House of Cards Isn’t Joy Anymore
Over the long weekend, I spent a duo of hours on a few scenes of Baggage , the debilitatingly entertaining early-2010s GSN series hosted by a goofier, devil-may-care version of Jerry Springer. In the series, the premise is that a person picks out a fresh date from three possible choices by grappling with deep dark secrets about each of them; they determine whose sordid “baggage” they can best treat. The metaphorical baggage is, magnificently, encased in literal baggage-silver suitcases that the potential dates open to expose their vices. As the metaphorical baggage gets worse, the luggage gets thicker. The irony, however, is that it’s the weirder, smaller issues that often resonate most strongly on the display, even after larger baggage is exposed; it is, after all, the intel that gargles you into the scene. Somehow, the moment in which one anemic-looking youthfull man had to expose a placard reading “I Eat Weeds” was more earth-shattering and memorable than imagining the woman he was ultimately paired with totaling two cars in fits of rage, even tho’ the latter was meant as the coup de grâce of the scene.
The gripping, visceral appeal of Baggage came to mind as I binged on more television two days later: namely, the brand-new fifth season of House of Cards . It’s also a demonstrate about metaphorical baggage, tho’ it would not be surprising if any character found a literal skeleton in their closet. Five seasons in, the murderous and treasonous Frank Underwood’s baggage has gotten as big as it can possibly get, but it’s still his very first wave of crimes and his power-hungry obsessiveness from the series’ very first few seasons that still loom largest. While he now has the power to embark a world war, his earlier crimes and the deeds around them felt much, much fatter. In every fresh gig this season, Frank and Claire Underwood rapidly enact complicated, four-dimensional-chess skullduggery and come out on top, or at least, still dangling onto their power, however tenuously. The rhythm is hyperactive, abruptly, and the stakes are phat in scale, since the Underwoods-incumbent presidential candidate and potential vice-president, respectively-are now directly controlling the highest levels of the American government, rather than puppeteering those who do.
Rather than all the Iago-esque, congressional maneuvers taking place behind closed doors, the demonstrate demonstrates the public Francis Underwood edging closer to the private Francis Underwood, as his every amoral secret menaces to come to light. He’s now a public tyrant: hated by multitudes, playing to the fears of a paranoid nation by storming in on Congress sessions and calling the Republican party (yes, everything is strangely backward) too chickenshit to go fight “terror” with terror. His scapegoat, tediously, is always ICO, the show’s dirty proxy for ISIS, which he can use to cover up his individual scandals and engineer hacking operations for his campaign’s benefit.
In the show’s humorless attempts to evoke the modern political climate, the continuity and the humanistic appeal of this display that originally made it all-too-addictive has been displaced. The show’s early David-Fincher-esque slow-burn intrigue is gone; the only element of the producer-director’s style that remains is his shadowy, graceful, slightly seamy aesthetic. What used to be awesome about House of Cards was the way Frank Underwood played the long game, but now the elaborate maneuvers happen in a few hurricane half-scenes peppered with characters whose names we can’t recall (Aidan Macallan, the NSA stud who plays a large role this season, may well require a Google-search refresher ). There is less time for Frank to address the camera outside of throwing us an ironic stare which always represents, redundantly, “I know what I’m doing.” When the sardonic, fourth-wall-breaking monologues come, they are dumber than ever: Lighting a fire in the Oval Office fireplace becomes a would-be ominous metaphor for wreaking political havoc, and there’s a lengthy, on-the-nose explanation of “flippism,” a philosophy of making every decision based on the roll of a coin.
The clandestine exchanges inbetween Frank and Claire feel like retoolings of scenes from other seasons, their cryptic wee-hours capitulations by now boilerplate. Their unfailing commitment to their collective mission feels increasingly cartoonish and unlikely, and the one-liners … well, there’s a bit about “One nation, Under-wood” that basically sums up the level of quality control. Meantime, the show’s most crucial and most human characters from last season, Remy Denton (Mahershala Ali, who has better things to do now ) and Jackie Acute (Molly Parker), are absent, and Joel Kinnaman’s PTSD-afflicted Republican candidate character and his more level-headed wifey Hannah ( Dominique McElligott ) can’t make up for the crevice they left.
Frank Underwood and, of course, his self-sacrificing fixer Doug Stamper (Michael Kelly) are accruing fatter, more illegal undertakings in every scene in Season five of House of Cards , but even their villainous partnership has flagged. Their most insidious secrets are still the most significant, emotionally palpable ones: the murders of Zoe Barnes (Kate Mara) and Peter Russo (Corey Stoll), and, increasingly, Rachel Posner (Rachel Brosnahan). Scheming is a way of life, and on the display these days, it’s often as boring as it is hard to believe. Instead House of Cards seems to be banking on its audience’s perception of its surface-level plot elements being topical and of the real world’s political climate; in addition to ICO, you can look forward to a Wikileaks dump this season, and even a travel ban (The series’ fresh showrunners, Frank Pugliese and Melissa James Gibson, claim that the season was entirely conceived before Trump won the election.) But still, much like last season, these elements feel like bulletpoints-detached signifiers that are only superficially relevant to anything in our contemporary practice. The entire thing is further undermined by the fact that House of Cards still takes place in a fantasy world where everyone in American politics is well-educated and preternaturally intelligent, a thing that has never been less true than it is now.
House of Cards Season five Isn t Any Joy, SPIN
House of Cards Isn’t Joy Anymore
Over the long weekend, I spent a duo of hours on a few scenes of Baggage , the debilitatingly entertaining early-2010s GSN series hosted by a goofier, devil-may-care version of Jerry Springer. In the series, the premise is that a person picks out a fresh date from three possible choices by grappling with deep dark secrets about each of them; they determine whose sordid “baggage” they can best treat. The metaphorical baggage is, magnificently, encased in literal baggage-silver suitcases that the potential dates open to expose their vices. As the metaphorical baggage gets worse, the luggage gets thicker. The irony, however, is that it’s the weirder, smaller issues that often resonate most strongly on the showcase, even after larger baggage is exposed; it is, after all, the intel that deepthroats you into the gig. Somehow, the moment in which one anemic-looking youthful man had to expose a placard reading “I Eat Weeds” was more earth-shattering and memorable than imagining the woman he was ultimately paired with totaling two cars in fits of rage, even however the latter was meant as the coup de grâce of the scene.
The gripping, visceral appeal of Baggage came to mind as I binged on more television two days later: namely, the brand-new fifth season of House of Cards . It’s also a demonstrate about metaphorical baggage, however it would not be surprising if any character found a literal skeleton in their closet. Five seasons in, the murderous and treasonous Frank Underwood’s baggage has gotten as big as it can possibly get, but it’s still his very first wave of crimes and his power-hungry obsessiveness from the series’ very first few seasons that still loom largest. While he now has the power to commence a world war, his earlier crimes and the deeds around them felt much, much thicker. In every fresh gig this season, Frank and Claire Underwood rapidly enact complicated, four-dimensional-chess skullduggery and come out on top, or at least, still draping onto their power, however tenuously. The rhythm is hyperactive, all of a sudden, and the stakes are yam-sized in scale, since the Underwoods-incumbent presidential candidate and potential vice-president, respectively-are now directly controlling the highest levels of the American government, rather than puppeteering those who do.
Rather than all the Iago-esque, congressional maneuvers taking place behind closed doors, the showcase demonstrates the public Francis Underwood edging closer to the private Francis Underwood, as his every amoral secret menaces to come to light. He’s now a public tyrant: hated by multitudes, playing to the fears of a paranoid nation by storming in on Congress sessions and calling the Republican party (yes, everything is strangely backward) too chickenshit to go fight “terror” with terror. His scapegoat, tediously, is always ICO, the show’s filthy proxy for ISIS, which he can use to cover up his individual scandals and engineer hacking operations for his campaign’s benefit.
In the show’s humorless attempts to evoke the modern political climate, the continuity and the humanistic appeal of this demonstrate that originally made it all-too-addictive has been displaced. The show’s early David-Fincher-esque slow-burn intrigue is gone; the only element of the producer-director’s style that remains is his shadowy, graceful, slightly seamy aesthetic. What used to be extraordinaire about House of Cards was the way Frank Underwood played the long game, but now the elaborate maneuvers happen in a few hurricane half-scenes peppered with characters whose names we can’t recall (Aidan Macallan, the NSA dude who plays a gigantic role this season, may well require a Google-search refresher ). There is less time for Frank to address the camera outside of throwing us an ironic stare which always represents, redundantly, “I know what I’m doing.” When the sardonic, fourth-wall-breaking monologues come, they are dumber than ever: Lighting a fire in the Oval Office fireplace becomes a would-be ominous metaphor for wreaking political havoc, and there’s a lengthy, on-the-nose explanation of “flippism,” a philosophy of making every decision based on the roll of a coin.
The clandestine exchanges inbetween Frank and Claire feel like retoolings of scenes from other seasons, their cryptic wee-hours capitulations by now boilerplate. Their unfailing commitment to their collective mission feels increasingly cartoonish and unlikely, and the one-liners … well, there’s a bit about “One nation, Under-wood” that basically sums up the level of quality control. Meantime, the show’s most crucial and most human characters from last season, Remy Denton (Mahershala Ali, who has better things to do now ) and Jackie Acute (Molly Parker), are absent, and Joel Kinnaman’s PTSD-afflicted Republican candidate character and his more level-headed wifey Hannah ( Dominique McElligott ) can’t make up for the fuckhole they left.
Frank Underwood and, of course, his self-sacrificing fixer Doug Stamper (Michael Kelly) are accruing fatter, more illegal undertakings in every scene in Season five of House of Cards , but even their villainous partnership has flagged. Their most insidious secrets are still the most significant, emotionally palpable ones: the murders of Zoe Barnes (Kate Mara) and Peter Russo (Corey Stoll), and, increasingly, Rachel Posner (Rachel Brosnahan). Scheming is a way of life, and on the display these days, it’s often as boring as it is hard to believe. Instead House of Cards seems to be banking on its audience’s perception of its surface-level plot elements being topical and of the real world’s political climate; in addition to ICO, you can look forward to a Wikileaks dump this season, and even a travel ban (The series’ fresh showrunners, Frank Pugliese and Melissa James Gibson, claim that the season was entirely conceived before Trump won the election.) But still, much like last season, these elements feel like bulletpoints-detached signifiers that are only superficially relevant to anything in our contemporary practice. The entire thing is further undermined by the fact that House of Cards still takes place in a fantasy world where everyone in American politics is well-educated and preternaturally intelligent, a thing that has never been less true than it is now.