by Cris Mora-Villa, Contributing Writer
HBO’s premier costume drama, The Gilded Age, has officially concluded its third season, and I find myself in a position reminiscent of when the show’s first two seasons ended: wishing I was able to continue this extravagant odyssey with Season Four. While I’ve yet to see showrunner Julian Fellowes’ other critical darling Downton Abbey, a show like The Crown feels like a fair contemporary. On its own terms, The Gilded Age seeks to explore a cultural changing of the tides in 1880s New York. Both The Crown and The Gilded Age tackle their respective points in history with a refreshing sense of maturity. With The Crown, however, a major defining component was its observation of historical events through the eyes of the British monarchy. What this approach to storytelling by way of historical check boxing did for me was imbue a level of emotional detachment to its characters, amplified further by the show’s myopic perspective. When The Crown did opt to use artistic license, it often veered towards sensationalism. I mention all this because while The Gilded Age is still ongoing, it circumvents this avenue by embracing the fantasy portion of historical fantasy, and mixing with it an emotional sincerity.
Glimpsing back at the events of years past can be a compelling narrative possibility, but to adhere so fully in that direction can be just as stifling to the imagination. I’m not advocating for an open distortion of history, as factual accuracy can bring tremendous value to some stories. The difficult thing is gauging to what extent should facts guide the narrative. For that, a clearly defined identity is essential. Not just for the benefit of the story, but also how said story is going to be perceived by an audience. The terms “based on a true story” and “inspired by,” while similar, put forward two different propositions for the kind of story that is being told. The Crown chose to depict the life of the Royal Family using the former approach. The Gilded Age leans towards the latter, never actually asserting itself as a tell all guide to what this period of America was like. What we’re actually seeing is Fellowes’ meticulously crafted reimagining of this world with firmly tied roots to real events and real figures who occupied that space. With that knowledge in tow, I never feel like I’m watching a history lesson. Instead, I feel cordially invited to simply embrace the show for what it intends to do, and that includes reveling in its majestic qualities, while gracefully accepting its flaws.
The caveat of subjectivity aside, the show’s negatives are far outweighed by its positives. Said negatives primarily pertain to some of the show’s writing and imbalance of its many narratives. To break down every single storyline and character arc would take a near herculean effort based on how much actual plot Fellowes and co-writer Sonja Warfield are able to fit into this eight-episode season. By my count, there are over a dozen different storylines to keep track of at any given moment. Some rest in the background more often than, not and are advanced sparingly, such as Monsieur Baudin’s (Douglas Sills) proposal to Mrs. Bruce (Celia Keenan-Bolger). Others are allotted more time, but stall out when the script needs to manufacture a situational conflict, like in the case of Marian Brook (Louisa Jacobson) and Larry Russell’s (Harry Richardson) engagement, which is called off but later walked back. Neither example is detrimental to the show’s overall joyous undertones. This is because, despite both being romantic subplots, there are similar stories elsewhere which either emotionally or thematically make up for it. The closest the season comes to actively letting one down is in its attempts (or lack thereof) to explore the expansion of industry through Russell Industries.
The season opens with a distinct visual change away from the New York we’ve come to know. George Russell (Morgan Spector) arrives in Morenci, Arizona as part of his expedition to construct a continental bridge through the advancement of railways: one direct line from New York, through Chicago, to Los Angeles. This cold open does well in establishing the kind of vision George has in mind. He or the robber barons surrounding him will often reference the scope of his ambition in continuing to chase this dream. To do what hasn’t been done before. To shape a single facet of the ongoing construction of America in one’s own image. The ideas are sound, the motivation is solid, and Spector’s performance makes every scene compelling. It’s when the writing in many of these scenes veers towards “tell rather than show” that I start to notice Fellowes and Warfield’s interest in these ideas only extends so far. This issue was not present in prior seasons, but becomes noticeable when the dialogue repeatedly circles back to the same talking point. That being the immense threat that would befall the Russell family fortune should this plan fail, only for Larry to casually resolve the issue in Episode Seven. There’s an intrigue that should be present in seeing how this industry came together, but its depiction is surface level, and the only mileage that stems from it is how it relates to the other half of the Russell family.
What Bertha Russell (Carrie Coon) desires above all else is what she deems best for her family. She is an incredibly cunning person who represents a shift in the status quo of old New York, and is relentless in achieving her goals. She deftly maneuvers events and the people around her to shape the world as she sees fit. The show will often draw comparisons between how George handles his business affairs and Bertha in her quest to position her family name at the epicenter of upperclass society. Their respective ambitions know no bounds. But where Bertha has no choice but to adhere to George’s financial ambitions, that act is not reciprocated. George is as much of a representation of “new money” as Bertha is, but it’s his sense of morality that cannot embrace her desire to impose her will onto their family. Business is one thing, family is another. Not only do their children share this perspective, it is an earned stance to have as we’ve seen firsthand why one may perceive Bertha in such a harsh light. The cliffhanger at the end of Season Two signals a drastic change forthcoming in the life of her daughter Gladys (Taissa Farmiga). The implication of an arranged marriage to Hector Vere (Ben Lamb), the Duke of Buckingham, was quite an emotional gut punch to end that season. Its follow through this season serves as the connective tissue that unlocks Bertha as a character. Family is her business.
It is because of Bertha that Gladys is forced into submission. To marry a man she hardly knows and does not love. To leave New York behind and now reside in England. All this is set into motion because Bertha believes with all her heart that this is the way for Gladys to live her life. So her daughter can influence culture, have a voice in the most important of rooms, and forge her own legacy. We spend a good deal of time with Gladys as she transitions into this new phase of her life. With that, we sense the fear and anxiety within Gladys as she resigns herself to the fate that her mother has set up for her and that her father has signed off on. Like many women before her, Gladys must learn to accept it. When she does manage to find some stability, it is a genuine relief for Bertha, as she is only hoping for the best from this courtship. Upon hearing this news near the end of the season, we’re convinced she’s attained a version of what she has been chasing this entire time. That is until the rug is pulled out beneath her at the last minute. The season’s final image is a powerful one. Not just for what it could mean to the livelihood of House Russell come Season Four, but also a clever bookend to the season’s opening scene. George riding into the American west, temporarily leaving behind his preexisting roots to prepare for whatever may come.
In conjunction with the events of House Russell, we pick up where we left off with House Brook (formerly the Van Rhijn household) in typical regaling fashion. One of the show’s calling cards is how it explores the class dynamics of this time period. House Brook is a big contributor to that theme in at least three ways. Per Agnes van Rhijn’s (Christine Baranski) economic downfall at the end of last season, it is now her sister Ada Brook (Cynthia Nixon) who rules the house. A literal reversal of fortunes, as Ada, who lived off of the charity of her sister, must now contend with being the one in power. Agnes, who lorded over the home with an iron fist, must now sit in the passengers seat as her reputation slowly dissipates, or at least that’s what she’s convinced herself of. Ada is hardly the nihilistic matriarch that Agnes is, far from it in fact. She is only ever doing the best she can to care for her family, while also contending with the passing of her late husband Luke. Their sisterly rapport is likely my favorite dynamic to watch in the entire series. The performances from Baranski and Nixon are among the strongest in the ensemble, and they make every scene a delightful watch. By the end of the season, they’ve reached an understanding befitting of the show’s thematic aim regarding the value of money. It has a purpose, but placing it on a pedestal can only do more harm than good.
With that idea, we see two other class-centric ideas in House Brook unfold in smaller ways. Those being the dual success stories of Oscar van Rhijn (Blake Ritson) and John “Jack” Trotter (Ben Ahlers). Oscar’s plight of having caused his mother’s downfall continues in that we now have a privileged slacker without the means to continue living the lifestyle he’s accustomed to. He says so himself: “I was born to be rich. I was not born to make a fortune.” How does someone like him make his way in the world after facing such a detrimental blow? There are two answers to this question, one practical and one spiritual. For someone as privileged as he is, sometimes it’s all about who you know. In this instance, that would be Oscar’s former lover John Adams (Claybourne Elder), who simply takes pity on him and agrees to do a kindness for someone he cares for. Practically speaking, it’s simply that easy. The spiritual answer is coming to understand the value of the dollar through an encounter with the cause of his misfortune, Maud Beaton (Nicole Brydon Bloom). When given the chance to punch down or seek revenge for what she’s done, he opts to do the opposite, because despite his cunning behavior, he’s still an empathetic soul who cares about people more than the dollar.
Juxtapose all of this with Jack as he contends with the windfall of success that arrives when his hard work pays off and his clock patent sells for $300,000. Unlike Oscar, Jack is an incredibly capable young man who has no choice but to do the work and invent something with purpose. With the help of an established businessman like Larry, their endeavor pays off in ways Jack is wholly unprepared for. He must then ask himself, what kind of person is he going to be now that he is an obscenely wealthy man? When all he’s done in his life is wait on others, and the closest thing he’s had to a family is his fellow co-workers, what is he to do next? There is an identity crisis brewing within him as he must navigate what’s next for him. We’ve only scratched the surface of what that may entail, but similar to Oscar’s experience with Maud Beaton, what Jack does have going for him is a sense of humility and basic human decency, which he’s gained from having struggled all his life.
The last major narrative central to The Gilded Age’s class commentary is told through the eyes of the show’s Black cast. Perhaps the single most unabashed success of the season comes from the show’s dissection of racial divides, and the portrayal of Black aristocracy. After coming down with a near fatal bout of pneumonia, Peggy Scott (Denée Benton) makes a full recovery with the help of Dr. William Kirkland (Jordan Donica). Through the thin veneer of social niceties is an underlying romantic charge between them. Their subsequent interactions feel effortless, as the pair slowly come to take comfort in one another, and we are quick to see why. Peggy swoons over William for his soft-spoken, tenderhearted character, and develops a newfound inclination to ponder what future may await them. William admires Peggy for the virtues she holds onto so dearly, and her uncomplicatedly fun demeanor. The issue which arises comes when William’s mother Elizabeth (Phylicia Rashad) enters the picture. Her demeanor on the surface may read as polite, but it’s her brand of superiority that rings through in most of what she says. It’s one thing for her to maybe think Peggy isn’t good enough for her son. Bertha’s motivation regarding Gladys can be generalized into that same category, but their approach is completely different. Perhaps that speaks to the gap in generations between them, but where Bertha is embracing of challenging cultural norms, Elizabeth is a real Phyllis Schlafly type who rests on the traditions she’s been accustomed to all her life. To prove as much, she writes the Scott family off entirely upon learning that Peggy’s father Arthur (John Douglas Thompson) is a former slave. The weight of expectation matters in this society, and it’s simply not good enough in her mind for William to settle for the daughter of a pharmacist. To her, the Scotts represent a kind of “new money” with no pedigree to their name. When news of the Scott family’s past in Philadelphia reaches Elizabeth, she spares no time in openly sabotaging the couple with this information. The difference in this instance between Elizabeth and Bertha is that Elizabeth’s virtues are considerably shallower and hold less power in the face of William. Love wins out in the end, and we’re left to see how this union will blossom come Season Four. This likely speaks to the romantic in me, but this sentiment encapsulates what I like about The Gilded Age. Honest, ever-resplendent stories that inspire nothing but joy.
Rating: Loved It
The Gilded Age is currently streaming on HBO Max
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