tradition—dressing for dinner, offering the correct wine pairings, maintaining the hierarchy of butler, valet and footman—they wonder aloud at the appropriateness of these details and the effort expended in the name of social order.  

There is a reason I do not watch these series when they run in prime time.  It is because I descend so deeply into the characters and the storylines that I simply cannot function.  When I read (and re-read) Jane Austen or Bronte sister books, for example, I typically read them in one sitting—often reading late into the early hours of the morning.  Weekly television installments of period dramas destroy me.  Not only do I get butterflies in my stomach waiting for the following week’s episode, I dwell in another time and place for days after watching each one.  Today, I am still recovering from Downton overload.  I am fixated on how the characters each wore the same three dresses at dinners over an eight-year period.  I am still trying to figure out the particular configurations that resulted in the girls’ tidy hairstyles.  I am smiling at the clever scene where Anna, the maid, played nonchalantly with the new electric curling iron on her own hair in order to master the technique for her Lady Mary.  I wonder what will become of Daisy and her newfound confidence.  Will Vera’s spirit inhabit the Ouija Board?  Will Thomas prove to have any redeeming qualities?

And now, I am caught up and hankering for more.  I cannot stand it.   Like everyone else, I will have to wait until January, 2013.  At least I’ll be finished with my blog by then, giving me leave to dwell at Downton Abbey for as long as I wish.

Tomorrow's blog:  Brush With Fame