A couple of weeks ago, I argued that our relationship with television has become dysfunctional: We’re dragging ourselves through shows that we don’t like or that aren’t actually any good, because we’ve become convinced that we owe it to them.
In the time since, one of the primary examples of this sort of show has returned. In its fourth season, “House of Cards,” Beau Willimon’s portrait of a scheming first couple and the people who stand in their way, is the same old fraud it has always been.
There are all sorts of things about “House of Cards” that make it look like the sort of show that we should take seriously. It’s got a stacked cast, from Kevin Spacey, who was one of the first movie stars to cross over to television, to Molly Parker, whose work on “Deadwood” was the kind of contribution that made television seem like an attractive medium for serious actors. The series has David Fincher, another glossy movie name, attached as an executive producer, though he hasn’t directed an episode since the first season. “House of Cards” has a rich, if cold, house style; everything in the series seems to happen in the dead of night, or in rooms that have never been touched by the sun. It’s got sex, it’s got violence, it’s got all sorts of references to arcane policy issues and it’s got cynicism by the truckload.
But, in fact, these very things that disguise “House of Cards” as prestige television — more importantly, as good television — actually strip it of its power to say anything very significant or even to make rudimentary amounts of sense. The series is revolted by the conventions of soap opera, but its persistent soberness means that its elaborate plot twists often end up making its characters look stupid.