Needing My Fix
The Source
Downton Abby. I’ll admit it…I’m a fan. No, I’m more than a fan. I’m hooked. After spending years making fun of my friends who got themselves addicted to soap operas, I was snagged by this soapiest of British dramas, and I’ve found myself begging off any other appointments scheduled for 8 p.m. on Sunday nights. This saga of the rich and landed in England has swept the world with its tales of the high and low in the British aristocracy, and the proof of its popularity is attested by the fact that it’s now parodied endlessly by venues as varied as Saturday Night Live and Sesame Street. Jim Carter, the British actor who plays Carson, the stoic butler, said he was recently bicycling in Cambodia when a group of villagers started shouting, “Mr. Carson! Mr. Carson!” He groused, “You can’t get away from the bloody thing!” And I confess that I can’t either. I think my addiction might be serious. I plan special banquets to be consumed while I watch each Sunday night’s episode, and last week I’d carefully prepared a feast of Oriental Chicken and Rice. Just as Robert Crawley, Earl of Crantham, was about to lose his daughter by a fluke of childbirth, I reached for the soy sauce. I should know not to put similarly shaped bottles next to each other on my dining table…especially during the delivery of a baby. Just a few shakes of malt vinegar can completely destroy a delicious meal of Oriental Chicken and Rice. I didn’t realize what I’d done until I took my first mouthful. That night’s episode of Downton Abby was accompanied by a partially thawed chicken pot pie……without malt vinegar. But as a testament to the show, even cold pie dough is palatable when consumed with large doses of British accents. Last week I drove to Springfield with a carload of teenagers and brought up the subject of Downton Abby. I’d might as well asked them what they thought about noninvasive toenail surgery. “Down town what?” “No, it’s Downton. A PBS series. Everybody’s watching it.” Apparently everybody didn’t include anyone in the back seat of my Nissan. “PBS? You mean like children’s programming?” I wanted to cry. Every kid in my car could tell you who won had the hottest You Tube video and what color of socks were cool this season, but not a soul seemed to care which of the downstairs maids were going to win the hand of young Jimmy, the footman and whether the kidney soufflé will be finished in time for the dinner with the Duke. 8 million viewers tuned in to season three’s opening and everyone under 18 was on Facebook. The Super Bowl this year was a dandy, but when 8 p.m. rolled around I left the Forty-niners and the Ravens to fend for themselves. The British were coming. Watching Downton Abby you don’t have to look forward to the next commercial when the plot starts to sag. All through the night’s episode I wanted badly to flip back and catch the score from New Orleans. I couldn’t do it. Who could possibly care about who was winning the game when Lady Sybil was on the verge of leaving her husband and the former butler was about to be released from prison? Besides, due to the power surge during the game, the fourth quarter was still in progress long after the Dowager Violet Crawley had convinced the British doctor to lie about the cause of her granddaughter’s death. Whew! So what’s the appeal of this stodgy BBC import? The plot resembles a plate of aristocratic spaghetti with storylines intertwined, overlapped, interspersed and unpredictably entangled to the point that totally begs believability. And we love it. The show’s heroes are snobbish, over-privileged lords and ladies who freely spend money they didn’t earn while seldom understanding the plight of those who are serving their soup. A piece of mismatched cutlery is a major blow to their day. Our country prides itself on being the world’s loudest proponents of democracy yet 8 million of us sit down at 8 p.m. each Sunday night to cheer on a group of well-tailored despots. So why? Well, it’s fun. You’ve got to give it that. It’s extremely well acted and superbly written. Maybe we’ve all suffered such a plague of toothless alligator hunters, dynasties of ducks, and trash pickers that we’re ready for something classier. My theory? We’ve been Over-Honey-Boo-Booed. We’re ready for crumpets instead of mayonnaise sandwiches. A car down the street from me started honking the moment the Ravens won the game. In Arenzville we call that a major celebration. But in my living room I shouted for joy. Mr. Bates was going to be released from prison and the kidney pie turned out beautifully.