What are YOU looking at?
The ritual begins with notes on a bass, stealthy as a cat. The darkness lifts and pulls us in with a rush, clouds racing, traffic speeding, lights changing on roads which all lead to a place mightier than Rome ever was. Blue barrels of something toxic-looking sag beside the Potomac. What could it be? Has it always been there? What kind of man marks his attainment of ultimate power by pissing on his father’s gravestone? We want to know. Show us, frame by gorgeous frame. Break the fourth wall of our vibrant Samsung screens. Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits. President Francis Underwood is at his most treacherous when seemingly most frank. He knows the weaknesses of others but has little sense of his own. Already the cracks are showing. We know he is going to fall. But how? And when? Kevin Spacey, justifiably boastful, says House of Cards will run for twelve seasons, a challenge flung in the face of the gods like Philippe Petit stringing a wire between the Twin Towers. In the darkness we will be watching, hungry for the death of the king, as ritual dictates.