Remember when it was still possible to make fun of rich people? Like Thurston Howell III and his wife, Lovey, on Gilligan’s Island? Or the silly, spoiled heiresses in High Society and My Man Godfrey? Well, if you’re nostalgic for a time when the idle rich were valid objects of ridicule instead of reality TV stars, The Ritz Carltons was written for you.
For Fillmore Hyde, the more money a family has, the more it must struggle with the slightest of problems. Which limousine to take? Will the first chauffeur be available to drive us to Long Island (because really the second one wouldn’t do)? Or what to do on your summer vacation:
The problem of where to go for the summer is a grave one to people of wealth and social prominence. The majority of mankind may take it lightly, but the rich cannot; from somewhere they must find strength to solve the perplexing question; and they do — noblesse oblige.
The Ritz Carltons, of course, faced it squarely.
Labelled as a novel, The Ritz Carltons is nothing more than a series of sketches. Actually, it could have worked well as the basis of a sitcom, especially back in the early days of TV when they had fifteen-minute shows — because there isn’t more than fifteen minutes of material in any of the chapters. And its humor has just that reliable formulaic ring you could count on from sitcoms.
In this case, the formula depends on a catalyst and predictable reagent. The reagent is Mrs. Ritz Carlton, whose response to the slightest hint of stress is complete physical collapse. As in the episode in which their daughter, Ritza announces her engagement to Parker House, just graduating from Harvard. The happy parents rush to Cambridge to witness their son-in-law-to-be’s commencement.
“Why isn’t he dressed like the rest?” asked Ritz, noticing that the ornament of Parker’s gown was of a different color from that of the others.
Ritza didn’t know.
The Fates were soon to make it plain. A speech was made, and the new graduates were asked to come forward to receive their diplomas. Parker House was the first in line — and the fateful words, Summa cum Laude, came down the wind from the dais.
“Good God!” exclaimed Ritz as the truth swept over him. “The fellow’s a grind!”
On his left, Mrs. Carlton collapsed silently into the arms of the secretary.
And each episode ends with the doctor rushing in from stage left to aid the prostrate woman.
Come to think of it, The Ritz Carltons has a pretty strong misogynistic streak in it, too.
Well, you don’t look to a formulaic sitcom for subtlety — just a few cheap laughs. To help forget the fact that the rich today are not sources of comic relief but soulless blood-sucking vampires.
You’re right. Making fun of the wealthy, however gently, is tantamount to treason and sedition these days. I prefer the old days. John Jacob Astor IV may have been filthy rich when he went down with the Titanic but at least he was brave. Imagine today’s mega-rich, they’d be leaping into the lifeboats and throwing others overboard to make more room.