<em>Downton</em>, <em>Downton</em>, Revolution
The beloved British stately home drama is back, and the timing couldn’t be worse.
The new Downton Abbey movie is a drug, a delight, a palliative for the pain of being, a balm for battered emotions, a cure for cynicism. Well, almost. After two hours mainlining Carson’s beetling eyebrows, the Dowager Countess’s caustic comebacks, Mr. Molesley’s quivering histrionics every time aristocracy enters his airspace, and Lady Mary’s phlegmatic disdain, I left the movie as elated as Edith after a single driving lesson. But on the 10-minute walk back to the office, as the serotonin buzz began to wear off, I started to think about the totality of what I’d just seen. To paraphrase Titus from Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt: What Tory nonsense is this?
In most cultural products, brute repetition tends to be a turnoff, but in , it’s entirely.
