I love dramas! Particularly, period dramas. “Downtown Abbey”, “The Paradise”, “Upstairs, Downstairs” (new series), “London Hospital”, and “Mr. Selfridge” are my current favorites, along with the most recent season of “Ripper Street”. I am still chomping at the bit, though, for “Marco Polo” starts on Netflix today, as well as the newest season of “Downton”, which premieres on PBS in January (hush, my beloved Brits, I know you’re all ahead and whatnot). That is the best part of my New Year. “Downton Abbey” is one of the few dramas that my husband and I have enjoyed from the very first episode, devouring the first season on DVD and then settling down to watch each new season together week by week, year by year. It’s been one of my most positive television experiences ever.
I have dreamt of myself in those stories, inhabiting those varied settings, gowns swishing around my ankles, navigating my way through upstairs or downstairs, shops, music halls, etc. What else draws me is the language. It is why shows like “Ripper Street” and “Spartacus” clasp and hold me close: the attention to detail of syntax and vocabulary. It is lush, wonderful, and enthralling; it draws me into the story to listen to them speak, to hear the phrasing and lilting sentences roll off their tongues. I fall in love with their voices, their accents, their different language statures. It gives life to the characters, a deeper cadence to their souls and characters, and ties the strings of my affection around them all the more tightly.
After all, I mean, I am the woman who fell in love with a man partially because he knew the meaning and proper usage of the word “philologist”.