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Well, i finally made it.  I’ve completed another House of Cards marathon.  This one wasn’t as rapid and blitzkrieg-ish as the first or second season was for me (both of which I’m fairly certain I watched in almost one or two sittings… just powering though.)

This season, however, I just kind of got to it as I found the time, on this recent business trip.  I wasn’t watching each episode one after the other, as if I couldn’t look away.  No, this time… it became just a long, awful, grueling slog.  I just wanted to see it through, like having chosen an awful hiking trail, yet not being willing to turn around and head back to the car but instead pushing on to the next shelter or campsite because… well… it’s just something you feel you have to do.

And, as any hiker in that situation can tell you, the mix of feelings and emotions that overcomes you at the end can be gut-wrenching.  This blog post is part of my necessary catharsis.

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Phew… I am done with watching House of Cards.  And I do not just mean in the sense of completing season three.  I am done for good.  Yes, I know they left it (as they so often do) with such a compelling plot point as to coerce people to tune back in next time.  I don’t give a single damn.  Do so if you want to see what happens.  Me… I’m out.

How can I react that way, given the last episode’s breaking updates and everything left on edge?  It’s easy: I no longer give the smallest shit about any of the characters.

Let me explain it this way.  Were I to start viewing season four — for reasons beyond understanding — imagine the first episode were to just be a cold-open set in a hospital or medical center.

[indistinct voices over a tinny PA system, paging some medical tech to another floor, etc]

[camera shot looks through the cracked door of a specialist’s office, as we see her at her desk, looking at files and addressing a character who is out of frame, but clearly seated across from her… the camera pushes in and a tracking shot brings us into the office where the discussion is taking place. There is a severe look on the doctor’s face.]

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Doctor: “I know this comes as a shock.  But we’ve checked it twice.  I’ve even sent one more sample to the Jennings Institute in Atlanta, but at this time we have no indications that they will come back with a different result.  I’m sorry, but the evidence is clear.”

[camera pans down slightly, as to showcase more of the chart in the doctor’s hands.  the top of the image still frames the lower-half of her face, and we see her mouth as she reads the diagnosis]

Doctor: “You have cancer of the AIDS of the eyeballs.  And it’s inoperable.”

Then I imagine the camera makes a rapid yet smooth track toward the doctor’s side of the desk, and pans directly across to reveal seated before her…

ABSOLUTELY ANYONE ON THIS SHOW.

I honestly could not goddamn care.  I have so little empathy, sympathy, or even general interest in ANY of the characters on this show, that my reaction to such horrific and life-changing medical news for them would be a resounding, “meh.”

Remy has eye-AIDS-cancer?  Meh.

Claire has eye-AIDS-cancer? Meh.

Doug has eye-AIDS-cancer? Meh with a side of karma.

President Underwood has eye-AIDS-cancer? Meh with half a chuckle.

Jackie Sharp has eye-AIDS-cancer? Double Meh.

Heather Dunbar has eye-AIDS-cancer? Meeeeeeehhhhhh.

You could put any one of this show’s dozens of characters into that (ridiculously contrived) opening sequence in the very first moments of season four and I would feel utterly nothing at all for them.  The camera could linger on their face.  The highly-trained acting talent of so many quality actors on this program could be aptly applied to the ever-so-subtle slightest microexpression that crosses them.  All of the tremendous production values and talent of the people who are behind this program could be poured into that opening scene.  And I wouldn’t give a single damn at all.

The fact that I don’t care a jot about anything or anyone on this show anymore should come as a relief to me.  I don’t have to watch.  I utterly LOVE cutting TV shows out from my life.  I never got into Breaking Bad.  I’ve written off Mad Men.  I barely bother downloading Family Guy or the Simpsons anymore.  I celebrated the ending of the West Wing.  With each show that ends (or gets the kiss-off from me) I have more free time and I’m thankful.

So why don’t I feel so exuberant now?  Because season three didn’t just turn me off from the future of House of Cards.  It was so underwhelming as to literally taint the previous installments.  The first two seasons were a triumph.  The ending of season two, with Frank behind the desk in the Oval Office, rapping his fist twice on the Resolute wood… that moment was untouchable.  And now, it’s like they’re all just compromised to me.

Ah well, I was raised Catholic.  And before I left the church long, long ago… I learned of the power of self-persuasion and the ability to put on blinders so tightly as to convince oneself of a fiction that you just need to be fact.  Now, I was never one who actually bought into all that bollocks… but maybe, just maybe, if I try hard enough I can forget that season three ever happened.

Hell, if the fans of The Matrix can believe in their hearts that two sequel films never actually took place, maybe with enough will power (or enough whiskey) I could blot out this season from my mind.  And, one day in the future, if someone asks me if I enjoyed House of Cards, I could honestly answer them, “Yes.  It was quite an amazing show, those two fine seasons it was around.  And to end the way they did… with that swelling music score and ghastly foreshadowing of a presidential administration to come.  I’ll never forget that final scene, as we looked right into Kevin Spacey’s eyes and he looked into ours.  Rap Rap! on the desk… smash-cut to black.  A perfect ending to the show that redefined what it meant to distribute new and fresh content in the digital age.”
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(And then if they start to protest and try to say anything about a third season or anything that may follow, I could always Catholic it up just a little bit and stick fingers in my ears, walking away saying, “La la la la la, I can’t hear you, la la la la!”)
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P.S. – Correction.  If for some sadistic reason the writers were to give Old Freddy (the ribs joint fellow) Cancer of the AIDS of the eyeballs, I would feel something.  But I still wouldn’t watch the next season.
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