Of dead dogs and Donald Trump
Oscar Wilde once said that ‘‘Life imitates art.’’ It seemed the wrong way around, given that so much art sought to represent the natural world. But Wilde was right.
Romanticised, figurative, heavily symbolic, the art of his day gave its audience a way of thinking about history, nature, royalty, God. By exalting some things and ignoring others, it helped create and reinforce ways for people to view their lives.
Today our world view is still shaped by our books and paintings, music and films, our TV shows and magazines and the endless churning tide of social media.
But sometimes reality and its reflections become so intermingled, it’s difficult to tell which is which.
American political thriller House Of Cards has so many parallels with current US politics, it’s hard to say where art stops and real life begins.
The entire fifth season was loaded online by its maker, Netflix, a few weeks ago: a feast of high-concept art TV, to be streamed at your leisure. (And for those who haven’t seen it, a spoiler alert is in order at this point.)
Kevin Spacey is chilling as fictional US President Frank Underwood, a corrupt, power-addled narcissist who destroys anyone who dares get in his way. It’s no accident that his initials spell ‘Eff You’. This president’s idea of democracy is a not-so-benevolent dictatorship.
Frank beds, then murders, an inconvenient journalist, he gasses a senator and makes it look like suicide. He takes a leak on his own father’s grave, strangles a dog with his bare hands, has a three-way with his wife and bodyguard.
Spacey has spoken of worrying that Frank was a little too transgressive to be believed. But then he would go home after a long day’s filming, switch on the TV news and find that, if anything ‘‘we didn’t go far enough’’.
And now, season five cunningly mirrors the gruesome Greek tragedy that is the contemporary White House under Donald Trump.
Underwood exploits tragic acts of terrorism to boost his own electoral agenda. When he’s about to be investigated by a senate committee, he ramps up military aggression.
His press secretary lies relentlessly. And as with Trump stacking his inner circle with paid family members, nepotism is rife as Underwood tries to get his wife Claire elected.
Underwood presents himself as the only politician with the courage to do what needs to be done to restore world order.
He lacks, utterly, a moral conscience. If it gets better prime-time coverage to take a captured terrorist to a cabin in the woods and film him being ‘‘killed in action’’, that’s what he will do.
There are divergences from real life, too, of course. Where Trump is slow-witted and inarticulate, Spacey’s Underwood is cerebral and charismatic. Where one man blunders about, only opening his mouth to change feet, the other choreographs every powerplay then dances deftly through the chaos.
But overall, the similarities are striking, and it’s astonishing that much of this series was written before Trump even made it into the presidential hot-seat.
Frank Underwood’s White House is dark and treacherous, populated by autocrats and sociopaths, sabrerattlers and truth-dodgers.
Art imitates life imitates art. House Of Cards is compelling viewing for these troubled times, even when it feels less like a drama and more like a documentary.
American political thriller House Of Cards has so many parallels with current US politics, it's hard to say where art stops and real life begins.