The 67-day itch

I confess to complete hypocrisy.

I have always derided the Sunday Coronation Street afficionados, for whom the weekly fix of a slew of back-toback episodes is as addictive as their morning coffee. And now here I am, a wretched soul who marks down on his wall the number of days that will pass until Season 3 of Downton Abbey begins. (The answer is 67: it starts on January 6.) Well, at least there’s NHL hockey to fall back on. No, wait a minute….

When the Downton Abbey series first aired, I disdained it, having a generation ago watched the period drama Upstairs, Downstairs; and having said to myself “they’re not going to foist another English country house, master/servant drama on me.” Big mistake, as it turns out. The only plus is that had watched the show at the first opportunity, I would have been restlessly counting down to Season 3 for much longer than 67 days.

Downton Abbey, for those who haven’t yet been bewitched, is about the familly and servants living in the stately home of the Earl of Grantham. The property is ‘entailed’ (it must pass on to the eldest male heir), which creates many plot complications. The drama begins (where Upstairs, Downstairs ended) with the 1912 Titanic disaster depriving the Earl of his only presumptive male heir, and therefore potentially bringing the dynasty to a shuddering halt. By the time Season 2 ends, we have been with the protagonists through World War I, the Russian revolution, suffragettism, Irish separatism, the telephone, electricity, the motor car and Spanish flu; and we are enter the Roaring Twenties with considerable apprehension for the future of evening attire.

All the while, a host of characters—aristocratic and common, noble and ignoble, proud and practical, chivalrous and unchivalrous—parade their individual life dramas before us. It’s virtually impossible to avoid getting hooked, because the genius of the production is everywhere—be it in the story line, the staging or the acting. Each character presents himself or herself in a brief vignette, which manages to take us right to his or her heart. Not once do we feel anything is out of place, even though we are looking back a century. A simple physical gesture or facial expression conveys a host of emotions, and what is said evokes much more of what is unsaid.

I made the critical mistake of buying the series compilation disks, which allowed me to watch a couple of episodes almost every evening over a short few days. But now it’s over, and I feel as if I’ve been deprived of my family (at least for another 67 days). By that, I mean I really, really care whether the ill-starred Mr. Bates will ever find some good fortune; whether the ambitious Thomas will learn the error of his scheming ways; whether Daisy the kitchen maid will rise above her lowliest of stations; and whether Carson the butler will survive all of the challenges to his stature, including prospective obsolescence. To say the least, I feel a tad foolish that I am overinvested emotionally in the fortunes of a fictional household. (I feel more keenly for the servants than the ennobled; they have more to gain from the right moves, and more information at their disposal because they know what goes on both upstairs and downstairs, while upstairs has only a glimmer of the downstairs machinations.)

Much to my chagrin, I discover that the first episode of Series 3 has already aired on British television; so that if I really want to scratch my 67-day itch, all I have to do is go to one of the teaser/spoiler postings on the Internet. Of course, to do this would deprive me of the pleasure of seeing the plot unfold the way the creators intended. It also seems a little disloyal to the characters themselves. So I must be patient. Stiff upper lip, old chap.

Still, it could be worse. I could be counting the number of days NHL hockey has been locked out. By the way, as of today, it’s 46 and counting—upwards. I’m at 67, but tomorrow, I’ll be at 66. At least I’m counting in the right direction. Hey: 66—wasn’t that Mario Lemieux’s number?

David Simmonds’s writing is also available at www.grubstreet.ca.