While its title might conjure images of a dry historical lecture, HBO’s The Gilded Age is anything but. Created by Julian Fellowes of Downton Abbey fame, this period drama is a lavish, addictive spectacle that weds soap opera flair with high-society intrigue. Yes, it begins at a measured pace—elegant carriage rides, polite tea-room chatter, and meticulous scene-setting—but once you settle in, it becomes a sumptuous feast for the eyes and a sly commentary on power, class, and ambition.
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| Louisa Jacobson as Marian Brook and Denée Benton as Peggy Scott |
One of the first things you’ll notice is the pristine look of 1880s New York. The CGI-rendered streets are spotless—no horse droppings, no grit—which purists may find unrealistic. But this is deliberate. Fellowes isn’t aiming for the grime of history; he’s crafting a heightened, romanticized vision of the era, a glossy social fantasy that uses history as its stage set rather than its binding contract.
At the center is a clash between old money and new money. On one side stand the entrenched, blue-blooded van Rhijns, the arbiters of “acceptable” society. On the other, the upstart Russells, whose railroad fortune buys them a grand new mansion right across the street—along with an uphill battle for social acceptance. Caught between these worlds is Marian Brook, a young woman from rural Pennsylvania who comes to live with her formidable aunts. Through her eyes, we experience the glittering, suffocating dance of New York’s social elite.
The series doesn’t shy away from showing how social hierarchies of the day were reinforced not just by wealth, but by gender and race. Storylines involving Black characters, such as aspiring journalist Peggy Scott, illuminate the barriers—and dangers—faced by African Americans navigating predominantly white spaces. These threads add depth and moral weight to a narrative that might otherwise risk being pure spectacle.
Equally strong is the cast. Carrie Coon delivers a career-defining turn as Bertha Russell, a woman whose ambition is matched only by her shrewdness. She’s not a mere social climber—she’s a strategist, a visionary, and sometimes the show’s moral center, even when she plays ruthlessly. Across the street, Christine Baranski’s Agnes van Rhijn steals scenes with a raised eyebrow and a perfectly arched insult. Her withering elegance is pure Julian Fellowes, and her comedic timing keeps the show from sinking into self-importance.
Visually, The Gilded Age is pure indulgence: glittering ballrooms, floral-laden parlors, and meticulously tailored costumes that are arguably too pristine for the era, yet entirely fitting for a show that deals in idealized memory. It’s historical escapism, but it still nods to the economic and cultural shifts of the time—the rise of industry, the influence of railroads, and the subtle reshaping of American aristocracy.
Across its three seasons, the series finds its rhythm. The stakes rise, the social battles grow sharper, and characters once painted in broad strokes gain complexity. The finale leaves a narrative puzzle—George Russell’s mixed signals to Bertha may have some viewers scratching their heads—but this misstep is minor.
Ultimately, The Gilded Age succeeds because it delivers both spectacle and a sense of humanity. In this richly decorated melodrama, every move counts, every gown dazzles, and every line of dialogue carries the weight of status, power, and survival. For fans of historical drama—especially those who enjoyed Downton Abbey—this is not just a worthy successor, but in some ways, a bolder, glossier, and more distinctly American tale.
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