As the BBC Turns

With the highest ratings of any television costume drama since Brideshead Revisited, Downton Abbey has attracted a lot of commentary. One recurring observation is that it resembles a soap opera. Typically, critics hold their noses when they use that term, but here they evoke it to extol. The Seattle Times, for example, labels Downton Abbey a “bustling, classy supersoap” while Slant pronounces it “a superior soap in Edwardian clothing.”

In the late 1960s, reviewers had a similar response to The Forsyte Saga. Like Downton Abbey, this classic series, the longest and most expensive of its kind to date, was a TV phenomenon. Only more so. In England, clergymen had to reschedule vespers in order to accommodate parishioners more devoted to the agony of Soames and Fleur than to that of Christ. American critics praised it as “grand soap opera,” hoping that “The Forsyte Saga might have a constructive influence on our own country’s daytime deluge of serials” (80). Since then, other period dramas airing on MASTERPIECE have also been lauded as “grand” soap operas, distinguished from their poor relations by superior writing and acting.

So what do these shows--with their buttoned up blouses, claret, and hunting jackets—share with soap operas? Put another way, what’s a nice costume drama like Downton Abbey doing in a genre that gave us Luke and Laura?

1. Multiple characters. As publicity never tires of stating, Downton Abbey features eighteen principal roles. Such profusion affords audiences the pleasure of selecting their favorite characters and storylines. Some viewers like the romance between heir apparent Matthew Crawley and Lady Mary while others prefer the one between Branson and Lady Sybil. Almost everyone seems to adore the Dowager Countess, Anna, and Bates. They all hate Edith.
   
   On blogs, viewers are already predicting plots for the second series. A striking number predict that Matthew will be injured at the frontlines and Mary will nurse him back to health. Bates will leave the show temporarily when complications arise with his wife; Molesley (a name Dickens would have been proud of) will pursue Anna. Thomas, that comely caitiff, will be killed by a German; William will return home shell-shocked (though it won’t last). And Daisy and William will get married because, as one viewer writes, “someone should have a happy ending.”


2. Subplots galore. Soap operas always shift the emphasis from the central plot (the “Great Matter,” as Lady Mary terms it) to a succession of subplots. Episodes typically run three of four storylines simultaneously, making sure each transpires at a different rate. In Episode Two of Downton Abbey, Pamuk seduces Lady Mary; Isobel engineers a death-defying operation; Carson, the uber butler, is exposed as “Charlie,” the former stage performer; and the disabled Bates purchases a “limp straightener” from a horrid little man. As in all soaps, these storylines are carefully balanced to satisfy very different levels of interest, including suspense, humor, romance, and intrigue.


3. Narrative deferrals. Although there are minor, temporary conclusions in soap operas, viewers know that consummation of an affair, a marriage, or a crime will always be disrupted—either by complications within the plot or by the end of the episode. Of course Mary and Matthew weren’t going to get together at the end of Episode Four, you silly. And of course all that stuff about Bates’ past wouldn’t be cleared up. As one critic puts it, “moments of near consummation” in soap operas “cut to months of frustration.”


4. Sex, secrets, and a screwed-up family. Downton Abbey covers other subjects too, but these three head the list. Pamuk pops up in Lady Mary’s bedroom. Matthew pops the question. Everyone, even tidy Mrs. Hughes, has a secret. And while Robert and Cora make middle-aged marriage seem all sex and snuggles, their daughter Mary is a mess.


5. Community. Soap operas tend to revolve around small, fictional locations, and characters live much of their lives in spaces whose communal nature makes privacy impossible. In Downton Abbey, there are three such spaces: the world of the servants, the world of their employers, and the village surrounding the abbey. Consequently, characters are seldom alone. The dominant shot may be a close-up of a character isolated in the frame, but when the camera pulls back someone is usually watching, eavesdropping, or turning a doorknob to enter the room.
   
   The intimate world of soap operas has its iteration in online communities whose members often share highly personal information with each other. One week after Downton Abbey aired in England, an ardent fan established a website for it. Its chat room now has over 800 comments, including one from a woman who revealed that her husband came out of the closet the night Thomas kissed that rakish Lord What’s His Name.


6. Melodrama. Downton Abbey abounds in melodramatic tropes: overheard conversations, disguised identities, sudden reversals, last-minute rescues, and letters that pack a wallop. On a deeper level, the series delights in melodrama’s tendency to bring to the surface what lies repressed in everyday, social interaction, such as Thomas’ homosexuality or O’Brien’s murderous resentment of Cora.
   
   Melodramas also provide the pleasure of full-on emotional indulgence by minimalizing action while elevating feeling—even that of a kitchen maid’s to tragedian heights. In Downton Abbey, each character’s main action is confined to mental or emotional activities: conniving (Thomas and O’Brien), scheming (Gwen, Lady Sybil), trusting (Anna), loving (Matthew, Cora, Robert), fearing (Mary), loathing (Thomas). Literary critic Peter Brooks writes that nineteenth-century melodrama ended scenes or acts with characters in tableaux, which provided a visual summary of the play’s emotional situations. Soap opera scenes often conclude with a close-up of a character’s face registering intense emotion, as in the one of a wretched Lady Mary after she realizes she has blown it with Matthew.


7. Moral victory. Though the soap opera world seems geared towards power and sexual transgression, it is one in which morality ultimately prevails. Robert and Matthew Crawley may not strike a girl’s fancy in quite the same way as Pamuk, the show’s “treat for the ladies,” but they are the heroes.


8. Talk. Conversation is a serious matter in soap operas, as it is in Downton Abbey. Dialogue consists of provocations and responses, interrogations and interruptions, concealments and discoveries that prolong the conclusion for a future time, all the while instilling in us a desire for that prospect.

Like all soap operas, Downton Abbey tells a story we’ve heard before, not just in its playful pilfering of Upstairs, Downstairs and Gosford Park but also in its broader characterizations and storylines. We watch Downton Abbey neither for the coup de theatre nor the ingenious invention of unexpected events, but to see the expected happen. Umberto Eco calls this “the hunger for redundance,” the pleasure in repetition.

Scriptwriter Julian Fellowes is clearly aware of this pleasure, for he’s written a series that not only recasts the stuff of soap operas (which themselves recast myths and fairy tales) but often acknowledges that it’s doing so (as in the scene where Lady Mary tells the myth of Perseus and the sea monster). His script has been brought to life by a marvelous ensemble of actors, supremely high production values (who paid for this show, anyway?), and hats that make Queen Elizabeth’s look like they came from a charity shop.

Downton Abbey also provides fine detail in some of its characterizations. Bates, Mrs. Patmore, and Carson-- like Rose, Mrs. Bridges and Hudson before them-- each possess personality quirks and nuances that could make them memorable for years to come. And many scenes are written with a jeweler’s precision, as when Anna, walking with Bates to the fair, confesses she loves him only to hear he isn’t a free man. A cart drives by, and Anna, prompted by hurt feelings and a lover’s consideration, suggests he ride in it. Bates is humiliated, though he doesn’t say so. We know it from the few, innocuous words he utters and the way the camera frames him in the cart, with his feet dangling off the edge like a child’s.

Another exquisite scene is when Cora overhears O’Brien grouse about having to serve Matthew Crawley. Cora chastises her maid for not knowing her “place” and O’ Brien sasses back “I have my opinions same as anybody, my Lady.” Despicable O’Brien is right; kind Lady Cora is wrong. And the even more despicable Thomas is right when he remarks, “She had no business coming down here. This is our world. We can do what we like here.”

Yet, despite all its fun devices, and its moments of truly brilliant writing, Downton Abbey was a disappointment.

Other costume dramas that have been praised as “grand soap operas”—such as Upstairs, Downstairs, I, Claudius, Brideshead Revisited, and the 2005 version of Bleak House—all possessed a keen sense of their relationship to the soap opera, of how they wanted to use and transcend it. Upstairs, Downstairs and Brideshead Revisited gave us finely drawn characters set amidst the minutiae of a lifestyle. I, Claudius and Bleak House were soap opera send-ups, sheer hyperbole in characterization and plotting (just watch five minutes of Gillian Armstrong playing Lady Dedlock, and you’ll know what I mean).

Though not exclusive, such offerings are contradictory—and the wisdom of these earlier shows was in knowing which one they wanted to prioritize. Downton Abbey lacks this wisdom.

On the one hand, Downton Abbey wants to offer all the painstaking realism of Upstairs, Downstairs and Brideshead Revisited. On the other, it wants to be I, Claudius and Bleak House, playfully indulging in soap opera’s most batty and bromidic devices, as in Pamuk’s sudden death after boinking Lady Mary. This could have been a fabulous plot device if it had been played just for humor, as a wink and a nod to audiences about the crazy conventions of soap opera. But it isn’t. As with that baneful bar of soap in Episode Four, or all that medical tomfoolery about dropsy in Episode Two, we’re asked to take it seriously. Or somewhat seriously. That’s the trouble: we don’t know, and neither does Fellowes.

More disappointing than Downton Abbey’s uncertain direction is its casual approach to history. Upstairs, Downstairs, Brideshead Revisited, I, Claudius, and Bleak House all acknowledged the weight of history despite the soapish insularity of their worlds, whether by trying to capture an era with documentary-like precision, as in Upstairs, Downstairs; or by recreating a world distinctively the creation of its original author, as in Brideshead Revisited and Bleak House; or by meditating on the fictional nature of history, as in I, Claudius.

As of yet, Downton Abbey has done very little with its history. Sure it has plenty of period details, but they are designed to please the eye rather than educate. Sure it uses the historical context of women’s suffrage and an impending Word War I, but as thematic subjects so far, they have all the weightlessness of Mrs. Patmore’s raspberry meringue.

This use of the past is regrettable not only for the series but for the future of costume drama. As Downton Abbey exemplifies, we seem to be entering a new era for the genre, where characters and storylines have explicitly modern-day relevance. Recent and upcoming series on MASTERPIECE—The 39 Steps, Downton Abbey, the new Upstairs, Downstairs (airing in April), and South Riding (airing in May) all take place in the early twentieth century, far back enough in time to satisfy our nostalgia but near enough to resonate with our own climate.

While I welcome this step forward in time (between us, I don’t care if I ever see another Jane Austen adaptation), I’m bothered by the ahistorical attitude that seems to be accompanying it, as if the past were just scrim for a story about the present. When asked, for example, about why he chose to set Downton Abbey in the Edwardian era, Fellowes quipped, “Well, when you start going further back, it’s all funny bread ovens in the wall and candles.”

So much for history.

Ever since the tremendous success of The Forsyte Saga, British costume drama hasn’t been afraid to use soap opera conventions, which is what makes it so much fun to watch. But given its harnessing of England’s best actors and scriptwriters, its lavish budgets, and its country’s rich history, it should be a lot more. In the past, it often has been. Downton Abbey can do better than it did this season, and I suspect that Fellowes, a truly gifted writer, knows it. Here’s hoping it does.

Downton Abbey Revisited

Downton Abbey is now ¾ of the way done, and I’m already feeling nostalgic for it. I wish it were a 12 part series, or better yet, a 26 part series like the original Forsyte Saga. When that series aired in America back in 1969, friends would join each other for tea and sherry parties and watch it all together; now, most of us catch it when we can, and usually alone.

This is not to say that I haven’t had my problems with the show. The costumes continue to be gorgeous, the period details exquisite. The whole series is lushness unlimited, inside and out Downtown Abbey. And Julian Fellowes knows how to write some tasty dialogue, especially for Maggie Smith, who sometimes makes a remark, not necessarily because her character would have done so, but because it’s good entertainment (when her American daughter-in-law proposes that Mary go to New York to find a rich husband who can save the estate, Smith quips “I don’t think things are that desperate”).

But the soap-like plot points. Oh, boy.

All classic serials use melodrama, that quintessential nineteenth-century form. And when it’s done well, it’s great fun (as in the stony characterization of Lady Dedlock in Andrew Davies’ Bleak House, or the subplot revolving around the hypervillianous Frenchman in Little Dorrit). But these two series thrived on the excesses of theatricality. Downton Abbey, on the other hand, asks to be viewed realistically.

So, how, exactly, do we take “realistically” the representation of a medical procedure wherein a man, afflicted with “dropsy,” gets stabbed in the heart with a needle and, ten seconds later, wakes up from his coma-like state smiling at his wife?

OR

The scene where a young man, who is trying to seduce one of the fair Crawley daughters, suddenly dies of a heart attack? The fact of the death is bad enough. But then, minutes later, we see his body being dragged down the stately halls of Downton Abbey by the fair daughter, a maid, and the fair daughter’s regal mother, all to avoid a scandal.


And yet, just as I was about to get really cranky with the series, a subsequent scene has Maggie Smith remark that no Englishman would dream of dying in someone else's house, especially someone he didn't know well.

In this series, as in so many classic series—beginning with The Forsyte Saga in 1967 and continuing to the present—a soap-opera plot is saved by good acting and dialogue. And whether I like it or not, I’m absolutely hooked.

P.S. Does anyone want to guess what Mr. Bates’ secret is? What is “the more” he refers to when he tells the maid who loves him, “I was married but there’s more.” Does it have to do with the war? His injury? Has he committed a crime? What does he mean when he says, “I’m not a free man?”

Downton Abbey

In a scene from the new ITV serial Downton Abbey, which began its four-episode run on MASTERPIECE last night, members of the aristocratic Crawley family sit down to tea with a middle-class lawyer and his mother. It’s an awkward situation: all rough edges, and possessed of a fiercely egalitarian spirit, the lawyer has no idea how to conduct himself in front of them or their servants. What makes the situation even more awkward is that due to the recent death of two members of the Crawley family on the Titanic, he has suddenly become the new heir to their estate, Downton Abbey.

The head of Downton Abbey, Sir Robert Crawley, is naturally dismayed at the prospect of a stranger assuming ownership of his estate. But reasonable and stout hearted, he resigns himself to it. He proposes that his new heir begin learning about the operations of the estate as soon as possible. When the lawyer explains that he has no intention of quitting his job to prepare for an event that might happen forty years from now, bewilderment registers on the face of each family member, who obviously can’t wrap their minds around the concept of choosing to work. To placate Sir Robert, the lawyer promises to learn about the estate on his evenings off. “And there’s always the weekend,” he says amiably—at which point, Robert’s mother, the Dowager Countess Violet, speaks her first line in the scene. Played by Maggie Smith (who can’t be beaten as a dowager anything), the countess asks, “And what’s a weekend?”

Written for television by Julian Fellowes, the award-winning screenwriter of Gosford Park, Downton Abbey depicts the clash between a rising middle-class and an old aristocracy, as well as the restlessness of a dying breed of British servants, on the eve of World War I. It clearly borrows much of its material from Gosford Park and Upstairs, Downstairs. But who cares? Indeed, part of the pleasure of watching this series is the cozy sense of familiarity it evokes.

Another pleasure is the strength of the characters. My favorite right now is Mr. Bates, a wounded veteran of the Boer War where he served as batman (whatever that is) to Sir Robert. Walking with a limp and a cane, Bates arrives at the estate as the new valet—and instantly causes a stir among the servants, some of whom resent such a privileged position being given to a “cripple.” Mr. Bates is dignified, quiet, and stoic. He’s also kind of sexy. Indeed, judging from all reports, he was England’s #1 UCO (Unlikely Crush Object) last year.

I also love the twists and turns in characterization. At first, Sir Robert and his three daughters seem modeled on King Lear and his daughters. I began the show thinking that the only likeable daughter, like Cordelia, was Edith Crawley. Nope. She’s a pill and a half. And Mary, who first comes across as a coldhearted bitch (sorry, but the word fits), now turns out to be rather cool. But that’s the wonderful thing so far about Downton Abbey’s characters—they’re all a little mysterious, slippery, elusive.

And, of course, a British costume drama this good must have great real estate. Downton Abbey was filmed at Highclere Castle, a country house designed by Capability Brown in high Elizabethan style. High indeed. Every room is a feast for the eyes. In one scene, Bates remarks to the footman, Thomas, about the “strange” nature of being a servant. “What do you mean?” asks Thomas. “Well, here we are with a pirate’s horde without our reach, but none of it’s ours, is it?”

The same might be said about the viewers of costume dramas such as Downton Abbey. But you’ll never hear me complaining. . .