When people talk about “Downton Abbey,” it’s often with a sense of wonder: How could a British period drama about the aristocracy and the servants that support it have smitten young Americans? Its first season’s four 90-minute episodes on PBS averaged 4.9 million viewers in the U.S., and Sunday’s second-season premiere nabbed a reported 4.2 million (beating E!’s “Kourtney & Kim Take New York”). A PBS marketing vice president recently told the New York Times that “social media drove the success of ‘Downton’ the first time around.” That seems ironic for a show whose characters are puzzled by the concept of kitchens wired with electricity.
And as someone living in 2012, such delights of incongruity arise from watching a series in which “old booby” is an insult, “I don’t care a fig about rules,” a staunch declaration and “Is there some crisis of which I am unaware?” a way of saying “What’s up?” How hilariously quaint, the lot of it, and how even more hilarious to watch it all via streaming video, the wave of the media-consuming future, as a million people did the first season of “Downton,” through PBS.org and Netflix.
Many of us Yanks have already seen the second season. Though it premiered on U.S. television Sunday, it aired in England in the fall, and each episode was downloadable around the world within hours. When informed that his interviewer had engaged in such piracy, “Downton” star Hugh Bonneville (The Right Honourable Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, head of the show’s titular estate) seemed as technologically disconnected as his character: “Shame on you. Be ashamed,” he scolded Vulture, apparently unaware of the way things work now. Oh, Robert, you do have such old-fashioned ways about you!
The show exploits that delicious discord between its characters’ times and ours, but its pleasures go far beyond. “Downton” fundamentally challenges our conception of how a British period drama should operate, primarily via its pacing. Scenes average only slightly more than a minute in length, and with more than 30 characters introduced over the course of its two seasons, the show could easily outrun its wealthier characters’ Model Ts.
“Downton” casts an egalitarian gaze over both those fortunate characters — the aristocracy that occupies the estate’s upstairs — and its less-than-fortunate ones alike. While much ado is made of the culture of the help (again, tickling us with contrast when a split seam reduces a footman to a “state of undress”), “Downton Abbey” is a show that considers service not just as an industry but as a consideration to one’s fellow man. Accordingly, creator/writer Julian Fellowes repeatedly invents scenarios through which its characters can prove their unlikely generosity. Necessary feminist Lady Sybil (Jessica Brown-Findlay) helps housemaid Gwen (Rose Leslie) achieve her dream job of secretary, and when Sybil’s father Robert learns that access to his own library has been blocked so that Gwen can interview her way out of his service, he sighs, rolls his eyes and stalks off. Kindness trumps even his own potential discomfort.
And that kindness extends from the show to its viewers as well. Because the point of view fluidly shifts more than 40 times in any given episode, the audience gets a fly-on-the-wall experience and is constantly more knowledgeable than the characters. Through dialogue with levels of exposition generally reserved for science fiction, the show patiently explains the antiquated, alien concepts of “entail transference” and “heir presumptive.” “She’s a girl, stupid. Girls can’t inherit,” hisses lady’s maid Sarah O’Brien (Siobhan Finneran) at the bumbling Daisy (Sophie McShera), informing us in the process. Scenes routinely end with some kind of clever quip (Mary: “I’m not as sad as I should be. And that’s what makes me sad.” And, scene!), because in “Downton,” there is a premium on wit.
It can also make you feel superior. How exhilarating it is to fly above the petty problems of the poor little rich Crawleys, who have no son among their kin and must marry off their oldest Mary (Michelle Dockery) to her cousin Matthew (Dan Stevens) if they are to remain lounging around in decadence, sneering at commoners like lawyers and doctors. “Downton” doesn’t provide escapism in the era of perma-recession and the 99 percent; it stares down the absurdity of extreme wealth, head on.
Season two is less loved by critics, but it is only slightly less engrossing than the one that preceded it. The show continues to frame its drama within the tug-of-war between destiny and self-actualization. Mary and Matthew have gone from orbiting to star-crossed, and her dalliance with a visiting Turkish diplomat who died in her bed remains a cloud that threatens to destroy her family with scandal (at the same time, Mary hurdles over a century’s worth of progress to be relatable in refusing to express shame over her sexuality). While the show gets a campier villain than even O’Brien (the wife of valet Bates, who’s a “bwah” short of a signature laugh), we’re also introduced to new maid/thorn Ethel. Most notably, “Downton” reaches its peak of soapy nonsense during an emotional crescendo that suggests some of its characters are psychically connected.
The soapy nonsense feeds the id, while the show’s sense of viewer obligation massages the ego. Loose ends are reliably tied up, no matter how questionably fashioned the bow, and those that aren’t are at least tended to. Now that is service.
And as someone living in 2012, such delights of incongruity arise from watching a series in which “old booby” is an insult, “I don’t care a fig about rules,” a staunch declaration and “Is there some crisis of which I am unaware?” a way of saying “What’s up?” How hilariously quaint, the lot of it, and how even more hilarious to watch it all via streaming video, the wave of the media-consuming future, as a million people did the first season of “Downton,” through PBS.org and Netflix.
Many of us Yanks have already seen the second season. Though it premiered on U.S. television Sunday, it aired in England in the fall, and each episode was downloadable around the world within hours. When informed that his interviewer had engaged in such piracy, “Downton” star Hugh Bonneville (The Right Honourable Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, head of the show’s titular estate) seemed as technologically disconnected as his character: “Shame on you. Be ashamed,” he scolded Vulture, apparently unaware of the way things work now. Oh, Robert, you do have such old-fashioned ways about you!
The show exploits that delicious discord between its characters’ times and ours, but its pleasures go far beyond. “Downton” fundamentally challenges our conception of how a British period drama should operate, primarily via its pacing. Scenes average only slightly more than a minute in length, and with more than 30 characters introduced over the course of its two seasons, the show could easily outrun its wealthier characters’ Model Ts.
“Downton” casts an egalitarian gaze over both those fortunate characters — the aristocracy that occupies the estate’s upstairs — and its less-than-fortunate ones alike. While much ado is made of the culture of the help (again, tickling us with contrast when a split seam reduces a footman to a “state of undress”), “Downton Abbey” is a show that considers service not just as an industry but as a consideration to one’s fellow man. Accordingly, creator/writer Julian Fellowes repeatedly invents scenarios through which its characters can prove their unlikely generosity. Necessary feminist Lady Sybil (Jessica Brown-Findlay) helps housemaid Gwen (Rose Leslie) achieve her dream job of secretary, and when Sybil’s father Robert learns that access to his own library has been blocked so that Gwen can interview her way out of his service, he sighs, rolls his eyes and stalks off. Kindness trumps even his own potential discomfort.
And that kindness extends from the show to its viewers as well. Because the point of view fluidly shifts more than 40 times in any given episode, the audience gets a fly-on-the-wall experience and is constantly more knowledgeable than the characters. Through dialogue with levels of exposition generally reserved for science fiction, the show patiently explains the antiquated, alien concepts of “entail transference” and “heir presumptive.” “She’s a girl, stupid. Girls can’t inherit,” hisses lady’s maid Sarah O’Brien (Siobhan Finneran) at the bumbling Daisy (Sophie McShera), informing us in the process. Scenes routinely end with some kind of clever quip (Mary: “I’m not as sad as I should be. And that’s what makes me sad.” And, scene!), because in “Downton,” there is a premium on wit.
It can also make you feel superior. How exhilarating it is to fly above the petty problems of the poor little rich Crawleys, who have no son among their kin and must marry off their oldest Mary (Michelle Dockery) to her cousin Matthew (Dan Stevens) if they are to remain lounging around in decadence, sneering at commoners like lawyers and doctors. “Downton” doesn’t provide escapism in the era of perma-recession and the 99 percent; it stares down the absurdity of extreme wealth, head on.
Season two is less loved by critics, but it is only slightly less engrossing than the one that preceded it. The show continues to frame its drama within the tug-of-war between destiny and self-actualization. Mary and Matthew have gone from orbiting to star-crossed, and her dalliance with a visiting Turkish diplomat who died in her bed remains a cloud that threatens to destroy her family with scandal (at the same time, Mary hurdles over a century’s worth of progress to be relatable in refusing to express shame over her sexuality). While the show gets a campier villain than even O’Brien (the wife of valet Bates, who’s a “bwah” short of a signature laugh), we’re also introduced to new maid/thorn Ethel. Most notably, “Downton” reaches its peak of soapy nonsense during an emotional crescendo that suggests some of its characters are psychically connected.
The soapy nonsense feeds the id, while the show’s sense of viewer obligation massages the ego. Loose ends are reliably tied up, no matter how questionably fashioned the bow, and those that aren’t are at least tended to. Now that is service.
