Well of course you like Downton Abbey. It is what Tom Wolfe would call plutography. "Pornography was the great vice of the Seventies; plutography – the graphic depiction of the acts of the rich – the the great vice of the Eighties." And now the old vice is back and being theorized like crazy. A well crafted piece in last Sunday's New York Times magazine presents a Rococo picture frame's worth of intricacies–Foucault, Marx, Adorno, Neiman-Marxism–and yet, in the end, we're simply turned on by the sight of the very wealthy pouring amber Scotch from crystal decanters. And as Tom Wolfe would tell you, it's the small acts of the rich that turn us on. The rest is just the lurid and relentless cheapness of the soap opera.
Planet of the Blind 
hi-de-ho
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Come on, SK, the Earl had a faithful lab! And danced so graciously at the servants’ ball!! And dressed so very well for dinner!!! Every heckin’ night!!!! He and his d-i-s-a-b-l-e-d manservant were old war buds. Perhaps you were peeved because no one recited Emily Dickinson? I’m sure they would’ve done so had you asked. Forget the amber scotch in crystal decanters. More likely, the grotesque size of the Christmas tree in the front hall inspired the more intense feelings of vicarious wish-fulfillment. Danged if we don’t just love, love, love those Xmas trees. And the twists, the turns: Drowned with the Titanic years ago? No, well, maybe not, um, maybe so, but, no, I don’t think so. Severed spinal cord? No, dear, actually, just badly bruised, he remarked, as he deftly leapt from his wheelchair. And think about it: Would you have fetched rat poison on request from a wife that despised you? I would’ve hung him just for the crime of sheer stupidity with absolutely none of this final-hour reprieve nonsense. Honestly, turn on Nova, and I’m out like a light in 5 minutes. But this? NARY A NOD through every moment of every ridiculous, hideously written and acted episode. Can’t wait until next season when they throw Shirley MacLaine into the mix.
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