Wordy Old Men on Downton Abbey: Season Five, Episode Three

[This week's delay was the direct result of Comcast blowing goats and the abysmal internet connectivity at OMD's parents' home. Wordy Ginters took the reins this week, thankfully, and the delay, while painful, should not repeat itself this season.]

Lady Mary works on her post-coital glow, Spratt drops a dime on her sex filled romp in Liverpool to the Dowager, Bates looks to get measured for pinstripes, again, Edith wears out her welcome with the Drewes, Baxter gets an ultimatum, Thomas is lying about something, Cora considers the art consultation business, Bunting shits in the punch bowl, Daisy does her maths.

Wordy Ginters: I've never been to England, but I imagine it doesn't get more romantic than Liverpool. Did you see the abs on Gillingham? I'm guessing those abs aren't historically correct. Regardless of his marbled midsection and impossibly full-bodied hair, he's already coming on a little needy, with the creepy "I notice everything you do" shtick and the unannounced arrival at the Russian Tea Party. I don't blame Mary for having second thoughts, but the self-absorbed "who will she end up with?" cliffhanger BS left me cold the first time around, as will its redux.

Screw these dinks.

Old Man Duggan: One of the worst days of my life had Liverpool as its lowlight. Travel nightmare on the day they arrested the terrorists in London who had been planning hijackings leading to heading deaf, dumb, and blind to Liverpool in the hopes of catching a ferry to Dublin to be able to eventually catch our flight from Ireland back to the States. Screw Liverpool and all its 'pudlians who couldn't tell me where the goddamn ferry line was.

As for good ol' Gill's abs, put your goddamn shirt on, you're making me randy with your abs and your lats, Tony Hunkingham. The Ham's got a 21st Century bod in the Roaring 20s. Good on him. You'd think with that package he'd be a little less desperate for the cavalier and anemic Mary Crowley. I'm not looking forward to getting to suffer through Lady Mary's hemming and hawing betwixt two suitors who frankly lack the charisma and draw of Matthew.

WG: I don't know what was more humorous: the idea that Carson could be wheedled into allowing a soldier shot for cowardice to have his name on the Downton War Memorial, or how PUT OUT he was when Thomas asked to use the demon telephone?

OMD: The incredulity in his eyes at Thomas possibly needing to use that infernal contraption when writing a letter would surely have done the glacially paced trick was a look of which only Jim Carter may be capable. His look upon having his office door shut behind him was priceless.

Just Falking around

WG: I thoroughly enjoyed the Dowager's stone cold lady balls when she effortlessly deflated Spratt's potentially embarrassing news with an extemporaneous cover story. It's those grace under pressure moments that make her coming undone at memories of Prince Kuragin more meaningful. The only thing that seems to rattle her is naughty sexy dirty blood sugar sex magik. And hey, I just watched Maggie Smith as a younger women in Neil Simon's barely watchable Murder by Death a few weeks ago, she was a total dish. Speaking of movies, isn't the dude who plays Prince Kuragin the same guy who rented Cruise his costume in Eyes Wide Shut? Those scenes at the costume shop were fantastically creepy.

OMD: Yes, Rade Serbedzija, who was also in Snatch. As for the young Miss Smith, I've seen none of her earlier work, much to my own chagrin. There's not a good reason for not having seen The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. The old dame was quick on the draw with the fabricated reason for Mary's having been seen red-assed and sexually exhausted on the curb in Liverpool with her illicit lover. Spratt's inability to spew out his gossip in a way other than stilted was tiresome. Is he supposed to be affecting a Liverpudlian accent?

WG: I always dig it when Fellowes takes the production off Downton and films in London or other locales. Bricker humping Cora's leg up and down the museum corridors and the twilight sidewalks of London was visually striking. Despite the hash, rehashing, and re-purposing of many plot threads, the visuals have always been top notch on Downton Abbey.

OMD: The show is definitely at its best when mixing up the locations and showing that they're not just beneficiaries of preying on a flagging real-life manor. I simply cannot divorce Richard E. Grant from his role in Hudson Hawk. It makes it really hard to watch his neutered faux courtship of the married Cora Crowley. Grant was born in Mbabane, Swaziland.

WG: Spotted dick reference? Fellowes throwing a bone to the millions of middle school Downton devotees. The tragedy is that it's a damn fine dessert.

OMD: Good old Jules. Never above dipping his pen in the gutter inkwell and dropping a cheeky lewd reference.

WG: Sympathy butters no parsnips.

OMD: Nor is it reserved solely for the holy. But Carson could stop being a dick and just put dear cowardly Archie's name on the memorial.

WG: As much as I'm not looking forward to the Battle Royale among Lady Mary's suitors, I'm even more not looking forward to the idea that Bates is going to end up back on the hook. It's like peeling off a scab. I know you have a hard-on for shot framing, did you notice as he walked forlornly down the hallway after speaking with Anna about their predicament towards episode's end that he was tightly framed in by woodwork and windows with lattices and such? I get the jailhouse blues just remembering on it.

OMD: If Bates ends up back in the clink, that may be the nail in the show's coffin. Good catch on the filmic representation of Bates's looming imprisonment.

WG: What jumped out at you?

OMD: Cora's fitting with Molyneux was with Edward Molyneux, whose last name was apparently pronounced much more similarly to Rance Mulliniks, not in the fashion that Cora employed while namedropping her hoity-toity French pronunciation. Despite blindness in one eye on account of a war wound, he ran the go-to fashion salon in Paris and later Monte Carlo, Cannes, and London for the upper crust women who wanted to look unpredictably fashionable, at least according to the internet and historian Caroline Milbank.

WG: Thank your for conjuring visions of Rance Mulliniks and fine French fashion in the same paragraph. Have they ever been in such proximity before? Doubtful.

OMD: I like that free will as applicable to the boudoir escapades of the rich, famous, and gentrified is nonexistent in the eyes of the Dowager Countess. No, Mary, you were seduced. There is no other explanation. Of course Violet doesn't know that her granddaughter is the possessor of a mercilessly bloodthirsty anus, a fact that would certainly color her beliefs on aristocractic sexual determinism.

WG: For being relatively pragmatic, the old old old fashioned views on sex from the Dowager are a tad surprising. The only way to know about the fatal anus is to cross the rubicon. To experience it is to perish. Gillingham used up 8 of his 9 lives and half a spit curl surviving that weekend. Little known fact: locking pliers, AKA "vice grips," were invented in 1924. This is obviously related to Mary's anus, I just don't know how to connect the dots properly.

OMD: You are definitely onto something here. Is Tony Gillingham the man to invent them? Guessing so.

Mrs. Drewe's freak out was dumb. Of course Edith got the old heave-ho. It didn't take long for the helicoptering fairy godmother to get the heave-ho.

WG: Speaking of fashion, I kind of dig Mr. Drewe's threads. The man knows his vests. What he doesn't have is any idea how to execute a plan to get Edith reunited with her daughter. Whatever "plan" he had going, which was essentially visit us into submission, gives half-baked a bad name.

OMD: Every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp-dressed man. Hell, I'm crazy about him. But mastermind schemer? That's not Mr. Drewe.

I really loved Tom and Mary's fireside confidante scene. "Are we talking about your so-called sketching trip? Because I never believed in that for a moment." It was nice that the two of them could speak freely with one another. Perhaps Branson's lower breeding makes for easier to cut to the chase rather than dance around whilst employing tedious high society conversational conventions that endlessly skirt saying what is actually happening.

WG: If history has taught us anything, it's that Irish firebrands know all about fucking.

OMD: That cannot be argued. It is historical fact.

How is it that dipshit Miss Bunting can never bite her tongue and always ends up offending company? Let these Russian dopes mourn their dear dead Tsar without bringing up the policies of the forcibly and violently dethroned.

WG: Fellowes portrays Bunting like a hysterically right-wing over-the-top version of Hillary Clinton.\

OMD: I was driven by her residence just yesterday.

Baxter's bad influence was Mr. Coyle. I wonder what this says about Brendan Coyle's relationship with Julian Fellowes. I'm assuming this is a tongue-in-cheek nod to back-scenes shenanigans. Brendan Coyle, ever the bad influence on set, mucking up the works with his pranks and smoking of cigarettes.

WG: Excellent catch. No doubt a reference to the seductive ornery manliness of the powerhouse behind Bates.

Musicalia: I Love This Song, but Why?

As humans, we are raging with bias. It is what helps us survive. How could we not be biased? Everything that happens is perceived based on what has come before. So what does it really mean when someone says, “I love this song!”? Is it because Johnny Cool down the street likes it (need to belong), or is it because a sibling hates it (need to distinguish oneself), or is it because it actually sounds good? Why do we like one song over another in the first place? As a student of psychology, I think I might have a few answers. They aren’t the magical answers we all want to hear--in fact they are laden with half-truths and disclaimers--but it’s fucking science.

Hard.

This is now part of the program where I use a disturbingly true story from my childhood as a lead-in. What follows is highly embarrassing to say the least. When I was about, let’s say 9, my brother and his friends and my friends and my friends’ friends and every pre-teen in the world loved NKOTB. That’s right, I just abbreviated New Kids on the Block. I, on the other hand, fucking hated them. It wasn’t necessarily that I hated the music or their looks or boyish charm or any other aspect of their being; it was that I had somehow picked up on it being cooler than cool to hate NKOTB. All the cool kids had NKOTB posters in their rooms, recited all the lyrics to "Hangin’ Tough" before school, and wore faded print NKOTB T-shirts. I made fun of those kids. But somewhere along the line, something terrible happened. 

I was tired of bashing America’s favorite boy band. I was tired of listening to my brother and our collective friends play the videos over and over and over again while dancing joyously. I was tired of being ostracized just for hating crappy pop music. So I did the unforgivable: I started to like NKOTB. Looking at NKOTB’s Wikipedia page, I’m assuming it was roughly the summer of 1991. I was at the local craft fair, and kids were getting their faces painted. After several of my friends put New Kids’ names on their faces, I decided to rock out a perfectly flamboyant, cursive “Donnie” on my right cheek. It had a glittery sparkle that would have made Liberace beam with pride. On top of it all, I had the worst possible timing ever. As a kid, one doesn’t know that fads don’t last forever. Had I stuck to my guns and waited just a few more months, I would have had the last say. I could have pointed fingers and made childish jokes and laughed maniacally from the balcony of my told-you-so tower, but I had to join ‘em instead of trying to beat ‘em, so when NKOTB’s reign ended, I had to keep my lips sealed. My friends knew what I had done, and maybe secretly they knew I was originally “right”, but all I could do was hang my head.

The enjoyment of music- when broken down to the simplest of terms- can be easily defined. Very basically, we like music that is complex enough to intrigue us, but not too simple that it bores us. Imagine the mental bludgeoning that comes from one single piano note played over and over (or just watch Eyes Wide Shut), now imagine a Joe Satriani song that rips and shreds all over the place with no melody to grab ahold of us upon first listen. It isn’t a wonder that most pop music is a blend of simple choruses backed by more complex melodies. Psychologically speaking, this could be related to the Yerkes-Dodson law which dictates that humans perform simpler tasks better with higher arousal rates and more complex tasks better with lower arousal rates. Of course, over arousal meets the cliff’s edge where no task is simple enough. This helps explain why we turn that stereo knob down looking for an address while circling the block. We want music that stimulates us, but we don’t want our brains overworking to find the backbeat.

Needs more necks

So why do shrieking guitar wizards like Satriani, Vai, and Malmsteen have a huge following? This reminds of the terrible, awful, disgusting movie that is Mr. Holland’s Opus. The one thing I took out of that movie was how he listened to Coltrane over and over and over again until he enjoyed it. This, in psychological terms, makes perfect sense. After ingesting complexities we begin to understand them more and thus enjoy them more. Isn't this how seemingly every song appears to us? I mean, I never truly like a song until about the third or fourth listen, and any song I immediately enjoy, I inevitably end up in disgust of it. There are a few gems that ring true in the tiny little amp in the bottom of my soul every single time, from the first play to the last, but those are rarities indeed. No one becomes a jazz fan overnight. 

There have been several studies that back this idea up, but it doesn’t take the brain of C.C. Deville to figure out that "Happy Birthday" gets boring immediately and Miles Davis becomes intriguing after the intricacies groove repeated neural pathways in our minds. I remember the first time I was introduced to Davis’ Kind of Blue. I thought, “This is the record that musicians ogle over?” Today, I can easily distinguish each song and follow along in my mind with much pleasure.

I often wonder if this is what happened with Seven Mary Three and me. In my late teens, I became enveloped by a group of guys that touted rock music like it could save your life and wreck your life all in the same swoop, like rock was this omniscient being that required attention to its every facet. Seven Mary Three was their band. Like any teen of the 90s, I loved "Cumbersome" and the still-creeps-me-out "Water’s Edge," but it wasn’t like they liked them. They were in the fan club, could sing all the lyrics, and liked every. single. song. Did drinking all night long and listening to the newly released Orange Ave. one summer bias me, conditioning me to love Seven Mary Three? I’ll never know, and I don’t care. Seven Mary Three seemingly still kicks out good music to this day, but why then have they never found the success of a Pearl Jam or the Stone Temple Pilots? 

Not only that, but I am most certainly predisposed to 90s alterna-grunge. A friend of mine has this theory that people cut their hair as an adult according to the haircut they had at the moment in life when they were the happiest. This is surely why we see mid-40s divorcees rock the Farrah Fawcett once in a while. Well, I think this is pretty similar to music. We love the music we grew up with and find music we hear later to be subpar for the most part. There is that nostalgic emotional linkage to the past. After all, I didn't lose my virginity to a Miley Cyrus song. It was actually a Billy Ray Cyrus song…I only wish.

All joking aside, these biases collected over time make us think our music is better, that it means more. Like discovering Nirvana before they dropped Nevermind makes their music better somehow. There are radio stations all over the country dedicated to this theory. Every college town has a radio station that plays the music of about 10-15 years ago. When I was attending college in the late 90s, it was 80s: R.E.M., Pixies, U2, Genesis, Tom Petty, and the likes, with the DJ proclaiming that he loved Husker Du before they were Husker Du. College kids all grown up with nice-paying jobs in control of what the public listens to and still touting their music as the “right” music. Now it’s 90s rock, but where does it go from there? Music is so fragmented now.

Why do we even like music in the first place? There is literature that points to romanticism. Some evolutionary theories point to its ability to facilitate tribal bonds and keep peace. A recent study found that women aged 18-22 are most likely to give out their numbers when men are packing, not a puppy, not a sports bag, but a fucking guitar. I’m sure those figures drastically change in the 30+ age category when the women understand that struggling guitar players don’t buy diapers and pay the mortgage. This just gives us another level of mystery into why we like some songs and hate others.

Another point that must be made involves gangster rap. When I was in sixth grade, if you didn’t have a 2 Live Crew or N.W.A. tape, you were not cool. What made it cool? The lyrics, right? Gangster rap probably doesn’t stand its ground without gratuitous language. There was a time in which I only bought cassette tapes that had the parental advisory warning on them. Maybe this was the secret to Use Your Illusion selling so many copies. With this said, we don’t just listen to gangster rap solely because of the curse words, it has to have a dope beat. We don’t just listen to Adam Sandler because he talks about jerking off in the women’s shower room, it has to be funny. And we don’t just listen to Trent Reznor because of his dark themes, it has to sound, well…musical.

The reasons we like music are varied, sometimes trivial and sometimes laced with enough emotional baggage to bring down a 737. Sometimes I know why I like a song, other times I have no clue. I know why I like John Denver: it’s peaceful happy music and some part of the contrarian in me makes me love it more because so many prudes are missing out on the joy of Johnny D. I know why I like Motorhead and the Ramones: the sheer brazen punk attitude. I don’t really know why I like Michael Jackson songs. I mean, if we knew for sure whether he did or did not touch young boys, I’d probably bet that he did, but does that affect how I view his music? The answer is: of course it does. Everything affects everything. So the next time a friend or a brother or a mother or a lover says, “I love this song,” ask them why and relish the response, or giggle at their puzzled expressions.

Wordy Old Men on Downton Abbey: Series One, Episode Two

For those reading this at home, this week, we Wordy Old Men have watched the second episode of the first series of Downton Abbey, as sequenced in its original broadcasts on ITV in the United Kingdom. I, Josh "Old Man" Duggan, am watching this all for the second time in the last two months while Wordy Ginters is taking it all in for the first time. If you want to read the first installment in the series, it is here. The second episode starts with Matthew and Isobel Crawley arriving in the village at their new abode Crawley House. Matthew is reluctant to take to his new life, repeatedly inserting foot into mouth while slowly realizing what the noble life actually entails. Isobel starts to butt heads with Violet, the Dowager Countess, at the local hospital, where Isobel is eventually placed as Chairman of the Board to serve in opposition to Violet, the President of Downton Hospital. A ne'er-do-well from Mr. Carson's past attempts to leverage Carson's past against him. Matthew and Mary trade thinly veiled barbs as resentment over Matthew's being the heir colors her view of him. Having gotten that out of the way...

Wordy Ginters: Should we start the Bates Appreciation Society? Every woman wants him. Every man wants to be like him. And he does it with a cane. I like how he keeps his mouth shut when it comes to Carson's embarrassing "outing" as a former drama clubber and his realism when it comes to recognizing that your history influences how you are perceived.

Old Man Duggan: It is clear early on that Bates is one of the few in the house who as actually lived in the real world. That's not to say that Downton Abbey isn't the 'real world' in a manner of speaking, but there's clearly a worldly wisdom that's been gained by Bates from outside of the walls of a stately manor, and it would seem that it may not just be from having fought in the Second Boer War. It is evident early on that this is a man bound by a code of honor, perhaps a self-fashioned one. As for being in the Bates Appreciation Society, sign me up. I'd polish his turtle.

WG:This episode is all about appearances and what characters must do to maintain dignity. The supposed reluctant heir to Downton Abbey, Matthew, his disdain for the formality and finery of the upper crust (a man so coarse that he chooses his own cuff links and pours his own tea), and then downstairs, with Carson struggling to maintain the proper tone among his staff, from the rip in William's jacket, to his shame at being outed as a song-and-dance man. As if being one half of the Cheerful Charlies was something to be ashamed of. Although, the way the Crawley's continue to degrade the medical profession, I suppose theatre is held in even greater contempt. The way his Lordship spat the words "a job" like Matthew was a baby puppy killer was laugh out loud funny. And that grating old battle-axe O'Brien, getting a smackdown from Cora from being a little loose lipped down in the galley. She rankled at getting called out on her turf and recognized that Cora's pretense at friendship was straight up bullshit smeared on strictly employee/supervisor situation.

OMD: That definitely gets to the themes at play here. I like what Fellowes does with Matthew here. In his disdain of the lifestyle he deems wrought with frivolity and useless pomp, he shits on Molesley--first unknowingly and then unintentionally but insensitively. Just like to you or me, much of the way of life of the nobility strikes him as absurd, but as Lord Grantham lays out for him, "we all have our parts to play," once again showing that he is a reasonable Earl with a much more generous heart than would otherwise be necessary of a nobleman. Ultimately, Matthew sees how his petulance has hurt Molesley and rights the wrong, but not without Robert's guidance. As for Carson, let's not forget that he also chides Thomas for not paying the Dowager Countess the proper respect downstairs. It is funny that the knowledge of his having been the equivalent of a vaudevillian mortifies Carson so much that he preemptively proffers his resignation. If you thought the "job" indignation was great, how about the Dowager Countess not knowing what a "week end" was? If ever one needed an example of a disconnect between their lives and ours, this is it. And it's funny as fuck. As for O'Brien, I don't think Cora was out of line, but I place the blame for misreading the relationship on O'Brien, who clearly has an inflated sense of self-worth/-importance.

One of the scenes that worked exceptionally well for me was a simple one. The scene when Anna is going to bed and Gwen is sitting up reading something furtively accomplishes so many things with a deft subtlety not many shows can manage. Anna asks Gwen if she's reading letters from an admirer, which they then joke about a bit, saying that Mrs. Hughes would bring the vicar in to exorcise her before getting to the real crux of the issue. How would a Lady's maid get a husband? Their lives are spent entirely in the service of others. Their lives revolve around the Crawley family, so much so that immediately after opining about not being able to find a husband by means not involving a stork, Anna and Gwen's conversation goes back Lady Mary situation, highlighting the sad fact that they have little more than to live vicariously through the people they serve.

WG: At some point, I'd like to balance my somewhat tepid disdain for the soapy feel of the series, and admire the craft of it in general. You've alluded to the quality of the show, considering how ambitious it is to tackle a period piece for television, and I wholeheartedly agree. Despite my ways as a vile low brow smart ass, I admire how "crass free" the show actually is. Compared to shite like Two and 1/2 Men and other dreck on TV, it is certainly devine by comparison.

Are you more interested in books than country sports? I suppose I am. Although I have not the faintest clue what country sports may be. Perhaps I'll consult the works of Jeff Foxworthy for more information. Perhaps you're familiar with his work? He has developed a career from a canny framework of jokes, insight, and comedy based around the trials and tribulations of "red necks," and their peculiar and sometimes humorous social habits. If you haven't experienced Mr. Foxworthy, I'd encourage you to do so at once.

OMD: My preference is definitely for books, but that is mainly derived from having enjoyed all the advantages that modern dentistry has had to offer. Do water sports count as country sports? As for this Foxworthy fellow, I've not had the pleasure of familiarizing myself with his work. Does he know that chap Lawrence the Telegraph Worker?

WG: Country sports pentathalon: catfish noodling, frog gigging, bud light num-nums, and shooting paper targets with a wrist rocket? I saw it on ABC Wide World of Sports as a young child.

OMD: The other one in the pentathlon: cow tipping.

WG: The Dowager Countess recalls Nosferatu vintage Max Schreck whence she appears. Ghoulish. Ghastly. Delightful. I thought it was particularly funny and telling when the Doctor feared Lord Crawley's decision to allow Matthew's mother, the remorseless adrenaline pusher, to get involved in the hospital. "On your own head be it."

OMD: I was thinking more Willem Dafoe in Shadow of the Vampire, but same page.

WG: Speaking of the heart drain scene, echoes of Pulp Fiction. With the Dowager in the Arquette role. She's another character who is given a few more shades than the others. She can be deliciously bad, but also pragmatic and sometimes even kind. Sometimes. She is the Capo of the show. Perhaps only Lord Crawley alone acts like he's beyond her influence.

OMD: Yeah, the Dowager Countess sure likes to feel like she has sway. She does in some arenas, but it seems like she has grown a bit too big for her britches.

WG: Again, some of the show is far too stereotypical. The music is fucking insulting. But it has its moments. One scene featured a portion of Downton shot from between a doorway, and the accompanying dialogue mentioned something about running out of options, so it was a nice "squeezed" feel on both visual and literal levels. But for the most part, the show veers away from any pretense towards art, and plays the drama straight up. The "Andromeda" story at the dinner was a little obvious, but made for some nice jousting between Mary and Matthew. I also thought the scene where Daisy and Thomas rocked the "Grizzly Bear" was pretty inspired.

(L to R) Eye Candy, Center of Attention, Desperate and/or Horny

OMD: The show definitely plays like a soap opera as much as anything else. Since it is a period drama, it is acceptable for us all to like it without feeling badly about it. That's sort of the beauty of the whole show. I actually don't have a problem with the music, but largely because I expect it from the genre. It doesn't irritate me, like the utterly predictable and ludicrous music on a show like Lost did, so if I don't get angry when I hear the music, I'm not going to worry too much about it. And I do really like the fucking theme song. Maybe I'll make it be my ringtone. That'd weird a bunch of people out. I think the visual palette both in terms of art direction/production design and cinematography is quite impressive for television. It seems that Fellowes gleaned quite a bit from Altman because he handles the large ensemble well, sneaking in subtle but pertinent reaction shots like Lady Sybil declining the food that one of the footmen is offering her while the Matthew and Mary have their Andromeda back-and-forth. Sybil's attention is held when Matthew starts to assert himself against Mary, a nice touch.

WG: Mrs. Patmore! Straight out of central casting. But how can't you like her. Some sly reference to the naive Daisy about how Thomas wasn't like the other boys was funny.

OMD: Honestly, I don't know if there's a character on the show that irritates me more than Mrs. Patmore. What the fuck was she getting on about with the "Stop that silly nonsense before you put your joints out" rubbish? Seriously, that broad is batshit crazy. She is onto what Thomas is cooking, though.

OMD: Dropsy! I can't wait until we start dealing with consumption and the bevy of hilariously antiquated sounding diseases, especially those with a "the" affixed to the front of them. When the Dowager Countess perishes on account of a flare up of "the herps," it'll be hard to stifle a laugh, despite the emotional weight the moment is sure to pack.

WG: And who could overlook the horrors of The Jake Leg, The Consumption, and the Satchel Mouth.

OMD: Doesn't seeing Dr. Clarkson practice medicine give you pause and wonder how many dipshit doctors were afraid of new fads like saving their patients' lives? If ever there were a doctor depicted on screen that could just as easily have been a stodgy, backwards thinking manager of a baseball team, it's Dr. Clarkson.

WG: One thing that struck me about "The Dropsy" scene is that I was horrified the figurative control over life and death that the Crawley's exert over their little fiefdom would literally play out with the Dowager pulling the plug on the adrenaline gambit. Nice job of ratcheting up the tension. I thought it was a real possibility that the poor bastards heart my explode and a wave of satisfaction would linger in the Dowager's cold dead eyes.

I kind of like the way mirror's are used as well. The Crawley's seem to spend a lot of time admiring themselves in the mirror. Navel gazers. I assume later episodes reveal the transition to full blow shoe-gazing, with lengthy montages propped up by the incongruent tunes of My Bloody Valentine or Swervedriver?

OMD: When you see people outside of your immediate family for no more than maybe three hours a week, I suppose you'd want to make sure every hair was in place. As for the shoegazing, I heard that Fellowes wanted to use Ride exclusively for the score, but Ride refused so they had to go with the run-of-the-mill Merchant/Ivory style score.

WG: Most eye blindingly odd use of music in film history? "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" struck me as an odd choice for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. What do you have?

OMD: For me, it's got to be the bassett hound playing the piano for the entire score of Eyes Wide Shut. [Hat tip to Weibel]

WG: I'm far from familiar with any of the characters, other than Bates, but the middle sister has to be the horniest person on the British Isles. Or perhaps, simply horny for anything that catches Mary's eye. The younger sister is gorgeous. Thus far relegated to shameful eye candy status, with only a few meaningless lines. I assume that changes.

OMD: I don't know about horny, but Lady Edith is fucking desperate as hell. There's definitely a sibling rivalry, but I think Edith is fully cognizant of the fact that she's the runt of the litter and will take anyone who will have her. It's weird having so much riding on the simple act of marrying off, but for these three daughters to maintain their lifestyles and dignity, they really do have to marry pretty quickly. TSLF (my DA sherpa) was telling me that the eldest two daughters are rather old to have not been engaged to be married. Obviously, Mary had an agreement to marry Patrick in place before James Cameron killed him--surely with the help of Billy Zane--but that was far from public knowledge. Edith would probably marry Patrick's corpse recovered from the North Atlantic.

The Regal Beagle

WG: I'd like to blow the froth off of a lukewarm bitter ale at the Dog & Duck. That is where shit goes down in Downton Abbey. The Regal Beagle of the times

OMD: There is a Dog & Duck Pub here in Austin. If they were smart, they'd name everything on the menu after Downton Abbey. I'm ashamed, but I had to look up The Regal Beagle.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how big a toolbag is Charles Grigg, Carson's blackmailer? Do you think they made him grow his poncy 'stache to drive the point home? Also, when he sits down in the chair in the library, his legs look like they can't be more than 18 inches long. Lord Grantham can't be more than 5'10", but he positively towers over Tiny Charlie (that has to have been his stage name next to Carson, right?).

WG: Grigg was a world class piker. I kind of got a kick out of his impertinence, and how it got the house in an up-roar. Sent the maid running out the front door for Christ sake, evil must be afoot.

All in all, solid second episode. I'm invested. These assholes have invested me. I only hope there is death. Some destruction. And some comeuppance. A pinch of weirdness would suit me just fine too.

OMD: I knew it'd get you. Just wait. By the third or fourth episode, you'll be wanting to speed this whole process up. The first time through I watched it all in about three days.