We drove to Hanover recently to pay our respects to the characters of Downton Abbey, who bid us adieu in a movie labeled The Grand Finale.
It was a pretty good crowd for a 3:50 p.m. show. Seniors were in abundance. Gray hair was in season. We dressed in Upper Valley casual, not for high tea.
Dede and I were nearly late; finding parking at that time of day takes luck and alertness. Fortunately, I have become conversant with the machines that pop out parking stubs. We (that is, I) used to fumble for 10 minutes or more in a state of confusion, self-doubt, recrimination and often a lack of pocket change.
But this time I made quick work of it, and we only missed the trailers.
I still remember the first time I heard of Downton Abbey. Early in 2011, when it came to America via Masterpiece Theater on PBS, our daughter emailed us that there was a new program we might like. I misread her suggestion as Downtown Abbey, which delayed things a bit.
But I found it and it was love at first sight. Something about the leisurely pace, the manicured scenery, the swelling music, the massive Englishness of it all, was a balm that soothed fraying nerves.
At the time I was a working journalist, with the stress of potentially having mistakes published daily. I was also consumed by the national agita that has gone from bad then to much worse now.
And there, in the British countryside, was escape. If you have never seen the show, you should know that almost all the characters are essentially good. They have flaws, sure, but ultimately look fabulous in formal wear.
The aristocrats are kind to the staff and the affection is returned. There were a couple of stinkers in the bunch, but one of them ends up happy and redeemed. Aside from several who have died — even paradise isn’t immune to tragedy — almost everyone improves their lot as the years pass.
There were six seasons and three movies. As far as I know, there are no Downton Abbey action figures or bobbleheads. I suppose it has run its course, but I would happily watch a spinoff in which Lady Mary spies on the Germans before World War II. She could be something of a seductress. Anything for king and country.
The latest movie doesn’t add terribly much to the Downton Abbey saga. It’s a family reunion and we are invited. Everyone looks a little older, but not in a falling apart sort of way. You would be tempted, if you met them in real life, to say “You look good,’’ as we do to each other to keep spirits up. Cheerio, old chaps!
Two of the lead male characters are having trouble accepting change. The women are doing better with it. Lady Mary is divorced — gasp! — threatening ostracization from polite society. But Mary, who can be a bit haughty (but in a good way), wins the day, naturally.
The family has yet another financial crisis, brought on by a naive uncle who squanders family money, so much of it that it threatens the whole enterprise. At Downtown Abbey this news is received as if it were a spot of bother. Oh, well, anyone could lose a fortune. A pity, that.
My eyes grew a little watery at the end, because everything in life leads to farewell, and not just on the Silver Screen. As the movie grew ever more wistful, I think some part of me felt the passing of my parents, my wife’s parents, our aunts and uncles, all gone, my childhood home now three condos, my high school a parking lot, and on and on until I was blinking away almost-tears to hide the mist that was overtaking me.
I’d normally roll my eyes at tales of likeable, honorable aristocrats. I’m sure there were some, but being high and mighty doesn’t necessarily bring out the best in people. How could they not be out of touch? How can an impossibly wide class divide make a great society?
An online article said the era of great land estates ended after World War I when the economy changed and England enacted high taxes on inherited wealth. We here in America are going in the opposite direction. The rich get richer, and we shop at Walmart.
Our billionaires, it appears, dominate our finances, politics and culture. Worse than that they have little or no entertainment value.
But I can always watch Downton Abbey reruns, returning to a more charming time of tea and tiaras. It wasn’t entirely real, but it glowed like the golden afternoons of fall.
Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.