A friend shared an email she received from the Reagan Library announcing that Nancy Reagan will “lay in repose” Wednesday and Thursday. As the kids would say, while briefly raising their untutored heads from their smart phones, “Whatever.”
A good time was had by all at the Sunday night Downton party and girls-night-out my wife attended (the second time this season I’ve been a Downton widower). Some cookies and strawberries made it home for me, but none of the shrimp or bubbly survived. As most of you have seen the final episode now, I feel comfortable saying that it was entertaining, but all the moving from character to character and the remorseless tying up of loose ends made it dramatically less satisfying than previous episodes. It had to be this way, as I’m sure many of Fellowes’ devoted fans would have had him strung up if he had left anything to speculation.
Stand by now for a nationwide epidemic of postpartum depression when the afterglow dies down and it sinks in on tens of millions that IT’S OVER. Done. Finis. Kaput. No mas. (I’ve already spotted black crepe on beauty salon windows in Tampa — and the flag in front of the League of Women Voters office is at half-staff.) Lord Crawley & Associates have gone out of business, faded into the sunset, adjourned sine die, taken early retirement. Woe is us, Sapphire. Woe is us. What do we do with our Sunday evenings now? (Baseball is on the way for me — but for millions of others…)
In Norman Lear’s America there would have been endless spin-offs. How about a half-hour weekly sit-com based on the conflicts and machinations of Sprat and Denker? Lady Edith starts a dating service. The Dowager starts a charm school. Thomas goes to seminary. Daisy earns a black-belt in indignation. Mrs. Patmore has breast-reduction surgery. Hmm. OK, some of these are better than others.
Don’t know what Masterpiece will come up with next. Whatever it turns out to be, it will have a tough act to follow.
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