The first season of Outlander was ... interesting, to say the least. The show started out as one thing---a historical romance with a time-travel twist, featuring Claire Beauchamp Randall, a British Army nurse from the 1940s who finds herself in 18th-century Scotland---but ended up as something entirely different. We were innocent and then we were no longer innocent.
Yes, there was all the time-travel stuff and whatever---but it all paled in comparison to the sexual tension. And the sex. (I hadn't read the Outlander books by Diana Gabaldon, but I did know they featured a lot of hot sex. That is why I decided to watch the show.)
In the beginning, we watched Claire (Caitriona Balfe) and Jamie Fraser (Sam Heughan) fall in love. We got to appreciate a brawny man in a kilt, and there were many, many gratuitous and lingering shots of Jamie's absolutely incredible body even before he and Claire married---and then consummated their marriage in a glorious episode of incredibly hot newlywed sex.
That was the beginning of the show's blossoming. Outlander was somewhat groundbreaking in that the lead was a woman who was smart and independent and sassy. Even in times (the 18th century and the 1940s) when women were beholden to the patriarchy, Claire forged her own way. Her body was rarely displayed gratuitously, and in sex scenes, the focus was generally on her pleasure. This was a show designed for the female gaze, and how.
Alas, all wasn't conjugal bliss. Throughout the first season, Claire and Jamie constantly became separated and forced to rescue one another. It happened so often it became tedious; another episode, another separation. Meanwhile, their nemesis, the sadistic Captain Jonathan "Black Jack" Randall (Tobias Menzies)---the architect of the mass of scarred flesh on Jamie's back---took delight in torturing both Claire and Jamie whenever he could. Over the season, he became the kind of villain who was constantly twirling an invisible handlebar moustache while petting a hairless cat in some dark lair as he considered the most fucked-up things he could possibly do to this tormented couple.
Things took a grim turn at the end of the first season, when Jamie was arrested and sentenced to death by hanging. His sentence was temporarily commuted when Randall rode in to stop the hanging. Instead of reprieve, Jamie was thrown into a fresh hell, forced to submit to Randall's sadistic whims---including torture and a prolonged, extremely graphic rape. The show's sexiness evaporated in an instant; it was, I suppose, groundbreaking to see a show address male rape, but my goodness, the violence was unwatchable, as it should be.
The finale, however, offered us a bit of hope as we learned that Claire was pregnant with Jamie's child and the couple was headed to France to try and change history. The couple that tries to mess with the spacetime continuum together, stays together.
The second season begins with Claire once again giving voiceover (as she was so eagerly wont to do in Season 1). At the start of the premiere, "Through a Glass, Darkly," she is lying amidst the magical stones of Craigh na Dun that make her time travel possible, realizing she is no longer in the past. She screams the way any of us would scream if we could no longer avail ourselves of Jamie Fraser's body and sexual prowess. Before long, she finds a road. When a car comes upon her, the driver keeps asking Claire if she's alright but she can only ask, "What year is it?" It is 1948, which is bad news for Claire, and frankly, for us, because there is nothing sexy about Claire's life in the 1940s, nothing at all. Then Claire asks who won the Battle of Culloden, and the random man just happens to know what she's going on about and tells Claire the British won. She begins sobbing. And here we are.
Her dreary 20th-century husband, Frank (Menzies again), strides into a hospital where he learns his wife is alive and well-ish. She is in a hospital bed, listening to a jazzy hit from 1944, "Milkman, Keep Those Bottles Quiet," and the first thing she tells Frank is to turn the radio off. The future---well, the present---is too damn noisy. Their reunion is understated, but when Frank moves in to caress Claire, she flinches dramatically: Frank is the spitting image of Black Jack Randall. Also, he's Frank.
The awkwardly reunited couple heads to Reverend Wakefield's (James Fleet) so Claire can "convalesce," which is a fine word for "long for Jamie and his strong, manly embrace." Frank and the reverend have a chat in a study and reveal that the clothes Claire was wearing are authentic 18th-century garb, worth quite a lot of money. The men also remark on Claire's new obsession with Scottish history because she's been reading nothing but such history books in the week since her return. They also wonder where Claire has been. The easiest thing would be to just ask, but no one on this show ever does the easiest thing.
Out in the garden, Claire and Mrs. Graham (Tracey Wilkinson) talk. As fighter jets soar overhead, Claire remarks, "There's always another fucking war." This provides a great opportunity to talk about Jamie, who didn't even know what the F-word meant. Memories. As the women chat, we see that Mrs. Graham knows all about Claire's time travels.
(Sidebar: Claire's story is, on the surface, utterly implausible---but not only is she profligate in sharing it, but every single person she shares her story with believes her. You'd think at least one person would be like, "Girl, this story is fucking insane. Get you some professional help." That never happens. Ever.)
After reminiscing fondly of young Jamie, Mrs. Graham counsels Claire to focus on the man she's with instead of the man she left behind due to the vagaries of time travel. It's a shame that man is Frank. I'd choose the ghost, too, if I were Claire. I'd choose the ghost of Jamie over most anyone but Channing Tatum or Beyoncé.
That night, Frank stares pensively at Claire's closed bedroom door. Feeling his sad longing, she invites him in and proceeds to unburden herself, yet again, of her implausible story, making sure to tell Frank, several times, how much she loves Jamie. (Who can blame her? We know what happened when they first made love. Mmmm.) This scene drags on as Frank tries to be the world's most understanding man. Is he merely being English or is he dead inside? Hard to say. I'm just saying that most men would probably need a couple weeks to adjust to the time-travel-amazing-sex-in-the-18th-century-with-another-man thing.
All the while, most of us are thinking, "When do we get to see Jamie Fraser again?" Not. Soon. Enough.
It seems like Frank and Claire are going to be copacetic, but Claire stabs Frank in the heart one last time. She's pregnant! Frank finally loses his shit, raises his fist---and holds it, clenched, inches from her face, before storming out. He finds a shed on the property and basically tears it apart with all the rage an English historian can muster. Later, as he unburdens himself to the reverend, he admits he is sterile and shares his grief. The reverend basically tells Frank to suck it up and raise Jamie's child as his own.
Frank tells Claire he will raise her child as his own and they will move to Boston because he has been offered a post at Harvard. OF COURSE! They bandy about conditions. He can never use the word "flog" in her presence. She has to stop searching history books for mention of Jamie and his fate. And they will indeed raise the child as their own, lying about the boy's paternity (at least until Maury Povich comes along). To seal the deal, Frank heads outside to burn the clothes Claire was found in, as if that might burn the impeccable Jamie from Claire's heart and mind.
In truth, all of this is quite depressing because it's obvious that Claire loves Jamie more and prefers to live in the 18th century without electricity or indoor plumbing. To each her own.
The couple flies to the United States, and as they are disembarking, finally, finally, we return to the 18th century---thanks to an elegant fade---where Claire, Jamie, and Murtagh (Duncan Lacroix) disembark from a ship on the shores of France. Suddenly, the show is bright and vivid and we are brought back to happiness with Jamie's rolling Scottish brogue. Murtagh is cranky, lamenting that France smells like frogs, and then he is off to find rooms for the night, just like old times.
Ensconced in those rooms, a warm fire burning, Jamie is breathing strangely, holding his injured hand. Claire comes to Jamie's side and we are reminded that Jamie is still, understandably, dealing with his trauma. He tells his wife that sometimes, he can still feel Randall's touch. Poor Jamie. It will be interesting to see how the show handles his recovery this season.
Claire tries to change the subject by reminding Jamie that they need to change the future---you know, pillow talk. When Jamie tries to remind Claire of, say, reality, she says, "Since when were you not up for a challenge?" Undeterred, Claire continues with her plan. Jamie has a cousin in France, a Jacobite. They will ingratiate themselves to him so he might introduce them to the movers and shakers of the movement. Jamie worries that the plan is dishonorable but Claire is all, "the future of Scotland," blah blah blah, so they agree to lie, cheat, and steal for the greater good.
The next morning, Murtagh is angry that Claire and Jamie won't tell him their secret, but Jamie vows to do so, when the time is right, and somehow that's all Murtagh needs to hear. Were keeping secrets of time travel always that easy. When Claire asks Jamie when this right time might be, Jamie quips, "You tell me, Sassenach, you're the one from the future." He's trying to get his groove back. He's trying so hard.
Three weeks later, Jamie and Claire meet with Jared Fraser (Robert Cavanah), who is skeptical of Jamie's sudden interest in politics. Jamie removes his shirt and...well, that's all that needs to be said. Finally, we get a glimpse of Jamie's perfect shoulders and chest. Nothing can blemish that body. Nothing.
Jared and Jamie bargain a bit. Jamie wants to meet the Jacobite leaders and Jared promises to give it some thought. Jared has to go to the West Indies so he asks Jamie to take over his wine business because Jamie has a "fine head for figures." Jamie will get a share of the profits and the run of a Paris house. As is always the case in this show, when there's a problem, an absurdly convenient solution is at the ready.
Claire is walking along the docks for some fresh air and it's just bizarre because ... the docks probably stink but fine, it sets her up to see a sick man being brought off a ship. Ever the healer, she follows the sick man (aka runs directly into trouble), with Jamie shouting her name while she ignores him. Turns out Claire and Jamie speak perfect French. Claire waves everyone from the sick man, telling Jamie she can't get what the sick man has. It's smallpox, of course. No one wants to hear this---especially le Comte St. Germain (Stanley Weber), who owns the ship the sick man was taken from. Once again, Claire makes friends wherever she goes. St. Germain wants to hide the truth and save his cargo. Jamie, who has some sense, wants to leave and not interfere. Claire just insists on hovering over the dead man's body, riddled with pox and pus and malodor.
As they are leaving, St. Germain, who is the purest expression of a snobby French villain, demands an explanation and haughtily insults Claire, Jamie, and the English. He vows that this isn't the end, letting them know they are gonna pay as he must pay to have his ship and it's cargo burned to rid the pox. Good news! The couple has a new enemy.
That night, Claire, Jamie, and Jared watch the ship burn. "Another country, another enemy. Life is never dull with you, Sassenach," Jamie says, assuring Claire that he never wants her to change even though she always, always gets them into terrible situations. That's fine, Jamie. We'll want that for you just as ardently as we want you.
To sum up: There was not even a hint of hot sex in this episode. How long will we have to wait? Time, I suppose, will tell.
