Not so long ago, newly installed in my seat on a transatlantic flight, I received news that left me feeling wobbly and tearful. Desperately in need of a non-gin-based anaesthetic, once we were in the sky, I therefore made the highly sensible decision to watch Downton Abbey, a movie in which, I was fairly certain, no one would say anything remotely controversial, and nothing of any consequence would happen. And so it proved. Ah, Carson! I thought, zombie-like, my equilibrium all but completely restored. How wonderful it is that England’s repressive prewar class system has brought you, a humble butler, nothing but unbridled joy and soaring upward mobility.
Like the TV series that gave birth to it, Downton Abbey the movie is the work of Julian Fellowes, an actor-writer whose weird, prelapsarian obsession with dukes and duchesses seemingly knows no bounds – and now he’s back, with Belgravia. At this point, I can’t fully vouch for its tranquilising properties – I dutifully took an extra cup of coffee on the day I watched the first episode, the better to keep my eyes wide open – but at ITV, they must be hoping that this is the series that will get the nation through the worst of the coronavirus. OK, so some viewers may not, once it’s in full swing, have seen their ageing parents for a month, and they’ll soon be clean out of penne. But never mind. On the plus side, here’s an old snob called the Duchess of Richmond whose proudest boast is that her father did indeed “raise the Gordon Highlanders”. Surely all’s right with the world?
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