It’s not shipping politics guys, it’s just media literacy
There’s a lot we could discuss but I’ll just focus on one scene from season 2 episode 9- Carmy is having a panic attack, he tries to calm himself down by thinking of Claire but that doesn’t work, he’s reminded of his dysfunctional family. He thinks about Sydney instead, that works.
And we can analyze that to hell and make sense of it a million times over but the important detail is that Claire and Sydney are placed in opposition to each other. Past and future, old cycles and broken cycles. A romantic song plays behind the scene, distorted and covered at first in Carmy’s panic, becoming clear when he thinks of Syd (“these words: ‘you will be mine,’ all the time”)
As an audience, we’re clued in to the fact that Sydney and Claire exist on a similar plane for Carmy- intrinsically (because it’s Claire’s only narrative purpose), that means romantically.
Sure, the message was partly: Carmy needs to get his shit together and focus on the restaurant. But if that was the only message, why not snapshots of Mikey? Of the note he left for Carmy? Snapshots of Tina and Marcus and all the people whose lives have improved since they began fixing the restaurant?
He only thinks about Sydney in that moment. And I think that’s fairly telling.
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Queer historical romance among the ton but make the rage of oppression and injustice howling across the centuries.
Sir Gareth tries to convince himself that his father's mysterious profits could not have come from smuggling and attempts to tell his erstwhile lover Joss Doomsday, grandson of a escaped American slave and the Crown Prince of Romney Marsh's Smugglers, why trading with the French during the Napoleonic war is Wrong™.
“Yes, but—Look, it can’t be that. He was in his fifties, a gentleman, a baronet. He can’t have been a smuggler.”
“Course not.”
“He can’t! He wasn’t making trips to France.”
“Not on his own legs, maybe,” Joss said. “Do you know how the trade works?”
“I have no idea.”
“Sometimes it’s barter—we bring over wool to France and exchange it direct-like. Sometimes an innkeeper needs his cellar filled, or a London merchant wants to stock his shop with French gloves, or pepper, or fine soap, so they place the order with us. And sometimes it’s speculation. Which is to say, a rich man invests his money with a free trader, who buys and sells as he thinks fit. A while later our gentleman gets his money back and more, and never gets his hands dirty touching the goods.”
That last was so exactly what Gareth had feared that he couldn’t face it, couldn’t hear it. The sheer, shameless crime of it all. “You are aware we’re at war with France?” he said furiously. “I mean, you do know you’re trading with the enemy?”
“Free trading’s what we do. I’m not one for politics.”
“Politics? This is more than politics. It’s more than crime, even. The Continent is supposed to be blockaded, and you’re helping the enemy by buying their goods! It’s all but treason, and you don’t appear to give a damn!”
“Hold on there,” Joss said. “Yes, there’s a blockade. The government set it up, and everyone who lives by the wool trade found themselves sitting on a lot of fleeces they couldn’t sell while the French spinners and weavers had empty looms. We’ve got a dunnamany sheep here and not a lot else, you’ll have noticed. How are people meant to live if you cut off their living?”
“It’s a war! People have to make sacrifices.”
“That right? What sacrifices have you made? The lordships and gentlemen in London, are they running short of food? You think the King’s husbanding his coals? Why’s all the sacrifice on us?”
“That’s entirely specious.”
“Talk English,” Joss suggested sardonically.
Gareth discovered he couldn’t instantly define specious. “The argument doesn’t hold up. If the nation is at war, trading with the enemy undermines us all. And it’s all very well to talk about livelihoods, but whose livelihoods are supported when you import brandy and tobacco and silk? How are those things necessary?”
“They are for the French who make them,” Joss said. “People over there are trying to feed their families, just like people over here. And as for whether they’re needful here, well, you tell me.”
“Me?”
“You’re gentry, and it’s the gentry who wants those things, need or not. I sell to London clubs and London drapers and who do you think they sell to? The men who make the laws and set the taxes still want their brandy and tobacco, the silks and lace for their ladies, and they buy it knowing where it came from.”
“Well…they shouldn’t,” Gareth said, uncomfortably aware of the lavender soap at home. “And you’re still ignoring the fact that we’re at war!”
“I don’t care.”
He sounded like he meant it. Gareth stared at him. “What? How can you not?”
“Lords and kings and emperors fighting about crowns? They aren’t my people. George means no more to me than Boney. German or Frenchman on the throne, who cares? We had a dunnamany French kings before.”
“When did we—You can’t be talking about the Norman Conquest,” Gareth protested.
“Got invaded by the French and the world didn’t end. What’s it to me which rich man runs the country? What difference does it make to Romney Marsh who wears the crown? Or no, I’ll tell you what difference: there’s no laws against sharing your bed with another fellow in France now. If you gave me a vote, I’d vote for that.”
So would Gareth. He struck out for safer waters. “This is all very well, but we’re talking about being defeated and invaded! Have you not considered what an enemy army entering this country might mean?”
Joss laughed, but not in a way that suggested humour. “Couldn’t miss it, with Martello towers up and down the coast. The invasion will come through here just like last time. That’s why they built the Royal Military Canal, to slow down Boney’s men.”
Gareth knew the Canal, an ugly, wide, straight gash that ran all the way from north of Rye and across the top of the Romney Marsh, just before the land began to rise. “Yes, so—”
“So when these terrible Frog monsters come over here breathing fire and seeking blood, they’ll be kept on the Marsh for as long as possible,” Joss said. “That’s what they built the Canal for: so the Marsh takes the brunt of an invasion. Am I supposed to be pleased about that?”
“Well, no, but… You must see they’ve got to defend the country.”
“Oh, they’re going to. You know the other plan? They’re going to breach the Wall.”
“To what?” Gareth felt a spasm of shock. He might be outmarsh, but he knew the Wall was sacred.
“When the French ships land, the soldiers are to set charges, blow up the Wall, and drown the Marsh.” Joss’s voice was harsh now, almost frightening. “Our land, our home, all gone just to slow the French down for a day or two. Oh, but there’s a plan to get the sheep off. Lot of important men own fine sheep here, so they aim to drive them out first. Got to save the sheep.” He spat that out.
Gareth stared at him. “Um. I don’t… Why is it so bad they want to save the sheep?” Joss didn’t say anything. He just waited. Gareth looked at his face, turned over his words. “There’s a plan to get the people out as well, yes?”
“Course not. The old, the crippled, the children, everyone with their worldly goods on their backs, we’ll all have to fend for ourselves when our own soldiers flood the Marsh, but sheep are valuable. Look, nobody gives a damn for the Marsh except Marshmen. The government and the King don’t care if we starve. They put on the blockade but charge their rents and taxes same as ever, and they’ll let the sea or the French take us if that preserves their skins for another day. So we look after ourselves. And that means trading, and selling wool—some of it wool off the sheep that are going to be saved when old women and children will be left behind, acause if you think those landowners have given up their income for the sake of the war, you’re joking. They want their wool sold, just like the Quality in London want to wear silk and drink brandy, and the merchants want their shelves stocked. We run goods for them, and when they catch us doing it, they hang us for the look of the thing.”
Gareth had no idea what to say. He wasn’t a political philosopher. He had a vague sort of idea that country, king, and law were the foundations on which the nation was built, while nevertheless acknowledging that he had no intention of taking up arms for the country, the king was a mad German, and he’d spent much of his adult life happily breaking the law. Still, they were principles, even if they weren’t his principles. He’d thought this would be an easy fight to pick.
He’d met plenty of radicals in London—men who wanted wealth redistributed, laws changed, the government made representative. Joss Doomsday, fervent patriot of a hundred square miles of marshland, was perhaps the most radical man he’d ever met.
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