“The Residence”: A House is Not a Home

It’s a classic location for a murder mystery: the grand old house that perhaps has seen better days. What can be grander and older than 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the home of every U.S. president since John Adams? And, at this time of political turmoil and stark predictions of disaster, it’s easy indeed to imagine something going very wrong in the east wing, where visitors come and go, and unlikely cronies of those in power take up residence for the long haul.

Not that Shonda Rimes’ eight-part miniseries, The Residence, pretends that it’s talking about what’s actually going on in today’s Washington. Political parties are never mentioned, and the President is contending with such in-house challenges as  a scruffy kleptomaniac brother, an acerbic and hard-drinking mother-in-law, and a same-sex husband whom no one seems to respect. A major terrorist attack the previous March has left everyone on edge, but life continues thanks to a well-trained staff (waiters, housekeepers, maintenance workers, gardeners, chefs) presided over by a formidable Chief Usher . . . . until all hell breaks loose. 

That first episode, in which the murder is discovered midway through a state dinner with the Australian diplomatic corps, is whimsically titled “The Fall of the House of Usher.” Fans of old murder mystery flicks will be amused at how each episode borrows the title of an appropriate classic, like Knives Out, The Last of Sheila, or The Trouble with Harry. Climactic episodes 7 and 8 initially struck me as oddly named: who ever heard of a movie called The Adventures of the Engineer’s Thumb or The Mystery of the Yellow Room? It turns out, though, that these are old prose works (one written in French and one featuring Sherlock Holmes) that were indeed put on film many decades ago.  

The tone of the series—witty but dark, with enough genuine emotion to keep us interested—is set by the detective brought in to solve the case. No, not Sherlock Holmes, but someone equally eccentric, and a lot more lovable.  Uzo Aduba, late of Orange is the New Black, is Cordelia Cupp, a solid presence, no-nonsense but not without empathy. She excels at detective work, but her real passion is for birding, and she somehow manages to make the two activities seem compatible, with the one helpfully informing upon the other. Her unflappability is highly useful in these circumstances, given the hysteria going on all around her. She’s matched with a young FBI sidekick (Randall Park) who at first regards her with suspicion, but their evolving relationship is such that there’s hope they’ll be re-matched in future adventures.

There are, of course, lots of other interesting folks along for the ride, including a loud-mouthed member of the wait staff, a  prickly pastry chef, the president’s manic social secretary, and a staff engineer who’s sweetly protective of one of the housemaids. They all bear grudges against the victim, but the whodunit revelation in episode eight is well staged, taking advantage of the complicated architecture of the White House’s upstairs floors for one startling revelation. 

Australian songstress Kylie Minogue has a small but key role, and the script enjoys poking fun at fellow Aussie Hugh Jackson, who is mentioned in every episode but never quite seen on camera. I should also mention the closing dedication to Andre Braugher, who was cast, back in 2022 in the central role of Chief Usher A. B. Wynter, but died midway through the shoot. The Residence is dedicated to his memory, and his role is more than ably filled by Giancarlo Esposito, as a man you love to hate. 

“Bridgerton”: Enticing Anachronisms and Angst

Somewhere out there, Jane Austen is surely giggling. Bridgerton, a TV dramatic miniseries that is both mesmerizing and completely cuckoo, is giving England’s Regency period (circa 1813) an entirely new look. True, Miss Austen had previously inspired stacks of so-called “Regency Romances” (featuring frocks that look like nightgowns, and lots of steamy sex), but those insipid novels are easily overlooked. Bridgerton, though, commands attention, because of its sumptuous attention to detail, its gorgeous leading man and lady, and the acid tongue of (yes!) Julie Andrews as the never-seen scandalmonger, Lady Whistledown.

 Some of Bridgerton’s historical anachronisms are clearly deliberate. Most obvious (and, I’m sure, most pleasing to series producer Shonda Rimes) is the fact that these Britishers live in a colorblind society in which Black characters belong to the nobility as well as the servant class, with no one batting an eye at the horrors of interracial mixing. I’m told the color palette of the series’ Regency costumes has been tweaked for effect: it’s hard to imagine a real-life dowager, like the ambitious Baroness Featherington, pairing a bright green gown with fuchsia gloves. I’m also skeptical about the Duke of Hastings’ very 21^st-century stubble-beard look. Then there are the women’s towering hairstyles, worn mostly by unappealing characters, that I suspect are intended to amuse, not to convince. (And did louche types really smoke cigarettes in 1813?)

 Of course in an entertainment like this one, everyone has sex on the brain. It’s surely historically accurate to say that in Regency England proper young ladies were kept ignorant of the facts of life. (One young man scoffs to his mystified sister, “Haven’t you ever been to a farm?”) But of course part of the fun of dramas like this one is to show our modern attitudes intruding upon period conventions. So the spirited but innocent Daphne Bridgerton is encouraged by her future husband to explore masturbation, with stunning success. (This at the same time that an unchaperoned walk between a young lady and gentleman might be cause for a duel.) And of course the machinations to marry off a secretly pregnant young woman become moot when modern-style tolerance enters the picture.

 No question: this series was created with a female audience in mind. True, Daphne (played by Phoebe Dynevor) is lovely, in an ethereal way. She has a willowy form that empire gowns can only enhance, plus a face with a knack for looking tremulous, either in moments of bliss or sorrow. But I suspect most viewers particularly cotton to the macho charms of Regé-Jean Page as Simon Basset, the angst-y but noble Duke of Hastings. Once these two discover the joys of married life, the camera can’t get enough of his shirt-sheddings and drawer-droppings. Of course his moral scruples about their future life together make very little sense in context, nor does her sudden discovery of what’s lacking from the connubial gyrations that take place in seemingly every nooks and cranny of the family estate. (I’m no prude, but I’m still scratching my head over what leads her to figure out—in a flash—what he’s been withholding all this time.)

 Obviously, plotting is not Bridgerton’s strong suit. Miss Marina Thompson’s scandalous pregnancy remains invisible (even in those diaphanous gowns) for what seems many months, while other events fly by in a flash. A big reveal in the final episode, one that settles what has been a major question from the start, makes absolutely no sense. Which leads me to wonder about season 2. Now that the leading characters are finally happy, what else is there to amuse us?