“Slamming” is a drug term. Look it up. You’ll have to work at it, since Google is suddenly prudish and hides sexual information that used to be right up front. The sexual/gay/meth version of slamming is easily relevant when dealing [sic] with power. It's also a communication system term. This story is infested with cell phone exchanges. Sometimes the messages appear on your own monitor screen! There’s not much sex, not much violence -- it’s like snakes -- quiet danger. High brow danger that expects the viewer to understand abstract potentials.
Slamming also means switching communication companies without the knowledge of the subscriber. (The Helena IR just subscribed me to their email feed without my invitation or permission, but that's "spamming," right?) "Slamming" is also -- says Google who doesn’t think that excretion is sexual -- a big painful bowel movement. Sounds like a great title for a novel to me, but this is just a little blog post.
When the moral center, the only person who seems to have both understanding and compassion (some understandings only trigger contempt), is a former addict hustler who writes best sellers (or maybe steals some of them -- he tells it both ways). It’s clear that only a non-judgmental listener like him is going to be able to “get” this tale from either of the principals, both of them deeply hidden even from themselves. It is the business of the compassionate whore to get to the center of a person and then use it. Then keep the secret. This is also the task of the honest biographer. If you ask me, it works.
Paul Sparks as Thomas Yates
In this version one character after another develops cracks if not total destruction, like the Jesus corpus that pitches off his cross behind the altar. This narrative is never beyond the cheap laugh: the prez picks up a fragment off the floor and says, “At last I have God’s ear.” And he does. Corny, but his cool at a theology symbol makes a catastrophe funny. And somehow more ominous than if the falling statue had put him in the hospital.
Mermaid under a crystal shower
Pay close attention to the production values. These sets are like aquariums, aquamarine silvery colors with spare set dressing. Not much furniture, mostly sharp-edged leather. The opposite of Victorian excess. The women are light-washed into perfection until they get a bit rucked up by the plot and then their freckles emerge, their eyes clench into wrinkles except for the strange phenomenon of older women with subtly Chinese eyes because of the skin being pulled back by face lifts. On the younger ones, when the lighting goes harsh, we suddenly see their little I-am-not-fertile mustaches from the Pill. As the president loses power, his exquisite dark suits become gray hoodies -- like the ones worn by kids who are street shooters, but high-end. In the end, it is the wife rowing in the boat.
Fly-over country, until there's a election.
Watch the set-dressing paintings hanging on the walls in the “White House”. In Episode Three, they are all landscapes, very few with human figures, not conventionally pretty -- ochre grass, dark trees. Like the prairie landscapes at the end of the series. I’ll not tell you about it -- you deserve one surprise. But it’s clear that this movie is about America and never clearer than when the Russian is there. The Russian is quite Danish, tall and blonde with a heavily boned face -- Putin will love it! But never mind. The faux Putin makes it plain that he is a macho match and just as “ethical” as the US President. And he sees that the same is true of the president’s wife.
Annie Parisse as an Iowan modern mommie dearest
At the end of the season, when we look back in our godlike way, what we have seen in this series was the book that “Thomas Yates” (Paul Sparks) wrote. Or would have written. Still might. A couple as tightly knit as the Starks, but without the beheadings. Instead there are de-soulings. The prom queen finally meets today’s young mother: cynical, narcissistic, considering the murder of her baby on one hand but insisting on breast feeding. People begin to see and walk away from this power couple, even Freddie the rib king. The couple itself goes out of balance. The amorphous but vicious power-hungry man begins to attack and confine the wife who got him to where he is -- “she put me in the White House” -- and it is enough to set her free. He broke the deal. NOW who will fuck him back to sanity when he ends crumpled on the floor?
The argument in the end is about the Third Estate, which I also looked up. (I’m not informed enough to just know this stuff, but I know to look things up.) The Third Estate is a term indicating the ordinary citizens, not the law school graduate power-mongers in Washington DC. The Iowa Caucus and the New Hampshire primaries represent this third element of power. But the writers also nearly do homage to journalism, which is represented as always after the truth on behalf of the Third Estate.
I was amused that one reviewer insulted the biographer supposedly hired by the president with full confidence that he would skate the shiny surface and never be a scorpion. The reviewer clearly wanted the biographer to be a more god-like truth detector instead of just a good listener. The “tell” is that he doesn’t think the bold woman journalist would ever go to bed with a geek like this guy with a shady past. Which sounds more like the reviewer's regret than the character's. So characteristic of critics to be more willing to criticize sexual mojo than writing mojo.
I was amused that one reviewer insulted the biographer supposedly hired by the president with full confidence that he would skate the shiny surface and never be a scorpion. The reviewer clearly wanted the biographer to be a more god-like truth detector instead of just a good listener. The “tell” is that he doesn’t think the bold woman journalist would ever go to bed with a geek like this guy with a shady past. Which sounds more like the reviewer's regret than the character's. So characteristic of critics to be more willing to criticize sexual mojo than writing mojo.
All these complex tales of the city start with aerial shots of the city concerned, but "House of Cards” has the best montage ever. Maybe I just like it because of the familiar graceful monuments -- I love the lions -- or maybe it’s because of the gorgeous progression through days, nights and seasons. I sit quietly and watch the titles, unlike my tendency to multi-task during the obvious parts. The sound track is equally gorgeous and heart-breaking: the distant echoing trumpet, the sorrowing aria.
Phallic or finger?
This vid is the credits titles plus GPS instead of sub-titles, in case you go there. I'm not being funny -- people from the rez are forever going to Washington, D.C.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/special/entertainment/house-of-cards/
People around here can comfortably disavow these characters or maybe claim parts. I would not be surprised if our mayor rapped his ring on the folding table to bring our council meeting to order and ask us to pledge allegiance to the “best country in the world.” But the real power in the room is always female. It's just that we don't much go in for dressing up.
No comments:
Post a Comment