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Sep. 25th, 2005 09:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cblj_backupMy goodness, how is it that nobody in either the Discworld or Potter fandoms has informed me of the brilliance of House of Cards? Fans of Vetinari will want to see this film, I guarantee you, and I should think that the Potterfans interested in Voldemort's rise and the politics of it will be intrigued as well. It's rather like The West Wing meets Macbeth, with a vaguely Brechtian twist.
Warning for minor spoilers in review.
***
The BBC miniseries "House of Cards" originally showed up in my Netflix recommendations, I can't recall why -- I think it's because I have a few of the old Sherlock Holmes programs netflixed, oddly enough. It looked like it was right up my alley, actually, so I gave it a go and I've been fairly pleasantly surprised. It concerns the rise to power of a Tory Chief Whip who schemes, blackmails, and eventually murders in his quest to become Prime Minister after the death of Margaret Thatcher (it was made in 1990; the joke is that her death is the only thing which could stop her Ministry).
BBC puts out its share of stinkers, like any network, but when they do a thing well, by god it blows the mind. Granted, I've only seen the first four episodes of twelve -- each set of four is a self-contained part of a trilogy -- but so far it is smooth, funny, dark, occasionally frightening, and always one step ahead of the viewer. It's also highly theatrical and very...well, literate isn't the word I'm looking for, but it'll do. There are verbal and visual references to Macbeth, moments of really interesting humanity in secondary characters, and politics which were, for the time, fairly relevant.
Several times, throughout the series, Francis Urqhart (the hero and master politician masquerading as a mild "back-room boy" for Parliament) turns to the camera and delivers short monologues, self-justifications, jokes and sly commentary on his companions and opponents. It could be a clumsy narrative tool, but instead it's quite a natural movement; he always speaks to the camera as he's walking along or doing other tasks, as if we're somehow a trusted aide who just needs a little information. It's an extremely effective method not only of getting you inside the workings of Urqhart's head, but keeping you there -- making you actually root for him. As an example, at one point in the first volume of the trilogy you believe that he may have just commissioned a murder, and you actually don't want to believe it of him despite seeing all the things he's already been capable of doing. When he actually commits the murder himself, later in the series, it seems like a perfectly natural act at that juncture.
And this is the thing about Urqhart: in the best tradition of likeable villainny, not only does he have reasons for everything he does -- exceptionally good reasons, actually -- he has his own very strict personal moral code as well. He does as much of his dirty work as he can do himself. At one point he actually poses as the Prime Minister's brother in order to implicate them both in a financial scam. Both of the murders he needs done he actually commits himself; he also refuses to outright lie to the young reporter he's managed to bring under his influence. If he cannot answer truthfully, he simply says "you might think that; I couldn't possibly comment" which is invariably read as the answer the reporter is looking for rather than, perhaps, the truth. If you watch House of Cards, there is a point near the end where Urqhart is confronted by his pet journalist and he spends almost the entire scene avoiding answering her questions without appearing to do so. It's simply masterfully done.
It's also oddly erotic, for a political film. There's no explicitly sexual scenes and the raciest it gets visually is one very brief shot of fingers digging into shoulderblades, though later on there's an audio-tape recording played of a terrifically unappealing night of bad sex. What makes the romantic content of the film admirable is that it's not between, say, politicians and their mistresses or the young pet journalist and her (it's only fair to say unattractive) best friend. The sexual axis of the plot is the relationship between Mattie the journalist and Urqhart, who is forty-five if he's a day and not the most attractive of men even if compared to his own age group.
I love that the story is willing to portray Urqhart -- an ascetic, dry, cold, and middle-aged man -- as a sexual figure, and I love that it's Mattie -- a young, pretty, ambitious twentysomething -- who is the seriously fucked up one in the relationship. At the very beginning of their affair (which Urqhart's wife has subtly given permission for) she says she can't possibly call him Francis, because she doesn't think of him that way; instead she tells him that she wants to call him Daddy and their first sexual encounter is based on this moment. The second one that the series shows, though presumably not the second one that occurs, takes place after he upbraids her for misbehaving and scolds her for being an impulsive child. It's not actually erotic in the slightest, but the longer the scene goes on, the more you realise that she's turned on by this. Urqhart knows it too, of course. That's why he did it.
There are some rough spots, it has to be said; Urqhart is so cold and dry that in the single instance he loses control it's not very well done and doesn't quite come off. I was also a little dismayed to see the typically English trope of the drunkard-fuckup-Irishman; in this case of course he's a cocaine fiend and not a drunk, but it's rather unsettling -- especially since he's also the one in an incredibly dysfunctional and abusive interracial relationship, which ends with him deliriously fantasising about taking his girlfriend to see the beautiful coast of Galway in the summertime.
It's also rather restrained and very, very long. Each film in the trilogy is composed of four episodes which are an hour each. This is good, of course, because that means there's a satisfying amount of meat to gnaw on within it, but on the other hand it takes a while to work through even the first part of the trilogy. I have vague doubts that, after the first part, the second and third parts will be able to keep up the pace. And it's definitely not something to sit down and watch if you're in the mood for an American-style action flick or thriller -- there are no explosions, gunshots, screaming women, helicopter rescues, or hidden conspiracies of secret societies. The tension simply slowly ratchets up, notch by notch, as we see everything and, at the same time, see how someone on the outside would percieve it.
Despite these minor flaws, I have to say that if you only rent one Beeb miniseries this year (and honestly, who can only rent one?) make it House of Cards.
Warning for minor spoilers in review.
***
The BBC miniseries "House of Cards" originally showed up in my Netflix recommendations, I can't recall why -- I think it's because I have a few of the old Sherlock Holmes programs netflixed, oddly enough. It looked like it was right up my alley, actually, so I gave it a go and I've been fairly pleasantly surprised. It concerns the rise to power of a Tory Chief Whip who schemes, blackmails, and eventually murders in his quest to become Prime Minister after the death of Margaret Thatcher (it was made in 1990; the joke is that her death is the only thing which could stop her Ministry).
BBC puts out its share of stinkers, like any network, but when they do a thing well, by god it blows the mind. Granted, I've only seen the first four episodes of twelve -- each set of four is a self-contained part of a trilogy -- but so far it is smooth, funny, dark, occasionally frightening, and always one step ahead of the viewer. It's also highly theatrical and very...well, literate isn't the word I'm looking for, but it'll do. There are verbal and visual references to Macbeth, moments of really interesting humanity in secondary characters, and politics which were, for the time, fairly relevant.
Several times, throughout the series, Francis Urqhart (the hero and master politician masquerading as a mild "back-room boy" for Parliament) turns to the camera and delivers short monologues, self-justifications, jokes and sly commentary on his companions and opponents. It could be a clumsy narrative tool, but instead it's quite a natural movement; he always speaks to the camera as he's walking along or doing other tasks, as if we're somehow a trusted aide who just needs a little information. It's an extremely effective method not only of getting you inside the workings of Urqhart's head, but keeping you there -- making you actually root for him. As an example, at one point in the first volume of the trilogy you believe that he may have just commissioned a murder, and you actually don't want to believe it of him despite seeing all the things he's already been capable of doing. When he actually commits the murder himself, later in the series, it seems like a perfectly natural act at that juncture.
And this is the thing about Urqhart: in the best tradition of likeable villainny, not only does he have reasons for everything he does -- exceptionally good reasons, actually -- he has his own very strict personal moral code as well. He does as much of his dirty work as he can do himself. At one point he actually poses as the Prime Minister's brother in order to implicate them both in a financial scam. Both of the murders he needs done he actually commits himself; he also refuses to outright lie to the young reporter he's managed to bring under his influence. If he cannot answer truthfully, he simply says "you might think that; I couldn't possibly comment" which is invariably read as the answer the reporter is looking for rather than, perhaps, the truth. If you watch House of Cards, there is a point near the end where Urqhart is confronted by his pet journalist and he spends almost the entire scene avoiding answering her questions without appearing to do so. It's simply masterfully done.
It's also oddly erotic, for a political film. There's no explicitly sexual scenes and the raciest it gets visually is one very brief shot of fingers digging into shoulderblades, though later on there's an audio-tape recording played of a terrifically unappealing night of bad sex. What makes the romantic content of the film admirable is that it's not between, say, politicians and their mistresses or the young pet journalist and her (it's only fair to say unattractive) best friend. The sexual axis of the plot is the relationship between Mattie the journalist and Urqhart, who is forty-five if he's a day and not the most attractive of men even if compared to his own age group.
I love that the story is willing to portray Urqhart -- an ascetic, dry, cold, and middle-aged man -- as a sexual figure, and I love that it's Mattie -- a young, pretty, ambitious twentysomething -- who is the seriously fucked up one in the relationship. At the very beginning of their affair (which Urqhart's wife has subtly given permission for) she says she can't possibly call him Francis, because she doesn't think of him that way; instead she tells him that she wants to call him Daddy and their first sexual encounter is based on this moment. The second one that the series shows, though presumably not the second one that occurs, takes place after he upbraids her for misbehaving and scolds her for being an impulsive child. It's not actually erotic in the slightest, but the longer the scene goes on, the more you realise that she's turned on by this. Urqhart knows it too, of course. That's why he did it.
There are some rough spots, it has to be said; Urqhart is so cold and dry that in the single instance he loses control it's not very well done and doesn't quite come off. I was also a little dismayed to see the typically English trope of the drunkard-fuckup-Irishman; in this case of course he's a cocaine fiend and not a drunk, but it's rather unsettling -- especially since he's also the one in an incredibly dysfunctional and abusive interracial relationship, which ends with him deliriously fantasising about taking his girlfriend to see the beautiful coast of Galway in the summertime.
It's also rather restrained and very, very long. Each film in the trilogy is composed of four episodes which are an hour each. This is good, of course, because that means there's a satisfying amount of meat to gnaw on within it, but on the other hand it takes a while to work through even the first part of the trilogy. I have vague doubts that, after the first part, the second and third parts will be able to keep up the pace. And it's definitely not something to sit down and watch if you're in the mood for an American-style action flick or thriller -- there are no explosions, gunshots, screaming women, helicopter rescues, or hidden conspiracies of secret societies. The tension simply slowly ratchets up, notch by notch, as we see everything and, at the same time, see how someone on the outside would percieve it.
Despite these minor flaws, I have to say that if you only rent one Beeb miniseries this year (and honestly, who can only rent one?) make it House of Cards.
