Shriya’s put all her cards on the table — now it’s my turn to show.
Every so often, my dad and I share interest in the same television shows. Usually, the dynamic works like this: I start (and usually finish) a show before he’s ever heard of it, I suggest said show to him, he waits six months until it’s on Netflix, then MAYBE gives it a try (as if he doesn’t trust my opinion!). To date, there has only been one exception to this rule — Netflix’s faux political theater, House of Cards. With this show, my dad got the jump on me; he started it first, and though I’d heard about it, I hadn’t yet gotten the chance to start on my own accord.
In late December 2013, that changed, and I finished Season 1 within a week (before him, I might add). I thoroughly enjoyed it. Last February, I binge-watched Season 2 along with everyone else. I wish I hadn’t. Last weekend, I binged on Season 3, hedging my bets on the turn. Truth be told: I should’ve bet on the flop.
Let me be clear: I still believe that House of Cards is an above-average show. The political drama revolves around Kevin Spacey’s character, Francis J. Underwood, who begins the series as the Majority Whip of the U.S. House of Representatives. From the opening tip of Season 1, it’s clear that there is more to Underwood than meets the eye; Spacey’s character often breaks the “fourth wall,” his narration revealing his darkest motives, unfiltered thoughts, and stone-faced commentary to the audience, even as his character navigates through the twists and turns of the complex political machine of Washington.
True to the theme of “what works” in current television, the Netflix original centers around Underwood’s character, the prototypical antihero. We’ve seen this countless times in recent memory — from Walter White in AMC’s Breaking Bad and Don Draper in the network’s Mad Men, to Fox’s and Showtime’s title characters in House, M.D. and Dexter. From start to finish, Frank Underwood is focused, calculating, and manipulative, placing his lofty, vindictive goals above all else, his pursuit fueled by his thirst for power and his ruthless ambition. In the first season and a half of the series, Underwood masterfully orchestrates each and every interaction to form a glorious symphony, with each and every player somehow in unison to further his manuscript. Even in his personal life, we’re quick to learn that his marriage to the equally-ambitious, unapologetic Claire (played by Robin Wright) is more quid pro quo than quintessential romance. While not completely devoid of love, it would be remiss to say that they view each other as means to an end. The Underwoods’ relationship portrays them to be thick as thieves, two partners in crime forming the perfect union of unholy manipulation and underhanded tactics. In a sick, twisted way, it makes sense — with a lifestyle in which every single interaction is fraught with deception and blackmail, the Underwoods maintain a brutally honest relationship with each other, for better or for worse.
The first season, part of Netflix’s new binge-friendly TV model, worked like gangbusters in large part because of its pace and style of storytelling. Frank’s penchant for asides became apparent almost immediately, as did his insatiable lust for power and willingness to bribe, browbeat, and bargain as it served his needs. In most cases, I’d describe the narration habit of “telling” rather than “showing” as a shortcoming (ahem, Gotham), but with House of Cards, Frank Underwood’s running commentary fit seamlessly with the tone and story of the show. Though Spacey’s stone-faced monologuing didn’t shy away from laying out the character’s plan of action, credit the writers for choosing to focus on the “why” rather than the “what’s next”. The jarring contrast between Underwood’s dual personalities was intriguing, a draw for the viewer to keep watching in order to learn what made the man tick, and whether or not his methods were successful. The ease with which he switched between the innocent, honey-tongued Southern drawl he used publicly and the venomous, forked-tongued vitriol he spewed to the audience was jaw-dropping — some of the most exhilarating moments of the season occurred when the latter spilled into the former, as it did during Frank’s dealings with the tenacious news reporter Zoe Barnes or the pugnacious union boss. Sure, Frank’s meteoric rise up the food chain was exciting in and of itself — his use of the troubled Rep. Peter Russo, and the sequence of events surrounding the education reform bill were both testament to the strength of his methods — but what was equally exciting were the sequences in which Frank revealed his true nature to his enemies. After eleven tough rounds in the ring, Frank appeared to have succeeded in the twelfth by gaining the Vice-Presidency through striking a deal with the ruthless, equally-manipulative billionaire industrialist Raymond Tusk. As the first season drew to a close, Frank was a heartbeat away from the apple of his eye — the Office of the President — with a foe more formidable than any before him in Raymond Tusk casting a shadow over the White House.
Season 2 started off with the shocking murder of Zoe Barnes, and from then on, the series has been in a downward spiral. I understand the need to have Frank commit murder — until his handling of poor Peter Russo, all of Underwood’s actions had been in a gray area of both legality and morality. However, by murdering Rep. Russo, it becomes clear to the viewer that Underwood is willing to blow past the point of no return without so much as a blink of the eye. In that way, I appreciate and applaud the use of Russo’s death. Even the tragic case of Zoe Barnes makes logical sense — she was too smart, too close to Frank, and loose ends needed to be tied up. Yet it seems as if the show has lost its footing following the departures of Mr. Russo and Ms. Barnes. The rest of Season 2 was a mess, and while I realize that much of the chaos was an attempt to raise the stakes — both for the Underwoods, as they stepped closer to running the Oval Office, and for Netflix, attempting to feed upon the critical and commercial success of the show — I can’t appreciate the lackluster storyline. Season 2 presented us with a revolving door of strawmen opponents for Frank Underwood, each ready and willing to be knocked down due to one tragic character flaw or another, in one big game of whack-a-mole. The omnipresent Raymond Tusk turned out to be an incompetent geezer, unable to find any dirt on his nemesis, despite there being an ample amount of it — if a distraught, heartbroken news editor can very nearly pin Russo’s and Barnes’ murders on Frank, why can’t the most powerful man in America? And while it’s appreciable to see Underwood struggle once and a while — his relationship with the weary President Walker was one of the genuine high points of the season — forgive me if I don’t entirely buy in to the sentiment of a hand-written letter from a known puppet-master being the key to securing the Presidency. Sure, I got as much of a kick as anyone from the Frank’s handling of the government shutdown/filibuster situation, but at some point, the show needs to stop beating the dead horse of “Congress is full of lazy ineptitude and is collectively unable to outsmart one man.” Perhaps the most egregious example was the show’s portrayal of hacker Gavin Orsay, possibly the most disgustingly stereotypical character in the show — death metal music and dark rooms? Neuroticism? A flare for the theatrics of remotely manipulating electronic devices? An unhealthy attachment to a rodent? You’re better than this, Netflix. You showed us as much in Season 1.
As I mentioned before, Season 3 showed promise for a rebound — the question of “now what?” loomed over our heads and Frank’s as he took up the mantle of POTUS, the singular goal to which he has dedicated his life’s work. As it turns out, the show wasn’t ready to answer that question. The Underwoods have almost always been well-above reproach or consequence, and in the most public spotlight in the world, Season 3 does a commendable job of placing a ceiling above their heads. The irony in Frank becoming the most powerful man in America is that he is not lost on the writers; as a sit-in for 18 months before the next election, Frank is able to accomplish less than he had in either of his two previous occupations, though both lesser in stature. Held in check by both parties in Congress (hello, bipartisanship!) and the foreign threat of Russian Prime Minister Viktor Petrov, Underwood’s wheeling-and-dealing days come to a screeching halt. It’s almost a sick joke that Petrov — an unabashedly cheap knock-off of Vladimir Putin — is actually the saving grace of the season. In a show filled with superb acting, led by standout performances from Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright, Lars Mikkelsen’s (Hannibal actor Mads’ brother!) portrayal of the shrewd, brash, highly-intelligent Petrov steals every scene in which he’s present. Petrov is the ideal adversary for Underwood — as the head of a sovereign (and decidedly not-friendly) nation, Frank holds little power over him, and is unable to bully or blackmail him. Quite feasibly, the season could have relied solely on the Jordan Valley plotline to carry it; instead, we received the half-baked “America Works” initiative.
I’ll spare you the details of why the jobs plan (and its laughably illegal implementation) and Frank’s will-he/won’t-he re-election bid are cringe-worthy, to say the least. The underlying issue at hand is that the House of Cards — once so excellent at juxtaposing the Underwoods’ actions against the reactions of the world around them — has devolved into a one-way street. Early on in the series, the average American had a voice. Not a powerful one, by any means — this was always a show set in Washington, about Washington — but with enough volume and backing that Joe the Plumber’s voice was heard. Through electoral rallies and organized protests, House of Cards‘ America seemed to be filled with individuals that felt and resisted the effects of the fighting of titans in the nation’s capital. Throughout most of Season 2 and all of Season 3, the presence of the American people was reduced to a few meaningless stump speeches and Q&As, empty polls numbers, and the weak, placeholder story of Freddy Hayes and his BBQ joint. The average American’s role in Season 1 was clear and believable — powerless except in numbers, forced to react to the change pushed down from Washington. The average American’s role in Season 3 is unconvincing — the AARP and legion of baby-boomer voters aren’t giving up benefits and the safety net without even a whisper.
I’d be remiss to ignore the one strong arc of Season 3 — the deterioration of the Underwoods’ marriage of ruthless ambition and immoral actions — but I’ve commented very little on the central shift in the relationship between the Underwoods only because my fellow writer has already covered it. Marriage arc aside, it’s clear that House of Cards’ structural integrity is compromised. Somewhere along the way, the show lost sight of what made it so compelling — Season 3 provided much less insight into Frank Underwood’s mind; the muted brevity and infrequency of his monologues coupled with his inability to make progress on any front made Frank seem much less formidable than ever before. Perhaps the most disappointing part of Season 3 was how the show tried, and failed to replicate the personal stories of its debut season. The show tried its best to make Doug Stamper into the prodigal son of Frank Underwood, the next tragic individual caught up in Frank’s cycle of villainous blackmail, violence, and deceit, following in the footsteps of the late Peter Russo. Not that Doug isn’t entire unsympathetic — the grueling rigors of therapy and recovery and Doug’s penchant for Russo-level substance abuse backsliding were more than enough to earn him sympathy, but the enormous amount of screen time devoted to his arc of redemption with Frank and his guilt over Rachel Posner seemed more contrived than authentic. The Zoe Barnes replacements — dry-wit bookwriter Thomas Yates and his eventual lover, white-knight journalist Kate Baldwin — fail to replicate the potent duality of looming threat and intimate confidante that Kate Mara brought to the role of Zoe. Too often since Season 1 has the show introduced barely likable, shallow, minor characters; each one has been a few cards short of a full deck.
In this, and the diverging paths of the Underwoods, the show lost a vital part of Frank Underwood’s character — the humanity that lay beneath the monster. Granted, the audience was never exposed to much of it, but that’s precisely why it was one of the most captivating facets of Underwood’s character. Perhaps it’s wistful thinking at this point to hope for a focus on Frank’s past, but I would be enthralled to see a series of flashbacks, providing at least some direction as to why Francis J. Underwood is the man he is today, and how he set himself upon the path he has been on in the entirety of his screen time. We’ve had scarce hints of it — the obviously poor relationship Frank had with his father, and resentment towards both parents for his status growing up — but the only real glimpse into Frank Underwood’s past came in Season 1, during his visit to his alma mater. Frank’s visit to The Sentinel delves fearlessly into his past, and it’s one of the strongest episodes to date — we see Frank at his most intimate, his most vulnerable, with references to what’s possibly the most honest relationship he’s ever had with a someone other than his wife.
Sooner or later, the show HAS to focus on the past, right? Because now that Frank Underwood is President, seemingly with an inside track towards re-election, what’s left? Is he going to amend the Constitution to get rid of Congress? Walk into the U.N. and declare himself Emperor of the World? To me, that’s the show’s tragic flaw — Frank became President too early in its run to prevent the plot from going stale, and now the show is scrambling to retain its captive audience. In the end, I probably haven’t quit watching the show — House of Cards still has more potential to beguile than most of its contemporary dramas — but as a viewer, one thing is certain: I’m no longer expecting to be dealt the winning hand.
Netflix Love Story 