Might as well be Gossip Girl

Schlub is a big fan of the PBS series Downton Abbey. Yeah, yeah, PBS, bastion of Marxist culture, living on government largesse because they eschew the vulgarity of, ewww! commercials (Viking River Cruises notwithstanding). But sometimes they latch onto a pretty good British series and the Schlub will watch. After all, I’m paying for it.

And since Schlub is enamored of All Things Modernist, especially the last gasp of Victorian aristocracy just before World War 1, Abbey quickly became a favorite. At least, the first season, which was masterful.

But I think the producers of American Idol have snuck in the back, gassed all the writers, and replaced them with the staff of Dallas. Because this season has turned into a prime time soap opera.

Plot points abound: Lord Grantham kissing Jane, which you could see coming a mile away; Matthew’s miraculous recovery; Sir Richard turning into Snidely Whiplash; Livinia’s very convenient death by Spanish Flu (which the doctor treated like some nuisance common cold); Bates’ arrest for murder, also available for viewing several miles away…oh brother. Makes Schlub want to walk over to some random corner and throw up.

No doubt the writers intended a single season. Their target audience was familiar with the events of the early 20^th and knew Downton was going the way of Tara, so pass gently into that good night.  But unexpected popularity and a frenzied demand for more and the writers are sitting around the table bewildered, going “What do we do?” At that point, some guy in a checkered suit and loud tie bursts in shouting “I’ll tell ya what we do!”…and here we are.

To quote Hobson, “How revolting.”