Social media -- super, sickening or somewhere in between?

Read an interesting article in The (London) Times yesterday.

The gist of it was that the popularity of TV period pieces like "Downton Abbey" (its Series 4 premiere two weeks ago drew the highest ratings for a drama in the history of PBS) and "Mr. Selfridge" are striking a chord with viewers worldwide because it reminds us of a slower, simpler time.

Hang on, hang on. Before you think, "Here Mabe goes again, waxing poetic about the past, hear me out a minute.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the long-term effect that social media will have on a society with an already short attention span. People used to gripe about MTV and sound bites. Twitter has reduced talking to 140 characters. Facebook is a shining, seductive online soap opera.

And we don't even have to be sitting at a computer anymore. Smartphones have made the whole thing portable! How many times have you seen couples sitting in a restaurant doing everything but talking to one another? I once watched two kids, who were sitting side by side at a baseball game, "talk" to each other by texting. And, no, they weren't watching the game.

Something's happening here, but what it is ain't exactly clear, with apologies to the Buffalo Springfield. Communication skills are shrinking. A sizable number of children and adults, at least judging by their cyberspace chatter, appear to be barely literate. That could be an indictment of American education, or users could just think online observations don't have to be grammatically correct. Either scenario stinks. I meet young people all the time who can't carry on a conversation.

Now, having said all of that, there's a flaw in this flue, too.

Period dramas have been popular for years. Paging "The Waltons," the original "Upstairs Downstairs," "The Wonderful World of Disney" and any Sherlock Holmes show set in the proper period. (Holmes is the most portrayed fictional character, and his motion picture adventures started in the silent era.)

I meet many, many people of all ages who use social media daily and are smarter and more articulate than I.

And, perhaps most importantly, nostalgia is a two-edged sword. Sure, watching "Downton" makes me wish I were a leisurely English lord, but as the Times article pointed out, the "good ol' days" were also filled with rudimentary medical practices ("Downton" dealt with that last year), terrible attitudes toward women and minorities and many social issues, illiteracy and little access to information.

Social media outlets have also created needed national and international conversations, given users unprecedented access to news, helped flame the fires of revolution, connected us to classmates, relatives and others we'd never see on a regular basis, and -- let's face it -- are just plain fun.

Sobering thoughts before one starts wishing it took a carrier pigeon to bring you this blog.

Time to hop across the pond...

OK, friends and neighbors, it's time to hop across the pond.

Tonight on PBS is perhaps the greatest back-to-back programming schedule since "All in the Family" and "M*A*S*H."

Yes, the sadistically seductive "Downton Abbey" (Series 4) airs at 9 p.m. (EST), followed by the much anticipated return of "Sherlock" (Series 3).

As you can see, I'm all set. And don't worry. Since one has to dress for dinner at Downton, I'm wearing black tie and tails underneath that smoking jacket.

Cheerio and the game is a-foot!

And thank you, BBC and PBS. I've been looking for something to screen on Sunday nights since "Murder, She Wrote" expired.

Doors open again at 165 Eaton Place

It was such a delight to hear the strains of that familiar theme and see the doors fly open again at 165 Eaton Place.

Yes, "Upstairs, Downstairs" is back. For those who have managed to miss it up till now, "Up, Down," as its known by its fans, was for years the most popular British import ever shown on what used to be called "Masterpiece Theatre" on PBS. Airing originally in the 1970s, "Up, Down" focused on the lives and intrigues of the Bellamy family at 165 Eaton Place in London -- both the upstairs, upper-class Bellamys, and the downstairs, domestic servants of the house.

It was a runaway hit on both sides of the pond and then, suddenly, it ended, shockingly, just like that. The final scene was of parlor maid Rose Buck (co-creator Jean Marsh) taking one last look around the house, hearing its voices rise from the mists of time for one last bow.

Rose and "Upstairs, Downstairs" have returned for a brief three episode run on what PBS now calls (sometimes) "Masterpiece Classic." The first episode aired last night. And, well, it was a mixed bag.

I almost teared up in the opening scenes, hearing that music, seeing that grand old house again. I found myself smiling. But what I was smiling about was the original series.



I first found the show in re-runs back in the 1990s on PBS. On a trip to Ohio, I happened to catch the famous episode in which the King visits 165 Eaton Place. I was enthralled. When I subscribed to Netflix in 2005, the first series for which I looked was "Up, Down." I spent the next five years, on and off, watching the original show's five seasons. What a delight it was.

The new show isn't bad. It's fresh. It's got a great, good-looking new cast. Marsh is a sight for sore eyes as Rose, this time around working to populate the new house with servants for its new owners, who arrive in the series timeline about six years after the first program ended. Co-creator Eileen Atkins shows up as well, in the delicious part of the unexpected and unwelcome mother-in-law.

It's OK -- but it's not "Upstairs, Downstairs." You must forgive me, though. I am an unapologetic nostalgic. I kept waiting for Mr. Hudson to burst through the doors, getting onto Edward the footman for some lapse in his work while the cook Mrs. Bridges fussed at Daisy for the hundredth time. In the upstairs morning room scenes, I halfway hoped to see Richard Bellamy sipping his brandy while Captain James mulled over his latest crisis while Prudence popped in for her usual tour de force.

(Anybody wanting to revisit the original series can find the DVDs at Netflix or for sale here from Amazon.)

The new series has the unfortunate task of following a legend. And, like the Timothy Daltons and Ray Perkinses of the world have found out, a successor rarely ever fills the big shoes left behind. I much prefer "Downton Abbey," another hit "Masterpiece" series, which felt a lot like a thinly-disguised "Up, Down" to me when I watched it earlier in the year. It's coming back for another run next season.

But, I'll watch the other two episodes of the new "Upstairs, Downstairs," if for no other reason than even when they misfire, programs shown on PBS are almost always better than the proletariat poppycock that populates American television.

Creaks and cobwebs and all, it's good to see the doors open again at 165 Eaton Place.

"Upstairs, Downstairs" is currently airing on "Masterpiece Classic" Sundays on PBS. Check local listings.

The game is afoot -- again!

OK, I'll be honest.

When I heard that the BBC was bringing Sherlock Holmes, the detective for the ages, into the 21st century for a revival TV show, I almost choked on my Calabash pipe.

Coming on the heels of the Robert Downey Jr. debacle last year, I thought enough was enough. Holmes belongs in black and white, wandering the gas-lit streets of Victorian England, trailing a hansom, the clop-clop of horses mixing with the ubiquitous fog. No thanks to all this. Basil Rathbone and Jeremy Brett have done it better. Don't bother.

I could not have been more wrong.

The first of what will sadly only be three episodes (this season) of "Sherlock" aired on PBS Sunday night. And wow. Amazing. Awesome.

The wonderfully named Benedict Cumberbatch is picture perfect as the master sleuth, faithful in so many ways to Conan Doyle's original Holmes. He's smart. He's smarmy.

Martin Freeman (of the UK "The Office" fame) plays a great Dr. Watson, who is again recovering from a bullet wound in an Afghan war and looking for a flat mate. His Watson isn't the lovable bumbler a la Nigel Bruce. Nor is he the more staid Watson in the Grenada tradition. Nope, Freeman's Watson is steady, big-hearted, but ready for action.

The chemistry between the two leads sparkles and shines. The script from episode one was quick, witty, charming.

It's a little jolting at first to see Holmes plugging away on a PDA, but for some magical reason all this works remarkably well. The duo responsible for this return to 221B Baker Street are writers for the popular new incarnation of "Dr. Who." They have done well with two venerable franchises.

If I have one complaint, it's that everybody keeps calling our hero by his first name. Anybody remotely familiar with this universe knows that there's nothing like hearing somebody yell an exasperated "Holmes!" at the top of their lungs.

Major points are due for being faithful to the original source. Brother Mycroft is here in rather amusing fashion. And, yep, signs of Professor Moriarty have already popped up on the horizon.

The two other episodes of the season will air at 9 p.m. (Eastern) the next two Sundays on PBS's "Masterpiece Mystery." Do yourself a favor and don't miss them. This is, by far, the best program I've seen this season.

Although "Friday Night Lights" is back for a final year if you get DirecTV. But that's another blog for another day...

No. 21

I guess I should send PBS a thank you note.

Got home last night in time to watch an "American Experience" installment on Roberto Clemente. And, as I told Dean Harned afterwards, you feel after walking around in Clemente's shoes awhile that you finally know what it takes to become a better human being.

No. 21 was one heck of a right fielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates. He was a great defensive player with a heck of an arm. The hitting came later. But when it came, oh my goodness.

Clemente was from Puerto Rico, and to be a so-called "Latin player" on a major league team in the 1950s and early 1960s brought with it all the ugliness you can imagine. Sometimes it was obvious, like having to stay in another hotel across town during spring training. Sometimes it was subtle, but no less demeaning -- the Pirates announcers were instructed to call Clemente "Bob" or "Bobby"; the same moniker showed up on several of his early Topps baseball cards.

Clemente help bring the Pirates from the National League cellar to the pinnacle of the game -- beating the Yankees (in seven games!) during the 1960 World Series. Eleven years later, the Pirates beat the Baltimore Orioles to notch another championship.

But if Clemente's story was strictly about baseball, well, he'd be just another player, another card collecting dust in some aging Baby Boomer's closet. No, he was also a humanitarian in the best sense of that word, a thinker, a man who forever seemed perplexed by life.

He'd often ruminate on his aches and illnesses to broadcasters, something you didn't do in the stoic '50s. Sportswriters would come up looking for quotes; instead, Clemente would talk about life. Nobody quite knew what to do with him.

Then he died -- suddenly, shockingly -- on New Year's Eve 1972, while flying to Nicaragua on a relief mission after a massive earthquake. The plane was dilapidated, the pilot was a fraud -- but Roberto had to get to Nicaragua. He'd read that the supplies meant for relief were being stolen -- and worse. He had to go. He had to go.

The plane never arrived at its destination. Clemente's body was never found.

In an unprecedented vote, the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame inducted Clemente the following year. He remains the only player in history for whom the mandatory five year waiting period following one's career was waived. It was the least they could do.

He'll be remembered for home runs and World Series victories, but that was only part of Roberto Clemente. It's that other part, though, that made him a hero.