“We have no time for your gypsy feelings!”
Hey, do you remember that plot contrivance that you don’t remember from like six weeks ago, when Jamison had a prophetic dream about Quentin’s death? In the dream, the ghost of Quentin appeared to Jamison’s grandson David, and gave him a handful of story points.
“Three things happened,” the ghost said, in the imagined future. “If I could have changed any one of them — if I could have known what they meant, while they were happening — maybe I wouldn’t have died when I did.’
David asked what the three things were, because he has good manners, plus what else are you going to say.
“The first was the discovery of a silver bullet at Collinwood. And then the one person who could have helped me — who could have kept me alive — was murdered.”
“What was the third thing?”
“Ah. That — that was the worst. The one person in this world that I truly loved turned against me. After that happened, there was practically no time left for Quentin Collins.”
So that was extremely informative, as prophetic dreams go. It’s not the thing I would have done, if Quentin showed up in one of my dreams, but I suppose people have different priorities.
The first clue about the silver bullet happened right away, by the end of the dream episode, but then they took a break from that storyline to figure out how to extend Barnabas’ crowd-pleasing journey to 1897.
Six weeks later, we finally catch back up with it, and Julianka — the one person who could have saved Quentin, by releasing him from the werewolf curse — has been murdered by an unknown assailant. As expected, Quentin takes it personally, and adds this death to his own list of hardships. He has a little soliloquy about hope and failure, and then he walks back to Collinwood to drink brandy and hit on the domestics, which to be honest is probably what he was planning to do anyway.
Barnabas recognizes this moment as the second item on Quentin’s mortality checklist, and realizes that he doesn’t have much time before Quentin dies, and turns into the angry specter who’s destined to haunt the family estate in the 1960s. Barnabas takes that personally, too, and he moans to his gypsy servant Magda about it; this is how rich people process a setback.
He wishes that he could know when the third event would happen, so that he could be prepared for it, but Magda reminds him that even tea leaves and tarot cards have their limits.
“For that matter,” she opines, “how do we even know there’s a future? Now it’s 1897. Suppose I say — 1927, 1967?” She executes an elaborate gypsy shrug. “How do I know that date will ever really arrive?”
This is an unbelievably reassuring thing to say, and I invite all of you to use that line of reasoning exclusively from now on, whenever you have to comfort somebody. That’s a showstopper, reassurance-wise.
For some reason, Barnabas doesn’t buy it. “Of course there’s a future!” he barks. “Because the future for me — or for you — is the present for me!”
Luckily, Grayson Hall’s job is to pretend that she’s following whatever Jonathan Frid thinks he’s saying, and she’s terribly good at it. She knows that if you just furrow your brow a little and wait, then eventually either he’ll say something sensible or the scene will end, whichever comes first.
So get a load of this.
“I would give anything to go back to there for ten minutes,” Barnabas says, meaning the future.
Magda makes with the brow-furrowing. “How could ten minutes in another time help?”
“In my own time,” he explains, “there is a history of the Collins family printed in 1965 that contains the date of Quentin’s death, then I know something that helps me a great deal! Oh, if only Eve hadn’t gone back to the past to get that book for Vicki!”
So do you remember that plot contrivance that you don’t remember from eight months ago, when the Bride of Frankenstein traveled back to the 18th century to save Jane Eyre’s boyfriend from the Salem witch trials? Of course you do, everyone does; it’s one of the great moments in the history of the dramatic arts.
While she was there, she got ahold of the Collins family history, a radioactive time-traveling MacGuffin that Vicki left in the courthouse, one hundred and seventy years before its publication. Eve snatched the book, for no particular reason, and brought it with her when she returned to 1968.
Or, as Barnabas explains it today: “You see, Vicki took that book back to the 18th century when she went there, and so Eve brought it back to the present.” Puzzled, Magda asks, “When did she take the book?” and Barnabas says, “Not too long ago,” which okay then.
Ordinarily, a baffling continuity reference like this would just be a weird throwaway line, which nobody actually expects the audience to follow. But this time, they’re doubling down on it so hard that it cracks the world.
And here it is, at last: the moment to literally end all moments.
Barnabas: Magda — I said that it didn’t happen too long ago… but that hasn’t happened yet! There’s still a chance that we might be able to save Quentin!
Barnabas: Because by looking at the book that lies in the old colonial courthouse.
That’s what he says, “because by looking”. That is not the silliest thing he says today by a long shot.
Magda: But you said that Eve took it!
Barnabas: She did — which happened in 1968, which hasn’t happened yet! So if I’m correct, then the book is still in the courthouse right now!
And then they start arguing about who’s going to go and find it. Barnabas’ analysis of the situation has been accepted, and everything from here on is just tactics.
And it works! Magda goes to the courthouse, and she finds the book — this impossible, unacceptably time-jolted volume that shouldn’t be anywhere. It turns out that Magda was right, 1927 will never arrive, because we’re trapped in a recursive time corridor running between 1795 and 1967.
If I understand this correctly, the Collins family history book is here because it hasn’t yet been about to be took back from a time when it already shouldn’t have had to have been going to be brought in the first place. I believe this tense is called the subjective pluposterous.
This is weapons-grade meanwhiling. Even Vicki couldn’t have come up with this, at the height of her tenure as the ambassador of Faction Paradox.
And guess what? The book doesn’t even have the date of Quentin’s death anyway. There’s just a note that says that Quentin left for a voyage around the world, which is Collins code for turned into a monster and killed the entire family. Barnabas puts the book down in despair, and then they just start talking about something else.
This entire continuity reference lasts for less than two scenes. Look what a mess they’ve just made of linear time, and they didn’t even get a plot point out of it.
So it has to be said: Dark Shadows is not a science fiction story with a coherent theory of time travel. It’s just a story about a group of people who happen to spend every waking minute talking about time travel, and whatever they say about it is true, until they change their minds.
From now on, if the phrase “from now on” still means anything, time on Dark Shadows is utterly and irretrievably broken. Anybody in the audience who still thinks that it’s necessary to explain any continuity error on the show: maybe watching Dark Shadows is not for you. Seriously, this is the end of retcons forever. No mas.
Tomorrow: Everyone You Love Must Die.
Dark Shadows bloopers to watch out for:
Barnabas tells Magda about the clues: “First, a silver bullet would be dropped at Collinwood. Well, Edward Collins found the one you dropped, and brought it to Collinwood.”
Barnabas tells Magda, “In the case of the third event, I’ve got to find out before it happens.” Magda asks, “Why, what is it supposed to do?”
Magda reads the book: “Before the year 1875 ended, Quentin Collins left Collinsport for a voyage around the world.” She means 1897, of course. You could actually say that this just proves Magda can’t read very well, but she reads “before 1897 was over” a moment later. Then she coughs while Barnabas is talking.
Quentin and Beth are listening to Quentin’s theme while he gets drunk, and the scene is long enough for the song to end and start over again. Could you put wax cylinders on shuffle like that?
Behind the Scenes:
The video master for this episode was lost, so what we see on home video is a black-and-white kinescope copy, made by pointing a camera at a television set during playback for distribution to network affiliates who run Dark Shadows in a different timeslot.
This episode was skipped in syndication, because Worldvision didn’t realize there was a kinescope available, but a copy was found by MPI for the home video release. It was an annoying episode to miss when we were watching the show on public TV, because they finally got around to showing the second event from Quentin’s list, and we didn’t even see it. There are three more kinescope episodes left; the next one is 813.
This is the last of Diana Davila’s four episodes as Julianka, and it’s a shame because I’ve hardly even mentioned her. Davila was much more active on the stage than screen. Her only film role was in the Woody Allen film Play It Again Sam, where she plays a girl that Woody Allen’s character talks to in a museum. Her Broadway career included roles in the Tony-winning shows The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and Two Gentleman of Verona, as well as three huge flops: Song of the Grasshopper, Home Sweet Homer and Stages. They weren’t her fault.
Tomorrow: Everyone You Love Must Die.
— Danny Horn