House of Cards: An Escape From Our Own Political Anxieties

On March 4^th, Netflix released the fourth season of House of Cards, the psycho-political melodrama that helped to cement the streaming service as a veritable media powerhouse, and that heralded the new bingeable content paradigm that has foundationally changed our most basic TV consumption habits.

For years, millions of viewers have watched with fascination, horror, and an unspoken sadistic glee as Frank and Claire Underwood machinate and murder their way to the political mountaintop. It’s difficult to isolate the specific reasons for the show’s tremendous popularity and cultural impact—some of it can certainly be attributed to superlative performances from Kevin Spacy, Robin Wright et al, and to the brooding, dramatic Fincherian cinematographic depiction of Washington D.C. But what seems to keep audiences most engaged with the show is the way it deftly plays off of our suppositions and anxieties about the people who purport to represent us. The show positions D.C. as a kind of ethical Gomorrah, populated by ruthlessly ambitious, amoral opportunists, where the string-pulling takes place far behind the scenes and where the prevailing motivation is self-serving, rather than to selflessly serve. The show’s operating conceit is that our worst fears about Washington’s moral turpitude don’t come close to how bad it really is.

Obviously, rendering our political world like this is an artistic decision. The Washington of House of Cards does not, in all likelihood, much reflect the true nature of our country’s governing apparatus, and most viewers completely understand this. Although there are some synchronicities (this season finds Frank Underwood entrenched in a heated and controversial presidential race, sound familiar?) I would wager that audiences don’t come to the show seeking documentary-caliber verisimilitude. On the contrary, I think that what is so appealing about House of Cards, what keeps audiences watching “just one more episode”, is that it presents a vision of Washington that has something that the real Washington desperately lacks: namely, a feeling that things that happen are explicable, that they make sense, and that someone, even someone as irredeemable as Frank Underwood, is ultimately in control.

 This was true in 2013 when the show premiered, and as Washington has become increasingly unpredictable and obstinately unproductive over the last few years (the bizarre rise of Trump, a polarized congress who sees collaboration as a vice), it has only become truer since. While Frank Underwood is contemptible and probably emotionally disturbed, he is a devastatingly effective politician, and while his schemes are sickening and very often violent, they nearly always achieve their desired goal. Many classify House of Cards as “competence porn”, a type of narrative where audiences derive an almost carnal satisfaction from watching people be exceptionally good at their jobs. It isn’t surprising that an audience would want to get lost in a story where a politician, even a malevolent one, is effectual and adept, and where, despite all of the vagaries of governance, there is always a broader plan at work. Audiences have always looked to art for that which is not readily available to them in their own life, and House of Cards’ imagined Washington, where control can be exercised and problems can be resolved, stands in stark distinction to the gridlocked and beleaguered Washington of our world.

 Season 4 of House of Cards comes at a time where Donald Trump looks exceedingly likely to secure the Republican nomination for president, a development that could conceivably lead to the dissolution, or at least fundamental restructuring, of the Republican Party, and an event that defied the best prognostications from pundits and political officials alike. Trump has been hugely destabilizing, his rise was unpredicted and his success could mean ramifications that change American politics irrevocably. In a political world that is uncertain and, for many, frightening, House of Cards offers some escapist relief. Frank Underwood is a homicidal narcissist, but at least he’s in control.