Twilight of the Toffs: ‘Brideshead Revisited’

Brideshead Revisited has long been British television’s jewel in the crown, a standard-bearer of the sort of drawing room dramas that Americans primarily know from the PBS confines of Masterpiece Theater or Merchant/Ivory’s celebrated Oscar-bait films of the ’80s and ’90s. Produced at a time when UK audiences had never seen anything so elaborate on the tube and the series drew massive audiences.

Based on Evelyn Waugh’s eponymous novel, published during the Second World War, Brideshead Revisted presents the adventures, romantic and otherwise, of one Charles Ryder, a middle-class – and class is always a point of division in what Stephen Frears once derided as “teacup” tales – lad newly minted at Oxford, pensive and uncertain in his demeanor, perhaps cowed by his social superiors at the hallowed institution. He’s portrayed by the haughty Jeremy Irons, a distinguished cinematic icon nowadays, but just beginning his rise at the time.

It’s undeniable that Irons’ face looks more aged than a college boy of 19 should, but he captures Charles’ shy, tentative manner, with a yearning for new experiences glimmering in the corners of his eyes. We get the sense that Charles has never before traveled from home. And he’s surely glad to be away, a respite from his Scrooge-like father Edward (John Gielgud), whose arid wit, both abstract and passive-aggressive, is a guilty delight, akin to Gielgud’s tart-tongued butler in Arthur, released the same year.

The ignition of our story is Charles’ chance encounter with the flamboyant Sebastian Flyte, an eccentric, decadent toff forever the subject of scurrilous campus gossip. Before their embarrassing meeting, Charles has spotted Lord Flyte tooling about in an elegant carriage, clad in a crisp white suit that Tom Wolfe would kill for, and wondered who this otherworldly creature could be.

Their unlikely friendship soon blossoms, to the dismay of Charles’ more intellectual classmates, and Sebastian, played with plummy-voiced joie de vivre by Upstairs, Downstairs alum Anthony Andrews, adopts Charles as a comrade, and, some might argue, courts him as a lover. This gets a bit murky.

In an environment devoid of the fairer sex, it’s not uncommon for males to form romantic and/or sexual unions with each other, and single-gender British schools are historically notorious for such activity. Charles and his new companion settle into a gauzy, sentimental relationship that carries the whiff of a love affair, albeit one where physical consummation is absent. The pair take idyllic country drives in a borrowed roadster, picnic in a meadow, and enjoy serene lunches of plover’s eggs.

I first saw portions of Brideshead Revisited years ago, and was thoroughly confused by the nature of Sebastian and Charles’ ‘friendship’. Were they gay? Sebastian certainly seemed so. And Charles’ comment – in narration – about “finding love” only added to my uncertainty. So it is a gay story. Except it’s not. Not exactly.

There’s no question that Sebastian Flyte is homosexual, but his idiosyncratic mannerisms are the more intriguing item. The pouty, clench-jawed Sebastian, who carries around a teddy bear named “Aloysius”, isn’t so much a man as a man-child, as if Mike White’s titular character from Chuck & Buck was a member of England’s landed gentry between the wars. By turns petulant, snotty, and playful, his Lordship is an impetuous playboy, whose primary goal in life is to elude boredom. For a time, Charles absorbs some of Sebastian’s annoying affectations, and I’m reminded of the uncomfortable scene in The Talented Mr. Ripley, in which Matt Damon’s Tom Ripley eagerly dons Dickie Greenleaf’s suit and glides about the apartment in a grotesque – yet serious – imitation of a fey upper-class trustafarian.

Their reverie is interrupted, however, as Charles is eventually drawn into the bosom of the aristocratic Marchmain family, who inhabit an immense stone castle on their estate Brideshead, the sort of property that the Depression and taxes would soon do away with. In most respects, the Flytes are quite similar to other obscenely wealthy upper-crust households of that rigidly-stratified era, but there’s one crucial difference: they’re Roman Catholic in a society populated almost exclusively by Protestants and Anglicans.

Presiding over this clan is the indomitable Lady Marchmain, played with steely, presumptive calm by Claire Bloom. She’s very much a hands-on matriarch, not content to allow her children – most of whom are adults – to follow their own muses. Her Catholicism is a serious matter, and she insists upon fealty to the faith from the offspring. Aiding her in this plan is her oldest, Bridie (Simon Jones), the very personification of a particularly English certainty in one’s own beliefs, those including the class structure, family traditions, and his eventual entitlement to Brideshead, his own namesake.

Lady Marchmain and her stuffy older son seem even more remote from society-at-large, and this point is driven home when the clueless marquis comments on the “privileges of the poor”, apparently believing that those who struggle to keep food on their tables revel in a sort of reverse snobbery that lets them sleep soundly, secure in the knowledge that they shall inherit the earth. Of course, throughout human history, poverty and menial labor have often been romanticized by the ruling classes.

Meanwhile, Charles and Sebastian enjoy languid, pastoral days at Brideshead, and director Charles Sturridge’s shots are frequently evocative of those sleekly decadent fragrance and designer attire ads which have proliferated on TV since that Rise-of-The-Yuppies period when Brideshead Revisted was filmed. It’s all very seductive homosociality, and one imagines the thoughts of a working-class gay youth, trapped in a corroded steel town in England’s grim northern shires, drinking in all this grandeur on his dusty little TV, the opulent royal wedding of Prince Charles and his flaxen-haired trophy Diana still fresh in his mind. How this boy must dream of escape, of living the luxe life himself. How does he rise from the gutter?

Maybe, when he comes of age, he flees to London, drapes himself in Saville Row couture, then forms a band, becoming part of the foppish New Romantic scene; ensembles like Ultravox, Duran Duran, Modern Romance, Spandau Ballet, ABC, who began to dominate the pop charts in Brideshead Revisted‘s wake. Along with the New Romantics, the so-called “Blitz Kids” aped Brideshead couture and also embraced the series’ veiled homoeroticism.

In many respects, Charles is a twist in the Marchmains’ staid sobriety. He’s a non-Catholic, apparently not even a man of faith, suddenly immersed in a household steeped in Vatican strictures. Charles is also of middle-class upbringing, often a dirty word amongst Britain’s snobbish nobility. His ‘otherness’ is probably what draws the cat-curious Sebastian to him, but Sebastian’s appropriation of Charles is ultimately thwarted as he’s forced to compete with the other Flytes for Charles’ attentions. This conflict reveals Sebastian’s darker side, as he devolves into the classic rum-sodden, disaffected aristocrat.

Particularly attentive is Sebastian’s lovely sister Julia (Diana Quick), who takes a liking to her brother’s odd new acquaintance, an attraction which foreshadows much drama for them, although Julia soon weds the slick, capable Rex Mottram(Charles Keating), a Canadian tycoon eager to be absorbed into Old World noblesse, if on his own terms.

Despite his Canuck origins, Rex is a thoroughly American social type of the period when Britain’s esteemed families faced an erosion of their fortunes and influence under the weight of taxes, socialist rabble-rousing, and the inexorable shedding of the global empire. Rex craves the prestige afforded him by the Flytes’ affections, and truth be told, they need the lucre he can deliver. Given this undeclared ‘arrangement’, Rex can be seen as both a grifter and modernist, a individual of humble origins who, utilizing the tools of brash New World capitalism has ascended into the socio-economic stratosphere, and a man of such privilege simply won’t be denied.

Our Ongoing, Delusional Fascination with Class Divide

On a more personal level, Keating’s Rex has the sleek, casual hauteur of a studio-era Hollywood idol and, had Brideshead Revisited been a lavish ’40s theatrical production, it’s easy to imagine Errol Flynn in the role. Of course, at the time that Waugh’s novel appeared, American film stars had become a new breed of international royalty – as they remain in today’s pressure cooker media environment – and it wasn’t unusual for them to hobnob with the bluebloods, many of whom secretly desired that patina of glamour Hollywood provided.

If Rex attempts to insinuate himself into the Marchmain clan through audaciuous finagling – there’s a scene where he bails Charles and his mates from jail after a DUI-caused accident – Charles infiltrates in a more subtle manner, and Irons affects a far more confident bearing as the story unfolds, reflective of his increasing importance to the Flytes. His detachment and humanist rationality cause the family – particularly Lady Marchmain – to depend on him for a number of tasks. It’s a stretch to suggest that he’s become their consigliere?

In a sneaky way, however, Charles may also be evolving into lord of the household, as the actual one – Lord Marchmain (Lawrence Olivier) – has abdicated the position, content to live abroad with a mistress, in a grand townhouse along Venice’s Grand Canal. He and Lady Marchmain haven’t divorced; presumably her ardent Catholicism forbids such an affront, but he’s abandoned her just the same.

Initially, we see little of Olivier; Charles and Sebastian’s brief jaunt to Venice finds Lord Marchmain and his Cora cohabiting, but his Lordship eventually returns to Brideshead, and we’re reminded – if that’s necessary – of his towering achievements as an actor. Olivier’s wistful nobleman is warm, avuncular, and sharply witty, while remaining secure in his status as master and the respect automatically granted him by his children and the staff.

As one might expect, a cornucopia of extras awaits Brideshead Revisted fans in this double-disc package. Simon Callow narrates the documentary featurette “Revisiting Brideshead”, which delves into Evelyn Waugh’s life as much as Brideshead Revisted‘s production. Unquestionably, Charles Ryder is a fictional representation of Waugh, and his ascent into the Marchmains’ hallowed world reflects Waugh’s own insatiable yearning to climb the social ladder, as he was a known toff hunter, constantly chasing the privileged classes during his Oxbridge days.

Brideshead Revisited was a significant financial gamble for Granada Television at the time, as nothing so elaborate had ever been mounted for British TV. One artistic departure was the use of film, as video was standard-issue for television projects in those days. The bet paid off handsomely, however; its rating were not unlike those of the landmark Roots, hugely popular in America just four years before.

It also appeared during the early Thatcher years, a time of considerable political tumult in the UK, and Brideshead Revisted was hardly immune to the strife, as production was temporarily shuttered by striking ITV technicians. Curiously, though, it encouraged Britons to look back fondly on a past most families had never experienced, just as American audiences flocked to glossy MGM musicals and love stories during the Depression and World War II. Is it any surprise, then, that many Brits chose the program’s main theme for their weddings?

Personal politics would rear its ugly head during the casting process, according to a second featurette, “Brideshead Remembered”, because many left-leaning actors were wary of appearing in the miniseries, as they felt viewers were being asked to identify, and thus sympathize with a family so firmly ensconced in the ‘1%’ firmament that writer Paul Fussell would have included them in his “out of sight” social strata.

This doc is essentially a series of photos, accompanied by second director Michael Lindsay-Hogg’s narration, who mentions that Britain’s film biz was negligible at the time, so, to Brideshead Revisted‘s benefit, most of the best scenarists were employed in television. We’re also told that Malcolm McDowell was briefly contemplated for “Charles”, and I just can’t wrap my head around that.

Two separate photo galleries are also included, as well as Kraig McNeil’s production notes, full of wonky trivia sure to excite hardcore Brideshead Revisted devotees. Much of the urban-set filming was done in Manchester, not exactly a haven of aristocratic splendor. The shipboard sequences were shot on Cunard’s now-retired QE2 – enhanced by stock footage of the legendary Queen Mary battling rough North Atlantic weather – which I myself sailed out of New York during my late teen years.

Finally, in a much-needed jolt of humor, Charles Sturridge delivers a tongue-in-cheek deadpan bio of Sebastian’s beloved Aloysius, the world’s favorite teddy bear.

Brideshead Revisited can be considered a requiem for the days of Empire and the unyielding class structure that governed British life pre-World War II. When America’s western frontier was declared closed in the 1890s, Americans suddenly became fascinated with tales, often exaggerated, of those heady times, as a dazzling new art form presented vivid stories of the Old West, a genre still in evidence today. I suppose that Brits feel a curious nostalgia for the times when their little island loomed large on the world stage, setting a cultural pace that continues its influence, if partly through its superpower offspring, the United States.

If anything, stories of class-bound England are more popular than ever; TV’s current Downton Abbey has collected a slew of award nominations, an update of the revered Upstairs, Downstairs has aired, and Oscar voters fondly recall Merchant-Ivory’s sublime output of decades ago.

Although, many have argued that the primary audience for these productions is the US, a country that has never known official aristocrats and thus is often in denial of its own more byzantine class hierarchy. Perhaps Americans yearn for a storied nobility which never existed, and the relentless elevation of media celebrities into such roles is somehow inadequate. After all, Americans no longer have the glossy prime-time soaps about the travails of the super-rich which dominated television during the grab-it-all money culture of the ’80s. If one can’t see Dynasty‘s Alexis Carrington flouncing across a ballroom, maybe a fox hunt across sylvan fields is an acceptable substitute.

Of course, no sane person would equate the dense, emotionally complex melancholy of Brideshead Revisited with the trashy decadence of the Aaron Spelling show, but arguably, both programs push certain buttons in the human psyche. I mean, can you imagine the fireworks if Dynasty‘s prodigal son, Steven Carrington, brought home Sebastian?