The British Aristocrat Who Fell for America’s Illusion
There’s something almost ironic about Julian Fellowes—a British aristocrat with a peerage—crafting one of television’s most lavish tributes to the American Dream. The Gilded Age, his HBO drama, isn’t just a costume party of corsets and carriage rides. It’s a love letter to a version of America that never quite existed, filtered through the gaze of a man who romanticizes our post-Civil War era as a land of ‘glitter and glamour.’ Personally, I think Fellowes’ obsession reveals more about his own psychological contradictions than it does about 19th-century New York. What makes this particularly fascinating is how he weaponizes nostalgia to sanitize an era defined by exploitation, then packages it as aspirational fiction for modern audiences.
Fellowes’ America: A Fantasy of ‘Self-Invention’
Let’s be clear: Fellowes’ vision of 1880s America isn’t historical reality—it’s a curated fantasy. He praises the ‘spirit of self-invention’ that supposedly defined the era, but glosses over the fact that most ‘self-made’ tycoons were built on railroad monopolies, exploited labor, and environmental destruction. Bertha Russell (Carrie Coon), the social climber at the show’s heart, isn’t a symbol of meritocracy; she’s a product of inherited wealth and ruthless manipulation. The show’s Emmy nominations prove audiences crave this mythologized version of ambition, but is that really the story we should be celebrating? From my perspective, Fellowes isn’t just writing period drama—he’s perpetuating a dangerous cultural narrative that equates wealth with virtue.
The Gilded Age vs. The Reality of Gilded Ages
Here’s what Fellowes’ glittering ballrooms obscure: The original Gilded Age was a time of staggering inequality. The Vanderbilts and Carnegies weren’t just ‘tradition-bound elites’ or ‘ambitious newcomers’—they were oligarchs who crushed unions and bribed politicians. Even the show’s ‘progressive’ characters, like Peggy (Denée Benton), get sanitized arcs that ignore the systemic racism of the era. What many people don’t realize is that Fellowes’ America is a theme park version of history, where the only stakes are who sits at the right table at a dinner party. The real 19th-century power struggles weren’t about social climbing; they were about who got to breathe in a world choking on industrial greed.
Why This Illusion Thrives in 2024
The bigger question isn’t why Fellowes created this fantasy—it’s why audiences are devouring it now. In an age of climate collapse, political polarization, and crumbling institutions, escapism into a world where money buys morality feels seductive. Fellowes admits he feels ‘sadness’ over America’s decline as an ‘empire,’ which betrays a colonial mindset. This isn’t nostalgia—it’s cultural imperialism. He’s projecting a British elite’s longing for a bygone world order onto an American past that never was. A detail that stands out here is how Fellowes frames America’s ‘decline’ as a personal tragedy, like a parent mourning a wayward child. But whose America is he mourning? The one that existed in his scripts, or the one that still exists in the imaginations of those who never had to live in its shadows?
The Paradox of Fellowes’ Love Letter
The irony is that Fellowes’ career was launched by America’s very real generosity—Broadway’s collapse during the pandemic handed him a cast of stage legends like Christine Baranski and Nathan Lane. So his ‘love letter’ feels transactional, even opportunistic. The show’s third season, with its crumbling marriages and social upheavals, mirrors Fellowes’ own conflicted relationship with his subject. He wants to have his cake and eat it too: profit from America’s cultural capital while mourning a version of it that serves his artistic sensibilities. What this really suggests is that The Gilded Age isn’t about history at all—it’s a mirror for our current obsession with legacy and status, dressed in period costumes to avoid the discomfort of looking at our own era’s ‘gilded’ realities.
Final Thoughts: The Danger of Aestheticizing Inequality
I’ll admit it: Fellowes’ craftsmanship is undeniable. The costumes, the dialogue, the slow-burn drama—it’s all masterfully executed. But the show’s success worries me. When we aestheticize inequality and dress exploitation in silk gowns, we risk normalizing the very systems that still oppress us. The Gilded Age didn’t end because the parties stopped being fun; it ended because the rot beneath the surface became unsustainable. If Fellowes’ America is a dreamland, it’s one built on a nightmare. And as we binge-watch its opulence, we might want to ask ourselves: Are we watching to marvel, or to remember what happens when we confuse wealth with worth?
