100 Favorite Shows: #98 — House of Cards
“It’s strange how some choices mean nothing and others govern the rest of your life.”
[Disclaimer: Before the sixth season of House of Cards, lead actor Kevin Spacey was fired from the show after multiple allegations were made by men who claimed that Spacey sexually harassed and/or assaulted them when they were underage. This was reported first by Buzzfeed News in an interview with Anthony Rapp.]
House of Cards changed everything. Not so much narratively, though. The story, one of Frank Underwood (Kevin Spacey) rising from majority whip to president in the Washington, D.C. political scene, was not an earth-shattering concept. However, the idea of a series of this caliber (Robin Wright joined Spacey in a lead capacity, as Claire Underwood; David Fincher and Dana Brunetti executive produced) existing on a digital streaming service was nothing short of revolutionary for the medium. (This is true in a way that has still gone unparalleled, save for the way we might see the forthcoming debut of WandaVision.) When former political aide Beau Willimon adapted House of Cards, a BBC miniseries from Andrew Davies in the 1990s (itself based on a 1989 Michael Dobbs novel), many suitors (including HBO and AMC) made a play for the series. Instead, Netflix, never before a creator of original content, outbid every competitor and launched its own programming slate with the political thriller on February 1, 2013. (Every episode was available at once.) After six seasons and 73 episodes, House of Cards concluded in November 2018, having been usurped by grander, real world political scandals and prestige web dramas that improved upon House of Cards’ initial foray. But at the time, House of Cards promised upheaval on television unseen since The Sopranos.
(Significant details from House of Cards are discussed in this essay. Deep spoilers for the show are contained below.)
When Barack Obama defeated Mitt Romney in the 2012 presidential election of the United States, I assumed that politics would never be tumultuous again. In my mind, Obama was the consummate liberal leader with perfect policies, a genial demeanor, and a path for a future that would see Washington, D.C. become the beacon of a near-utopia. Granted, I was only very young. Too young to have had my political innocence shattered by the term “hanging chad,” I believed what I was told and I took to those who were bluer and more charming than the opposition.
Obviously, I’ve learned since then. The election that succeeded Obama-Romney was, of course, one that changed the way anyone from my generation would view politics forever. Steadily, I learned (as I’m sure many did) that politicians are not meant to be our friends. They are meant to work for us and the further we stray from that ideal and the more they work for themselves and their cronies, the less structurally sound our democracy seems to be. (To be clear, I’d still take Obama over Romney every day. I just still dream of a candidate who is perfect.)
Part of what helped me arrive at that point in my relationship with the three branches of the American government was the viewing of House of Cards. While not an entirely accurate or refined depiction of politics in the U.S., House of Cards did go to great lengths in its early seasons to expose politics as it likely is: the ruthless, soulless power grabs from a select few representatives who seek to ingratiate themselves to rule for eternity. Characters are always maneuvering through the political scene with blackmail, bribes, backdoor meetings, and the perpetual exploitation of limitless political loopholes.
On House of Cards, we saw these actions manifest through the characters of Frank and Claire Underwood. Frank began as minority whip in a whisper-by-the-side capacity akin to Othello’s Iago. Over the course of the series, he became more aligned with Hamlet’s King Claudius in the tragedy of his own story. (The fourth wall monologues from Frank resemble asides in Shakespearean drama (though, the writing differs, of course), revealing the true menace behind his southern charm and diplomacy, as well as the fact that we’re helpless to warn anyone from his schemes. “Did you think I had forgotten you?,” his question to us after murdering Zoe Barnes (Kate Mara), lives rent free in my psyche.) Throughout it all, though, he was enabled (and eventually superseded) by Claire, who was a Lady Macbeth for the entire duration of the series.
Looking back on House of Cards, I do feel that the show glorified him and I do recall how I rooted for Frank to defeat all those who challenged him and all journalists who strove to expose his streaks of malice and murder. Conflating early protagonism with heroism, House of Cards also helped to teach me that the character I idolized — simply because his style astonished me — was actually among television’s most deplorable sycophants. By the time Frank was playing “Agar” as a metaphor for his own patterns, I realized that Frank was pathetic before he was ruthless and commanding, but it was too late. I’d been sucked in. Eventually, Spacey’s own crimes in his personal life killed House of Cards (the least meaningful consequence of his actions, I should mention), but I also felt the allure of the show irrevocably destroyed when Donald Trump won the election. Suddenly, I realized that politics weren’t a game and they certainly shouldn’t be entertainment. It was hard to find the merit in a murderer in the Oval Office anymore.
The evil on House of Cards was also boundless. Claire seized control of a clean water initiative after she intimidated an advocate, Gillian (Sandrine Holt), threatening that her child could “wither and die” if she didn’t play ball. As mentioned, Frank literally pushed a journalist in front of a train and staged the murder of Congressman Peter Russo (Corey Stoll) to look like a suicide. It might be dramatic to say, but this sort of behavior led to me raising legitimate questions about the real world operations in D.C. Yes, I still doubt that any politician in the capital is a murderer (unless you count superspreader events). But because of House of Cards (and how appealing Frank is to so many), I always wonder, “What if?”
Much of this lashing out from the Underwoods came about because of how Frank and Claire felt that their generation and their way of politics was dying out. Many of the power grabs have the feeling of two people, desperate to fight for the old guard and threatened by the youth appeal and principles of candidates like Will Conway (Joel Kinnaman). (Even though Conway knew how to play the game in a campaign, he was still stymied by the depths of the Underwoods’ depravity.) Seeing a move towards decency and decorum in a world more equipped to check their behavior than the one they grew up in, Frank and Claire unleashed every weapon in their arsenal once they rose to power. While they invoked the busts and portraits of the White House’s previous occupants to justify their actions, it was clear that their way was bleeding. Soon, they’d be going the same way as the Federalists.
This much was clear from the title of the show, the first bit of information gleaned from the series at all. A house of cards can rise up, yes, but it’s also just as prone to collapsing in on itself.
Initially, the plan of four thirteen-episode seasons (multiplying those numbers results in fifty-two, the amount of cards in a standard deck) was an enticing one for House of Cards, chronicling the dangerous rise and precipitous fall of one Frank Underwood. However, when the Emmys came pouring in, the Netflix popularity piled on, and the air that House of Cards was revolutionary television became more universal, the plan was abandoned. By the end, House of Cards was a shattered, unrecognizable shell of its former self.
Part of the blame also lies upon the creative team. Even though they “abandoned” the — to be fair — rumored plan of fifty-two episodes, they seemed to adhere to it in all other respects, much to the series’ detriment. A Rolodex of cool, star-bound actors and compelling characters was dropped at the front door of the White House for House of Cards. Barnes, Russo, the prostitute under Chief of Staff Doug Stamper’s (Michael Kelly) thumb, Rachel Posner (Rachel Brosnahan), the D.C. journeyman/lobbyist, Remy Danton (Mahershala Ali), Frank’s challenger in the Democratic primaries, Heather Dunbar (Elizabeth Marvel). Each of these characters were so richly engaging and each were absent by the final season, in favor of advisor Mark Usher (Campbell Scott), author Thomas Yates (Paul Sparks), and Senator Cathy Durant (Jayne Atkinson), each of whom were dull and hardly representative of the sort of characters who provided Cards’ initial draw.
Many shows throughout television history have pivoted away from initial plans to dispatch characters when they found how much they popped on screen and how fascinating their stories were written (NoHo Hank on Barry, Jesse Pinkman on Breaking Bad). Tragically, House of Cards never acknowledged this in their own characters and, by the end, it had become “The Doug Stamper Show.” But Doug was entirely beside the point; a show cannot be driven by yes men.
The true turning point, however, was when Freddy Hayes (Reg E. Cathey) departed House of Cards in season four and never returned. Originally the owner of Freddy’s BBQ, Frank’s favorite local eatery, and later the groundskeeper of the White House, Freddy was a charming, grounding presence on the show, even if he lacked any grand arcs of his own. When House of Cards felt comfortable dispatching him away from the narrative, too, it was hard to know what sort of series we were supposed to be yearning for. As one of Frank’s only true friends, Freddy eventually learned of the corruption within the president himself. Frank was left with an even more isolated role in the city and House of Cards felt colder as a result.
I don’t want to downplay my relationship with the series too much, though. After all, this is meant to be an essay celebrating the merits that drew me into the show’s first four seasons in the first place. Yes, House of Cards could be gloriously, egregiously over the top. Yes, it thought it was way cooler than it actually was (they vastly overplayed their hand on Frank’s initials being “F.U.”). But it was also incredibly stylistic and showy with a lovable soap opera element (say what you will about the series, but it never lacked for drama to cook up) that made binge watches incredibly easy. The intro (clips of iconic buildings and riverside trash in Washington scored to an immaculate Jeff Beal theme) evokes a sense of pride in Washington D.C., as well as a David Fincher-esque cinematic quality. House of Cards was always a thrill to sink into, especially when it was hitting its peaks.
Upon this revisit, I found that season four’s “Chapter 45” (the episode title is just a coincidence, I swear) was the last vestige of when I felt House of Cards could still reach moments of greatness. (Considering the bumpy road of season three, the concluding ring tap of the second arc might be a more accurate pinpoint on when House of Cards could’ve sailed into an undeserved (for Frank) sunset.)
In this installment, Dunbar lays out an attack on the Underwood administration, Claire meets with Russia’s president, Viktor Petrov (Lars Mikkelsen, a man perhaps created in a lab to portray a Putin surrogate), over oil drilling in China, and Frank is in surgery for a liver transplant after an assassination attempt. (It’s never a good sign when Frank needs someone’s organ in the city. If Boston is the city on a hill, D.C. is the city under strings.)
When Frank eventually emerges healthily from his surgery, Claire is hardly phased by the news (and it almost seems like she regrets asking about his condition). For her, she sees Frank’s incapacitation as a means for her to prove herself as a capable Commander in Chief figure (V.P. Donald Blythe (Reed Birney) is hardly effectual) and garner more leeway on the international scene with Frank. “Chapter 45” shows us that the increased involvement of Claire in a diplomatic role is needed more by Frank than she ever needs him. All she needs is to use him. For now.
While Frank is in surgery, his opponents also make strides to chip away at his legitimacy and credibility. Heather Dunbar, making one last push for her candidacy and for democracy’s integrity (which is likelier to result in political suicide for her), claims that the law is meaningless to Frank Underwood. Convinced by her campaign manager, Cynthia (Eisa Davis), Dunbar proclaims that she’s the one to topple the house of cards carefully balanced by Frank over the three and a half seasons thus far. “People who care about law need to be president,” Cynthia insists and Dunbar agrees. It doesn’t amount to anything except a blip in Frank’s legacy, one that never faces the justice Dunbar (and many others) deserved.
Crucially, she also acknowledges that the job of the president is not limited to just one person. “The president is the people who work for him,” Dunbar insists, but the same is true for the dwindling ensemble on the series. Frank is only as good as the people supporting his administration as president. Likewise, House of Cards was only as good as the supporting players alongside Spacey and Wright, who were vital to the show, but never the main draws for anyone like me who eventually woke up to their horrific trajectories.
These sentiments were the last vestiges of a series trying to outrun itself. Quickly, the rest of the television world caught up to the House of Cards endeavor and mastered the format better than Frank Pugliese and Melissa James Gibson (trying admirably) were able to when they took over for Willimon, who departed after the fourth season. Instead “Chapter 45” was remarkable because it returned to the heart of the series, rather than striving to top itself on a grander scale. The center of the installment revolves around Frank’s hallucinations of Barnes and Russo, tormenting him throughout a surreal version of the White House.
In these scenes (a welcome return for two of the series’ best characters, who’d been removed since the first episode of season two), it’s shown that even the ignoble Frank Underwood could be haunted by his actions. Even though he was conscious of his degeneracy, Frank still chose to never change and only grow worse with each passing season. It is not the inherent ability to feel trauma that defines Frank and his legacy, though; it’s the choice he made to perpetuate evil at every stage of his life, even when he always knew better and felt the reminders of those villainous consequences.
When he’s concerned with the outcome of his actions, it’s because the consequences would be dire for him, not for those affected by the havoc left in his wake. The same is true for Spacey, who continues to skirt responsibility and win over the loyalty of whatever supporters of his remain (in the form of bizarre YouTube recreations of Frank Underwood). Guilt and remorse can be felt, but eventually, those are feelings that are chosen by the worst in our world. And so, it became harder and harder to distinguish between the two— until the house of cards came tumbling down upon them both.
