The end of Downton Abbey: why I won't be shedding a tear
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Version 0 of 1. It is hard to know whether to cry or cry. The end of Downton Abbey has been confirmed. “Inevitably there comes a time when all shows should end and Downton is no exception,” intoned Gareth Neame, executive producer of Downton Abbey, borrowing the sorrowful tones of Mr Carson when faced with another missing ham from Mrs Patmore’s cold-meats cupboard. Downton, the highest-rating UK drama of the past decade across any channel, has taken its place in the British psyche and become a bizarre, reactionary cultural ambassador for us across the globe, occasioning Chinese oligarchs to engage butlers and housemaids, and American fans to host Downton parties where they – and their dogs – wear lilac veiled fascinators in tribute to Cousin Violet. Related: Downton Abbey to end after season six It’s worth shedding a tear of frustration here because, yes, there will be yet another sodding season. Your long-suffering correspondent, who fell out of love with this “global phenomenon” (copyright: Julian Fellowes) approximately 30 seconds after the untimely demise of Mr Pamuk in series one, receives this news with mixed feelings. “Oh no, not another bloody series.” “Thank God this is the last series.” And, maybe just a little bit: “Ah, the end of Downton. It’s the end of an era.” There’s no doubting Downton’s impact, both on ITV’s reputation as a serious player for drama exports. Financially, and in terms of audience figures, Downton is a juggernaut. Critically, though, it has had an uneven history. It is the most nominated British show in Emmy history, with 51 nominationsand 11 wins, including outstanding writing for a miniseries or a movie, outstanding directing for a miniseries or a movie and outstanding miniseries or a movie. Which all seems incredibly odd when many who have watched it – particularly through all five series – would argue that Downton Abbey’s salient feature is that, despite all the gloss and glitz, it is outstandingly bad. Downton must take its place in history as the most astonishingly clever televisual wallpaper. It is never anything less than beautiful in production terms (costumes, makeup, sets) and many of the acting performances are truly superb. The problem lies with the zany plots and the insistence that every character play a lead role. Few scenes last longer than 30 seconds, and, by season five, we poor viewers were zigzagging between dozens of plotlines and shenanigans and half-remembered red herrings. What of the legendary entail that kicked off series one and was the entire point of the whole thing? It is never mentioned. From Melty-Faced Patrick, the cousin who wasn’t really a cousin – or was he? Who can remember now? – and Edith with her imposter child and the disappeared German-sympathising newspaper editor, to the Russian Silver Fox – now you see him, now you don’t – and the twin imprisonments of Anna and Bates, there has always been too much happening of great, great import that suddenly peters away to absolutely nothing. Who knows, though? Maybe like Matthew with his tingle down below suddenly forcing him to spring upwards from his bath chair – back to life, back to virility! – Downton series six will reinvent itself, and suddenly make sense and be deeply compelling. But somehow, I doubt it. The lack of any logic whatsoever has to date been the drama’s unlikely magic bullet and I imagine that for the final hurrah Uncle Julian will fire his most random shots yet. In a deeply perverse and masochistic way (the only way in which to watch Downton), I look forward to it. But not as much as I look forward to it – finally – being over. |