BOX OFFICE: “DOWNTON ABBEY” ROYALLY BEATS RAMBO —The Hollywood Reporter.

Scene: A humongous house in England. A glorious afternoon. A flag flutters above the battlements. The family is gathered for tea, complete with Labrador. Enter Carson.

CARSON: A telegram, m’lady.

Carson holds out a silver salver. Cora, the Countess of Grantham, takes the telegram and reads it.

CORA: Good Lord!

LORD GRANTHAM: Yes, my dear?

CORA: Not you. I mean, goodness gracious!

LADY EDITH: Why, what it is it, Mama?

CORA: It’s about our motion picture. The one about us.

VIOLET: (wrinkling her nose) What is a motion picture?

CARSON: It is a series of photographs, m’lady, through which light is projected, yielding the impression—illusory yet not ungratifying—of continuous movement.

VIOLET: (pursing her lips) It sounds indecent.

CARSON: It frequently is, m’lady.

The Dowager drops the sugar tongs. Instant and profound consternation in the room. All the menfolk move swiftly to retrieve the fallen tongs and to assure themselves that the Dowager has not been gravely injured in the incident.

GRANTHAM: So, what’s the news, eh?

CORA: Well, apparently, the picture has (consults telegram) “opened big.”

Lady Mary titters. Her father frowns at her.

CORA: We seem to have beaten somebody called Rambo.

VIOLET: Serves him right. He sounds French.

GRANTHAM: Jolly good news, but I can’t say I’m surprised. I mean, what a plot! All that business about our boiler being broken and having to be mended in time for dinner with the King—cracking stuff. Awfully exciting. I knew the good old masses would lap it up.

LADY EDITH: Well, I am surprised. I thought they might not like that bit about the gay bar. You know how fraightfully stuffy the masses can be. Not like us.

VIOLET: What is a gay bar?

CARSON: (coughs) It is a place of recreation, m’lady, for those of the homosexual persuasion.

VIOLET: What is an homosexual?

Slightly awkward silence. Lord Grantham drops the crumpet that he is in the act of buttering. Labrador eats the crumpet.

CARSON: (unperturbed) The term refers to a gentleman, m’lady, who finds himself attracted to those of the same gender.

VIOLET: What is a gender?

CARSON: Oh, for Christ’s sake.

LADY MARY: (hastening to rescue the situation) Honestly, Granny, you know what genders are. You must have learned them from your governess. You get them with French nouns.

VIOLET: (shuddering) Oh, French. I might have known.

CORA: What do you think, Tom?

Tom Branson is lurking in the background, eating a muffin in a suspicious manner.

TOM: (swallowing) I regard the matter as a clash of bourgeois commodifications—the reactionary fetish for imperialist nostalgia confronting the militaristic hunger for racialized violence. But, then, I would say that, being the widowed son-in-law who, as a former chauffeur with socialist convictions, and an Irishman to boot, has been ideologically rejected by this household, even as it condescends to gather me, for socio-normative reasons, into its hypocritical embrace. Wouldn’t I?

Tom hurls his muffin to the floor. Labrador eats the muffin.

LADY EDITH: (brightly) Don’t be silly, Tom. I’m tirribly fond of you. We all are. You’re like a sort of . . . favorite Teddy.

Lord Grantham glares at her. Another silence. A knock at the door. Enter a footman, who murmurs to Carson.

CARSON: Mr. John Rambo.

Enter Rambo. He is dressed in combat fatigues, with a ripped T-shirt. A red bandanna encircles his brow. He bears a ground-to-air missile launcher in one hand and an assault rifle in the other. Low guttural growls emerge from his barely open mouth. Utter lack of consternation among those who are taking tea. Cora, ever the perfect hostess, rises to greet him.

CORA: Bonjour, Monsieur Rambo. Bienvenue à Downton! Est-ce que je peux vous offrir une tasse de thé? Un crumpet?

RAMBO: Whaddyagurrnadoaboutmafugginmovie.

CORA: Excusez-moi?

RAMBO: Yourfugginmoviejusbeatdashiddouttamymovie. Atta bogsoffuss.

Cora smiles politely.

CARSON: (translating) I believe the gentleman is referring to the box-office takings of your respective motion pictures, m’lady.

VIOLET: What is an office? And why is there a box in it?

GRANTHAM: (in a moment of inspiration) But, my dear chap, you’re precisely what we need!

RAMBO: Whaddafug.

LADY MARY: Yes, Daddy, what the—the merry dickens are you talking about?

GRANTHAM: Well, we have a shooting party tomorrow, remember, and the Ponsonbys can’t make it. Some nonsense about their son being killed in a motor accident.

LADY EDITH: What a bore.

CORA: Most inconvenient.

LADY MARY: Rather selfish of him, I’d say. Couldn’t he get squashed once the shooting season is over?

GRANTHAM: But don’t you see? The problem is solved. Monsieur Rambo can make up the numbers. Why, look, my dear, he’s even brought his own gun!

CORA: Of course! (Turns to their guest) Monsieur, j’ai l’honneur de vous inviter—

RAMBO: Mmnerdfrenge.

CARSON: The gentleman has intimated that he is not, contrary to report, descended from the Gallic race.

VIOLET: What a relief. (To Rambo) Come sit by me, my dear, and tell me all about your motion picture. Have a fairy cake. We haven’t met before, by any chance? At Hogwarts, perhaps?

GRANTHAM: Wrong movie, mother.

CORA: Carson, would you be so kind as to inform Cook that we shall be one more for dinner this evening?

CARSON: Certainly, m’lady.

Exit Carson. Outside, shadows lengthen on the lawn. Distant cooing of doves. Inside, peace descends once more upon the drawing room. Rambo eats another fairy cake. Lady Edith smiles at him, and he blushes. Lady Mary makes a mental note to have her dresses fashionably ripped by her maid. Labrador barfs quietly behind the armchair. From a dark corner, Tom eyes the missile launcher. The safety catch is off.