Post-partum blues are worse than regular blues because there isn't any twelve-bar guitar music for it. This problem began for my dear wife last summer when her favorite soap, All My Children, went off the air. It wasn't like a death in the family for her; it was like the whole family died. And the dog. And the kids' goldfish. The Easter Bunny. Actually, it was worse than the demise of the Easter bunny because the Easter bunny never really WAS, and for my wife, Erica Kane was. Enter Downton Abbey, season two, produced solely to lift my wife out of the PP blues for which there is no twelve-bar etc. If you are a fan of Downton Abbey, follow me below the Grantham filigree.
It didn't matter that we missed season one; sadistic neighbors lent us their DVD of season one so we could catch up on who was actually Maid 1, Footman Smoker, and Old Dame Haughty, who could raise an eyebrow and look down her long nose better than anyone I've ever seen. Mind you, these are the same friends who went to a Super Bowl party and left at 7:50 PM with the game in the jaws of fate to be sure they were home in time for the series they have simply started calling "Downton." To aggravate my wife, I just call it "Downtown." That usually results in a love tap, even though there is a family ban against anything traumatic that might dislodge the retina a fine surgeon so painstakingly re-attached to me. My surgeon was so much better than that blathering, at-a-loss idiot on Downtown. You know, the one who said Cora would survive if she made it through the night. Hell, he couldn't even say what she HAD, just "something that turns violent at a moment's notice." Yeah, and he also predicted poor, dashing, Dudley Hair-do Right, I mean Matthew, would never have children, walk, or pee in a cup. I love this show. It's like Pride and Prejudice, Looney-Tunes, Great Expectations, A Night at the Museum, and A Night at the Opera all at once.
Then there's the house. I always thought an abbey was the manse of an abbot, something churchy, not this pillared castle-y thing that makes the Field Museum in Chicago look like a tract house in Schaumburg. Also, I really want one of those bell ringy things, you know, that says, "Ann, I'm in the bathroom. Bring toilet paper." She could have one too. It would ring and I would know immediately to bring her some coffee, a little cream, no sugar. I'd even wear the livery, bow tie, starched collar, waistcoat, and all.
There are some really great lines in Downtown Abbey, like the time Lord Grandman says to his wife Cora, "Don't you go American on me again." I love it because we all know what it means. Then there was the scene where one of the daughters, I think it was Shemp, no, it was Curly, said, "I knew things like this happened in novels, but NOT at Downtown Abbey." I love this stuff. It's not just ironic, the whole thing is ironed and starchy and so un-American, it's like watching Star Wars or better yet, political candidates clambering all over each other for office.
I admit, I haven't figured out the marriages in Downtown Alley yet. I suppose it makes sense that Lord Grandman married an American for her money to save the abbey from being recommissioned as a church, once they saw it could be a hospital, but then Daisy maid marries the dying William just to be nice and get a pension of three pounds a month, and Matthew Do-Right is going to marry Lavinia because she wanted to marry him and she's so nice she makes everyone gag, and Mary is going to marry an American like her father for the money even though this American is a jerk, and the only one who's seen as scandalous is the daughter (Moe or Curly, I can't remember which) who's going to marry a chauffeur because she loves him. Imagine how shocking that is in this family - marrying someone for love. As old Dame Violet Lace would say, "What has the world come to? By the way, what is this week-end thing the servants talk about?" I really love this stuff.
Then there's Carson. Everybody needs a Carson, part Golden Lab, part R2D2, part Tonto, and part surveyor, a professional who measures silverware on a table like he's laying down property lines for all posterity. I think the best thing about him is his voice. Every time I hear him speak, I think of Orson Welles, that wonderful, resonant profundo. Carson is a man who may have once been surprised by something in his life but will never admit it. When Lord Grandman finds out Carson sang and danced on a stage, Carson does the only thing a resonant profundo could do; he resigns. He didn't resign because he killed someone or published the family secrets in The Globe, no, he resigned because he used to sing and dance. After all, that's what's expected of a resonant profundo in a starched collar. I love this stuff. In this show, resigning is apparently worse than death. The only difference is the resigner gets to come back. Thomas (who starts out as a toad and then becomes a toady) does it; Bates does it; featherduster maid who sleeps with the Hemingway look-alike does it, and I expect facially impaired cousin-inherit-everything-and-screw-everything up will do it too.
Then there's the heirarchy. I think I've got that part figured out. Here's how rank goes from top to bottom at Downtown Alley.
1. Duke (unless people learn that you are gay, and then you apparently drop down to 17)
2. Earl Grandman (He gets to wear a uniform whenever wants and can take it off whenever he wants, although earls generally wait until the current war is over. Apparently, he has the power to de-commission himself.)
3. Whatever male, distant or near, even a solicitor, who may inherit Downtown.
4. Butler who must be a resonant bass
5. Valet, especially if he understands which cuff links to wear at each occasion
6. House lady who carries the keys
7. Footman, especially if he looks good in a tux
8. Maid who does other people's hair
9. Overweight cook
10. Maids who carry feather dusters, unless the Earl Grandman kisses you, then you go to number 4 in the heirarchy until someone finds out you're number 4, and then you have to leave with the best references in the house and scholarship money for your son
11. The Earl's American wife
12. Any daughter
13. The chauffeur
14. The idiot doctor
15. Anyone else American or Canadian, even if he survived the Titanic and may inherit Downtown Alley
I love this stuff. What's fun is watching everyone try to go from step 14 to 13. The doctor would love to be the chauffeur so he can hang out with the daughters. The daughters want to be wives. The maids who carry feather dusters want to be maids who do other people's hair. The footmen all want to be valet, and every valet wants to be the butler.
You know how I'm ending this. Watching Downtown is just great fun, probably as much fun as a Brit has watching our election process. I can imagine my friend Ashley saying to his wife Emma, "I love this American stuff. Can you believe what Newt just said about Mitt? And those names! Charlie Dickens couldn't have made up better names. We should Google them and find out the derivatives...."