Bridgerton
As known for three seasons, Bridgerton, Netflix’s hit, is an alternate history: in the Regency Era (1811-1820), there is a multiracial society, interracial marriages are allowed, and the Queen is Black (Charlotte, the protagonist of a spin-off miniseries). The major misconception, however, lies in the expectations, at least of those who prefer to focus on the details rather than the bigger picture: it is true, a history lesson is something else, accuracy is not a priority, and the suspension of disbelief is a rule of engagement.
Yet, beyond appearances, the narrative from within is quite precise. And fierce: the detail is the fantasy in power, that is, the natural multiracial coexistence that seems to allude to a post-colonial revenge (but also the non-philological costumes, absurd wigs, anachronistic soundtrack: a fantasy, after all), but the bigger picture is the social season, the fundamental ritual of high society in which, between spring and summer, balls and dinners are organized, and unions are planned. Because, yes, whites and Blacks can love each other without problems, but class still dominates: the elite defends itself in the name of self-preservation, jobs are left to the rest of the world (and those we see in the series serve the needs of the nobles: servants, printers, apprentices), classism is a custom masked by good manners.
So, agreed, the alternate history is evident because this England does not reproduce the natural course of history, but Bridgerton is spot on in representing the dynamics of the marriage market (young women of marriageable age placed with the best suitor), the tensions dictated by gossip (describing the consequences of gossip while also praising it), the centrality of the “diamond of the season” selection (sort of the Queen’s favorite, the girl to be watched), and the ability to unite to save the honor of a class. If the first season introduced (and accustomed) us to the forms of the narrative (the eldest Bridgerton’s debut in society and the back-and-forth with a coveted Black duke) and the second addressed and resolved the theme of hostility towards demotions and slander, this time the relationship on which the season (self-contained and organic) is built has more than one interesting aspect.
Someone has described it as Gossip Girl meets Downton Abbey, a guilty pleasure and quality period drama, with the difference that the former doesn’t have the exclusivity of high-society teen drama (the age range is broad), and the latter eliminates class confrontation (the stairs never lead downstairs). There is some truth in this, as the character of Lady Whistledown, the mysterious author of a scandal sheet that keeps all of London in suspense, not only defines the importance of gossip but, knowing her identity, clarifies many lines that intertwine in the series.
Penelope Featherington, the season’s protagonist, remains the divergent presence around which the de facto conformist world of the series develops: she is the least loved youngest daughter of a non-noble family, full of debts, kept afloat by the matron through financial fraud; she is the neighbor of the Bridgertons, Olympian and beautiful (the clothes say it all), best friend of the feminist Eloise, and always in love with Colin, who returns from a long European trip with the status of a sex symbol (cartoonish, it must be said); she will never be the diamond, is on the market but no one claims her, preparing for an old age spent with her mother; and she is the one who, in the shadows, not only dictates the pink chronicle’s agenda, drives the capricious Queen crazy, and takes revenge on the boors, but also finds a voice.
This season of Bridgerton essentially talks about this: a girl trying to emancipate herself from the destiny imposed by others through an inconceivable love (Colin is a playboy, highly sought after by all, devoted to threesomes), the recognition of a place in the world (writing, which is also the passion of the aspiring memoirist Colin), and family repositioning (offering a new chance of redemption to the clamorous sisters and the cynical mother). She is, in fact, in conflict with everyone: the Queen who hunts her, Eloise who discovered the secret and does not forgive her meanness, society that she criticizes, fashion sizes that do not conform to her shape, Colin in the final part, even the voice of the wonderful Julie Andrews (Whistledown) that represents an alternative female type to Penelope. In this sense, she is the most complex and fascinating protagonist, perhaps truly the one most attuned to the audience, as well as the perfect romantic comedy lead. It is no coincidence that Lady Danbury, the doyenne of society and closest to the Queen, appreciates her more than anyone else, revealing her sentimental novel (the small plot twist about her past love is illuminating) and blessing Penelope’s newfound awareness.
Then, as always, Bridgerton confirms itself as an irresistible mix, so high camp on the surface without renouncing certain conservative veins (it is not irrelevant that behind it are Americans Julia Quinn, the original novels’ writer, Shonda Rhimes, the producer who changed television, and Chris Van Dusen, the creator). Besides the romantic interplay between Penelope and Colin, suspended between friendzone and redemption, there is room to touch on pansexuality (Benedict Bridgerton’s threesome), senior romcom (Lady Bridgerton’s new interest), social mobility (the Mondrichs’ promotion), the impossibility of emancipation (the sad story of the marriageable Cressida Cowper), the parody of perfect love (the boring Anthony and Kate), role-playing (the parties, allegories of chess). The entertainment is luxurious, the splendor knows no limits, the pace is brisk, the spirit is joyful, the fourth season is announced in the finale and sets the stage for the future (perhaps more dramatic).
Lorenzo Ciofani
Cinematografo, June 19, 2024
