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After finishing House of Cards, I immediately began reading the sequel novel. About a third of the way in, it hit me why the TV show, the American version, seemed to decline as the seasons ticked by.
You might not expect that a deeper understanding for the Netflix series would be found in the original novels, particularly the part of the TV series after it had thoroughly deviated from the original. In contrast to what I said about the first outing, To Play The King is very much tied in with England’s special form of parliamentarian government. The traditional balance (and the modern urge to upset it) between the royal family and the elected government is integral to the story. Similarly, actual floor actions and system-specific political maneuvering becomes a bigger part of the story. Similarly, that system, which allows the monarch (but really the party in power) to “call an election” (a really strange, and unconstitutional idea, from the perspective of Americans) is, in all its nuance, the key to the main narrative.
At about a third of the way into this second book, it hit me – both what it was that bothered me about the evolution of Frank Underwood and why it had to happen that way. In the early seasons (and in the first book), Francis U. is cleverly working behind the scenes to bring himself to power. The tension is built because we don’t know whether or not he can succeed. And while we know he is a bad person, aren’t we all secretly rooting for this political master to succeed? We feel his success deserved if only because opponents aren’t skilled enough to stop him. As his web grows ever tighter and more intricate, he becomes dependent on his secrecy. It is that fact that no one else appreciates all that he is up to, including murder, that allows him to literally get away with it. If anyone could see the big picture, it would all tumble like a house of cards (Oooooooh!).
The ending of the book represents this frenzied race to keep loose ends from coming unraveled. In the end, he must kill his co-conspirator to avoid it all coming out, and that allows him to achieve his victory. The pieces tumble together and, with nobody even knowing how he did it, he is elected Prime Minister against all odds. The End. Well, not in the original, which I’ll remind you I did not read. In the original, he is found out. One more loose end comes back to bite him and he kills himself rather than endure the humiliation of failure.
The altered ending was necessary to allow for the the world of sequels and second-seasons. The revised ending was, of course, pretty abrupt and before I knew about the rewrite I was puzzled about the plot point. Could someone who seemingly stumbled into power office really endure the coincidence of a young girl dropping dead in his presence? Furthermore, the changed ending takes away the satisfying conclusion to the story arc. Replacing the timeless rise-and-fall tale with, well, just a rise, we now need season upon season of fall. The brilliance of season 1 (or novel 1), as our hero/villain constructed the perfect house of cards, can never really be replicated. As each season adds to the complexity of that house, it becomes less and less stable – a process which does not reflect the political mastery which earned our respect in the first place. Even if Francis retains his power, or even grows it, each new addition degrades what has been built before. The story must progress this way – Francis must, indeed, be planting the seeds of his own destruction. But as each season finds that the house, once again, has not collapsed and instead, while his foundation has been further weakened, he holds on to the reigns of power – we start to feel less led forward and more just endlessly waiting for the inevitable.
If you want Francis to succeed, well… he can’t. His success was built on evil deeds and those must come back to bring him down. Yet, if you want Francis to fail, well, he also can’t do that… because the contract for the next season has already been signed. Eventually, those teen-aged victims of abuse make you wish you’d let him jump off the roof back in season one.
Parliamentary Procedure
One of the tidbits I’ve picked up from reading is the traditional wording that the House of Lords uses to refer to the House of Commons, or vice versa. When legislation or policy has come from outside one’s own legislative body, it is considered impolite to mention that other body directly. Instead, in London, one refers to something that happened in “Another Place.”
Wikipedia implies that this has its roots in long-ago class struggles and conflict between the two bodies. It also extends (important in the plot of the book) to discussions of the monarch; always considered to be off-limits. While this has some Britain-specific aspects to it, the fact is the tradition is also alive here in the States. At least it some legislative bodies, it is considered inappropriate to mention the existence and actions of the Senate while in the House (and vice versa). State Legislatures avoid referring to the Governor or his motives and politics. Euphemisms abound to say anyway that which must not be said – although I don’t know that there is a single, accepted phrase as the English have in “Another Place.” It makes me really like their term.
It is an echo of a time of formality and respect, probably created to avoid a real risk of violence arising from inflamed passions. Within our current political climate – and its ever-growing inferno – it seems quaint to respectfully greet as “my good friends” people whom you quite obviously hate with a passion. Are we about to learn, the hard way, why we need to be nice to even our enemies? Another phrase from the book that struck me involves this reference to others. In a legislative body, English or American, representatives are referred to by title, by home constituency, or as “my good friend,” but are not mentioned by name. In one scene from the book, the Speaker of the House of Commons threatens to “name” an out-of-control member. The text helpfully explains that this would be the beginning of an action of censure and removal. In this particular passage within the book, no one is in fact named, but such things do happen.
In 2009, a (real) member of parliament was “named” for having “disturbed the mace.” Now, normally a procedure involving a violation of the universally-accepted rules of behavior (and mishandling the mace would seem to fall into this category) would be broadly supported by the body. In this case, however, the mace molestation was part of a vigorous political conflict. In the end, the vote on removal was NOT held because, while there were members voting “no,” there was nobody willing to count those votes. If this all sounds absurd, perhaps that is exactly the point. Can you imagine a genocide being sparked by the refusal to tally “no” votes after a person is “named” for dropping a ceremonial mace on an empty bench? I can’t.
Our traditions arose to protect us from our savage natures. Yes it all seems a bit stupid and silly but, even still, we “burn it all down” at our peril.