Look, I know what you're thinking. "Didn't that show already have, like, three seasons of rich people being mean to each other in fancy hats?" Yes. Yes it did. And apparently that wasn't enough, because HBO just greenlit The Gilded Age Season 4, which means we're getting another round of corsets, casual racism disguised as "period-accurate dialogue," and Carrie Coon staring daggers at women who dare to exist within a five-mile radius of her husband.
For the uninitiated—which, honestly, must be nice—The Gilded Age is Julian Fellowes' American answer to Downton Abbey. Except instead of charming British people being vaguely sad about inheritance laws, we get New York aristocrats in the 1880s being openly hostile about whether your money is "old" or "new." It's like Succession, but everyone's wearing a bustle and nobody swears because the censors would have a fit.
Season 3 ended with what I'm told was a "cliffhanger," though I'd describe it more as "a bunch of rich people continuing to be rich and petty while the poors exist somewhere off-screen." The Russells are still fighting the old-money crowd. Marian is still making questionable romantic choices. And somewhere, a servant is probably polishing silver while dreaming of a life where they don't have to hear about Mrs. Astor's latest snub.
Now, I'll give credit where it's due: the costumes are stunning. The production design makes you want to time-travel back to 1882 until you remember you'd probably be the guy shoveling coal into the furnace, not the lady sipping champagne in a $40,000 dress. The show does capture that specific American fantasy of "what if the 1% were even more insufferable and also had worse teeth?"
But here's my real issue: who is this for? Like, genuinely. The Gilded Age has all the dramatic tension of a wet napkin. Every conflict gets resolved within two episodes. Every villain gets a redemption arc. Every social climber eventually climbs. It's the TV equivalent of a warm bath—pleasant, forgettable, and you're not entirely sure why you got in.
And yet, I'll watch Season 4. You'll watch Season 4. We'll all watch Season 4 because it's comforting. It's a show where the biggest problem is whether you got invited to the right dinner party. There's no climate change, no student loans, no existential dread about the future of democracy. Just women in hats being catty and men in suits being boring. Sign me up.
HBO knows exactly what they're doing. They've figured out that Americans love watching rich people be miserable almost as much as we love watching them win. The Gilded Age is basically a historical dress-up version of our current oligarchy, except with better lighting and less Twitter. It's escapism for people who think "the past was simpler" while conveniently ignoring that the past was also, you know, horrifying for anyone who wasn't white, male, and loaded.
Season 4 will probably introduce a new family, a new scandal, and a new reason for Carrie Coon to narrow her eyes at someone across a ballroom. There will be a will-they-won't-they romance that we all know will end with "they will, but not until the season finale." There will be at least one scene where someone says "new money" like it's a slur. And I will be there, popcorn in hand, hate-watching every minute.
Because that's what The Gilded Age is, really. It's not prestige TV. It's not even good TV. It's background noise with pretty dresses, and sometimes that's exactly what you need after a long day of living in actual late-stage capitalism. At least the 1880s had the decency to give us the labor movement. All we got was this show.
**Opinion:** The Gilded Age is the television equivalent of eating an entire sleeve of Oreos—you know it's not good for you, you know you'll regret it, but you'll do it again next season anyway. At least the hats are nice.