“In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs.”*

– Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence

In The Gilded Age, few people say exactly what is on their minds. It is anathema to a social culture where genteelly pursed lips serve as an indicator of some discomfort or displeasure but the words escaping those lips serve to embalm any inflicted, festering wounds. When Marion blithely says what everyone else is thinking but isn’t able or willing to openly say, you can sense the carefully curated edges splintering apart so loudly it’s a shock that no one’s eardrums burst from exposure to sheer audacity.

That what Marion is saying is, within even the most minimal of context, entirely reasonable only adds to the ridiculousness of the situation. The old money cadre of New York is sitting in a circumference for charity, more obscured by Bertha Russell’s status as new money over the cause they apparently so deeply cherish. Bertha knows this, everyone sitting there knows this, but the mere thought of her presence accompanying a generous check is enough to send everyone else in a tizzy. 

It is, in a sense like money, ephemeral. A system the wealthy have created to give the appearance that hierarchy is a natural order of things. Such hierarchies are often maintained through the rigid enforcement of asinine rules and appearances that to those outside of it strike as frankly, idiotic. That’s the real fear Bertha and George are determined to break, the fear that if even a little fissure appears in the rules enshrining their hierarchy, that it will all crumble apart. But even that fear is hilarious.

Bertha is, after all, no class hero. She’s a phenomenally wealthy white woman who has access to more immediate wealth than almost anyone watching The Gilded Age will have access to over our collective lives. But she doesn’t have a name that is old and storied, a name that has lived in a settler colonial state like America for one hundred and fifty years, as Agnes pointedly reminded to Marion in the pilot. And so for the gilded New York circle unofficially led by the opinions of one Mrs. Aster, the lack of a name is an almost herculean barrier.

That same depth of narrative heft is not afforded to the servant class in The Gilded Age, at least as far as the first two episodes are concerned. It’s an improvement over how Julian Fellowes understood the dynamic of power between members of the aristocracy and their servants in Downton Abbey, where the servants were mostly happy with their lot in life and the aristocrats were largely lovely. But Fellowes’ penchant for soapy drama that plays here with the Mrs. Bowers gambling debt subplot plays worse when characters like Mrs. Bowers haven’t been given the shades the moneyed players have been afforded.

That subplot’s recipient, rather, is Oscar. That he wouldn’t say exactly what was on his mind or heart is understandable – he could hardly waltz in and announce to his mother that he’s a gay man in a relationship with John Quincy Adam’s grandson. But he has acquiesced to what the society he’s in requires of him – that he marry a wealthy young woman and continue to pursue his gay desires on the side. That that circumstance has not changed for millions since the fading of the Gilded Age adds a quiet undercurrent of tragedy that, while Oscar may not dwell in, adds a historical weight to the narrative. But while he considers his potential arrangement with Gladys a socially acceptable and apt solution for him, what about Gladys? Doesn’t she deserve a husband who loves her for more than her kindness and money? Doesn’t Gladys deserve to have an orgasm? Oscar has spent so much time ruminating in what society requires of him that he hasn’t spared much thought to whether such a society is worth sacrificing lives for.

And what a fragile society it is. Bertha’s offer to host the Charity Bazaar is rejected and if there’s one thing that puts George off more than a man turning down his business offer, it’s his wife being insulted by women he considers to be lesser than her in every possible way. And yet again Bertha gets the last laugh. George simply steamrolls through the Bazaar and buys everything in sight, the glorious display of ostentatious philanthropy being brought to an inglorious end. Sure, the Bazaar raised more money than ever before but the wealthy white women of old New York lost an opportunity to spend three or so days proving to each other and anyone else who cares that they, in fact, do care about the poor. In about three minutes of screen time, the façade lies crumbled on the floor, delightfully inconsolable.

Best Quotes:

– “We still want her check, though, we just mean to insult to her.”
– “Money isn’t everything” ; “It is when you haven’t got it.”

Best Outfit:

– Bertha’s scarlet gown? Exquisite.

Additional Note:

– Edith’s usage of “hieroglyphic” in the opening quote is inappropriate as hieroglyphics are not a set of arbitrary signs but rather a proper language and method of communication used by actual people. I did not replace “hieroglyphic” with “symbolic” as to do so would be to whitewash history and I wanted to make sure that my application of her otherwise apt quote did not endorse the ignorance embedded within it.
– Instead of episode three, I will cover the Great Migration in my review for episode four, where it makes more thematic sense to do so.
– More to come in my review for episode five, but Bertha and George’s partnership is stunningly crafted and might very well be The Gilded Age’s defining relationship.