But Part 2's pacing is so jerky and rushed, it's disorienting. We watch some slow, well-spaced conversations amongst the Brooke/Aunt Stanbury/Dorothy crowd, then we get some Gibson-French action thrown in as comic relief, but then within the space of 15 minutes we learn that Glascock's engaged, Trevelyan's about to be committed, the whole gang is now gaggling about some American embassy in Florence, and Nora and Hugh have moved from lingering but closed-mouth kisses to full-on deep Frenching. Good god, you two, I haven't been this turned on by PBS since I saw James Brown on American Masters.
He Knew He Was Right He stole…
He Knew He Was RightHe stole the child! That whackjob stole the child! Louis Trevelyan's madhouse antics are back, and he's seen some hard living since last we met. Has he been sleeping in a gutter, a morgue, some high-Alps Tyrolean crevasse? Get that man some under-eye concealer! He is in a serious hate spiral, and the only friend he's got left he has to pay to keep around Bozzle, who, judging from his habit of speaking about himself in the third person ("Best to keep on the right side of Bozzle"; "Bozzle's got considerable connections"; "Yes, Bozzle understands, madame") has been passing his newfound time with little kidnapped Louey by watching Elmo ad nauseam. But the real highlights of Part 2 are the kooky sly-eyed catfights between the 19th century's Britney and Christina: That's Bella and Camilla to you, and that witless, dazed reptile they're fighting over? Yup again, Mr. Gibson is the Victorian era's K-Fed. Evidently, back then (not unlike nowadays) searching for a husband was a buyers' market, and Mr. Gibson can have his mealymouthed, stony-eyed, thousand-yard-stare pick of 'em. I mean, what man wouldn't respond to a butcher knife as a flirtation device?