Zero Tolerance For Betrayal: Character Development and the rise of the Villain as Protagonist in House of Cards

Many storytelling aficionados will tell you that there is only one type of story that can be told, and that's one that revolves around conflict. An often heroic protagonist sets out on a quest to achieve a worthwhile goal, finds him or herself up against lots of obstacles and barriers along the way, finally achieves said goal, and in the end becomes richer from the experience. But as long as there have been stories, somewhere in the margins of popularity there has always existed a curiosity an interest with the opposite side of the story; what about the person setting the obstacles? Who really is this villain with their own devilish agenda?

Since arriving on screens in 2013, House Of Cards has not only revolutionised entertainment viewing with it's online presence and brought a new level of quality to the televisual medium - it has also served up one of the greatest televisual villains ever brought to the screen. Kevin Spacey's portrayal of the ruthless Machiavellian politician Frank Underwood has landed the character as an exceptionally reputation of the most memorable and questionable protagonists, a power-hungry man who will spare almost no cost in his acquisition of power. The obvious problem on the surface here, of course, is one the availability of relation; a viewers primary demand in consuming a piece of film or television is usually a request for the ability to sympathise and associate with the protagonist whose story they follow. But when it comes to House Of Cards, Frank's goals, and the means by which he seeks to accomplish them, are largely questionable and for the most part deplorable. So what is it that makes Frank so appealing?

When we first meet Frank his position as power-hungry as quickly made apparent; in the first two minutes he addresses the audience, stating that he has 'no patience for useless things,' before unhesitatingly strangling a wounded animal. From his rejection from the position of Secretary of State in the first episode he is established as an underdog in the world that he resides; while the title of House Majority Whip in the White House certainly isn't something to be disregarded, in the grand scope of Washington's political backdrop it is still a fair reach from his goal of the presidency and this could be where the viewers sympathy resides. We like to see an underdog seeking ascension. However, it could be something with deeper association than this. Frank's motivation for such a series of actions is one of revenge - he feels betrayed because he has been lied to and a promise denied from him, and viewer association could very easily lie here. In such an case, many people would feel a need for revenge, but few would act on it. Because of this, House Of Cards becomes a deliciously watchable show due to the pleasure of seeing acts of revenge and indulgence carried out.

Of course, with his place as a villain, one of the primary things to consider with regards to his character is development. In typical fiction, villains are the unshakable, the unchangeable and the unmoveable in their evil attributes, because that's the requirement for the existence of conflict. With an absence of a bad guy there's no conflict, and without conflict there's no story, which is why the bad guy must remain unchanged. But what about Frank's place as the villainous protagonist? In the true nature of the villain, he doesn't necessarily develop in the same fashion as an heroic protagonist, and this raises some interesting points with regards to traditional literary exposition and what takes the place of character development. Frank doesn't grow characteristically richer from the experience; he has one thing on his mind, and that's the acquisition of power. Instead of development we are presented with reactions and revelations. How does Frank react to discovering that he has to pin a medal onto the chest of the man who raped his wife decades ago? The answer would have been a fit of inexorable rage and violent political scandal had Clare not prevented him from doing anything. What does this reveal? It reinforces the fact of his loyalty towards Clare, as well as revealing that he is willing to throw away reputation and success in order to purge the dark side of his protective nature towards his wife. In Frank's world there is little development; only the Machiavellian state of mind that he possesses (or possesses him) and the way it makes him react, feeding us the steady reveal of the character.

Of course, to find villainous a wealth of memorable villainous protagonists, one needs to look no further than Shakespeare's bibliography. In particular, Othello's primary 'antagonist', Iago, reigns true as one of the most memorable villains in Shakespeare's work, not simply for his motiveless actions, but because of his primacy within the play; many critical discussions of Othello are very much based around the argument that Othello should have in fact been titled Iago due to the villains central nature within the plot. In this sense, it would appear that the prevalence of a villainous protagonist is one that has existed not only recently but for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. Even today the concept of the villain as protagonist is one that can be throughout contemporary television. Only last year did Vince Gilligan's masterwork Breaking bad come to a spectacularly conclusive ending, closing the tale of mild-manner teacher turned drug-lord Walter White, portrayed by none other than Bryan Cranston. In contrast to Frank, though, character development is indeed a prevalent aspect of Breaking Bad, if not the shows central factor; Walter White's steady transition to the egotistical full-form of Heisenberg will unquestionably go down as one of the most ingenious executions of character development on television, as the well-intentioned heroic protagonist turned into a destructive pseudo-monster before the viewerships' eyes.

The questions that arise from the intertwined topics of the protagonistic villain and the inclusion of character development are extensive and depthful. Frank's place as a protagonist with absolutely no intention of developing is as captivating to observe as is a protagonist who experiences well-executed development, but it appears that, for now, the villain hell-bent on making it to the top and maintaining his place there is unlikely to change his ways anytime soon.

Outsider to the Outsiders: Was Charles Bukowski Really a Beat Writer?

To the Beats he was an outsider. To the rest of society he was a freak. But regardless of the number of insults and derision's that can thrown his way, there's one thing that can't be denied when it comes to Charles Bukowski: he was the real deal. Born in Germany and raised in Los Angeles to parents that he grew to rightfully loathe, Bukowksi relied on only himself for the duration of his life. The story of his life is one that is both hilarious and tragic, largely documented in his poetry and collected works. He wasn't one of the young and prolific; he finally took up writing full-time at the age of 49, starting and completing his first novel in less than a month. Before his death at the age of 73, brought on by a lifetime of drinking and smoking, he had published six novels and over sixty collections of poetry. These figures alone are unquestionably impressive.

His works were largely autobiographical, documenting his experiences in the underbelly of Los Angeles during the time of the Beat Generation. But despite the obvious themes and topics that his writings covered, he was all the same a little late to the twenty-year long party occupied by the likes of Ginsberg, Kerouac and Burroughs, if he was even present at all. His disciples and detractors are more prominent today than they ever, and there are commentators existing on both sides of the fence; one side argues that he was a genre all on his own - whether this equates to him being on a higher level than the Beats or not - and the other argues that he was indeed one of them, despite having limited contact with any of the primary writers typically associated with the Beat Generation. So where did Bukowski really belong?

The first thing that needs to be considered is the most basic questions; what did the Beats stand for? When the likes of Kerouac, Cassidy and Ginsberg come to mind, their reported experiences follow closely behind. They refused to adhere to the distorted values of the post-war United States, throwing off traditional ideals and portraying humanity and all of it's vices with a plain and poetic honesty. From these criteria alone Bukowski can be classed amongst the Beat writers. Almost all of his work portrays a grisly and often painfully honest view of the dark side of post-war America, his autobiographical escapades commonly following themes of alcohol-wridden sickness, the strangers of the night, and downright deranged sexual encounters throughout Los Angeles.

However, for all his anti-establishmentism, one trait the Beat Movement conveyed was a sense of unity. While Kerouac and Ginsberg remained lifelong friends alongside Burroughs, one of Bukowski's most well-known and prominent traits was his self-imposed loneliness. It's evident from Ham On Rye, his largely autobiographical novel following the childhood, adolescence and early adulthood of his alter ego Henry Chinaski, that Bukowski had suffered a psychologically tormenting childhood that resulted in a serious case of lifelong misanthropy and an absolute distrust of every human but himself. Reading Ham On Rye is an evocative and heartbreaking experience to say the least and secures him as an outsider in the world.

Even the previously mentioned central characters of the Beat Generation, many of whom he may have potentially been able to relate to on some level, remained at a distance from him. Bukowski expressed little to no admiration for them, aside from the occasional member such as Neal Cassidy. Cassidy himself was one of the more rebellious of the group, a characteristic exhibited prominently in Kerouac's magnum opus On The Road, and likely the primary reason for his admiration. They bore countless similarities; a lust for drink, a working class background and a devil-may-care attitude that landed them both in hot water on countless occasions.

The conclusion to Bukowski's inclusion amongst the Beats seems to exist as a technicality; while exhibiting the typical literary and personal traits of the Beats movement, such as his rebellious nature, a distaste for the establishment and an affliction for alcohol, he remained at a distance from the primary figures of the generation, effectively an outsider to the outsiders. Online forums are rife with arguments both for and against Bukowski's inclusion as a Beat writer, slating and commending his works back and forth, and as long as people continue to read his works there can be little doubt that this argument will continue infinitely. But the fact that there is debate at all confirms one thing; good or bad, Bukowski's legend is here to stay.

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug (2013) - Review

The Desolation of Smaug is a welcome step up from the trilogy's first installment, although it's still missing a few vital qualities.

With the second installment in Peter Jackson's The Hobbit Trilogy, The Desolation of Smaug picks up shortly after the first ended, as we see the party carrying on with their journey to the Lonely Mountain. First and foremost, and to put it plainly, this is a much better film than the first. Jackson seems to have put his feet firmly on the ground with this one, and it's a great ride to take.

Live Bait Through Dead Weight: Against the Criticism of the Governer-centric episodes of the Waling Dead, and Why They are Entirely Necessary

In 2010 NBC cancelled the once popular serial TV show Heroes, which, for all those who can't remember or didn't watch, followed the adventures and misadventures of a group of individuals who wake up to find that they have each have superpowers. The programme was part television drama, part action comic, and kept it's viewers hooked with the kind of episodic cliffhangers typical of your standard Spanish soap opera. One of the shows primary characters was the emotionally sensitive and lovable Peter Petrelli, presumed dead at the end of Season 1. But during the final moments of the long awaited Season 2 premiere, we saw him chained up, shirtless and with a brand new haircut, chained up by his wrists and shipment container in Ireland. Which was kind of mind-blowing to my 14 year-old self, seeing as the show was primarily set in New York. Then the episode ended, and by the time the next episode rolled around I was on the edge of my proverbial seat to find out, but the following episodes dragged on like crazy, revealing effectively nothing.

Flashforward six years and here we are with two Governer-centric episodes of The Walking Dead that have dragged us away from the main storyline in the prison. It's obvious why this has infuriated a lot of people; when we saw the Governer overlooking the prison in Episode 5 I wanted to jump ahead and find out what was going to happen straight away - what would he do? Was someone going to die? Probably. But here's why these two episodes had to happen, and it manifests in a single word:

Conflict.

Since the season premiere we've seen the increasing threat of zombies making their way into the prison, and Rick and Carl did a mighty fine job of staving off any potential threat by mowing them down video-game style. We've also had sickness and an absence of food. But what we now need is a new threat to provide excitement, and the writers have duly supplied that. The story needs conflict. Something has to be posing a threat to the characters, otherwise it turns into just another run of the mill soap opera, like the ones I previously mentioned, where we as the audience are fed weekly scenes of various characters conversing about deep philosophical issues, or something else faux-profound. Something has to threaten their safety and their livelihoods, and that thing has just stepped in.

Look, I'm not saying that the last two episodes have been great. Heck, Live Bait was one of the dullest hours of my life, only saved by the adverts in between that allowed me some time to get another cup of coffee to keep me awake through the thing. Dead Weight was something of a step up, seeing as it pretty confidently leads onto more prison-centric antics.

On a further note, these episodes were necessary in providing a basis for the Governer's return as the epitome of conflict. What I mean is, if he had returned as he did at the end of Episode 5, emerging from the forest and ready to serve as the primary villain, it would've been so terribly contrived and desparate that I probably would've lost even more faith in the show. There had to be some basis, some further backstory concerning 'Brian' and what he's been up to, rather than just introducing him as an excuse for something to happen.

Indeed, while these last two episodes haven't exactly been some of the best, or the most entertaining or the most well-made, they were unquestionably necessary in the longer run of things. There just better be a big pay-off of entertainment factor in the midseason finale.

Thomas Pynchon, as told by Paul Thomas Anderson; Why the Inherent Vice adaptation will be Excellent

When it comes to Thomas Pynchon, there isn't being in the know and being out of it. There's just the legend of the man/etherreal being himself, and the literature that follows in his wake.

Thomas Pynchon is an author originating in New York... Allegedly. He's published several works intermittently over the past fifty years, the most prominent of which is undoubtedly his magnum opus Gravity's Rainbow, a 900-page, 300,000 word doorstopping behemoth of a novel that spat in the face of literary convention and, in doing so, is now regarded as one of the greatest novels ever written since World War II. But when it comes to the author himself, Pynchon is nowhere to be found. Since 1963 he has successfully evaded the world's press, and as a result there is little to no evidence - aside from his works and the odd youthful picture/paparazzi shot - that he even exists. Some have even suggested that Pynchon may be a group of people writing under a pseudonym, as opposed to a single  man.

Speculation aside, in recent years Pynchon has been considered by many as having scaled down the scope of his works, much in the same fashion as fellow New Yorker Don Delillo. His two most recent novels, Inherent Vice and Bleeding Edge, still utilise a vast array of characters and motifs in their execution, ones that would in fact send most other authors reeling in confusion, but they still haven't matched up to what could be considered as Pynchon's golden age.

One of the most shocking revelations that recently came forward concerning the author was that his novel, Inherent Vice is soon to be adapted by none another than Paul Thomas Anderson himself, director and writer of There Will Be Blood, Boogie Nights and The Master, as well as several other works of outstanding cinema. This is indeed an important event; it's the first occasion on which a Pynchon novel will be adapted for the screen, and you'd be hard pressed to find a better person to pull that off than Anderson. There are a multitude of reasons as to why optimism is a given when it comes to this project.

1. Pynchon himself has (allegedly) approved the script.

This is a rumour that's been circulating for months, and it's just as likely to be credible as not. Pynchon and Anderson have been in contact and Pynchon himself has read the script and given it his blessing. As an aged and seasoned veteran (he celebrated this 76th birthday this year) Pynchon is unlikely to pass on giving his opinion on the script that will provide the basis for his first cinematic adaptation, and if the author himself approves the script you can be pretty sure that it's of a high quality.

2. Joaquin Phoenix will be portraying the lead.

As previously mentioned, Inherent Vice is, at it's heart, a detective story. It's protagonist, Larry 'Doc' Sportello, is a withered pothead, and he'll be portrayed by Joaquin Phoenix, teaming him up on a second consectutive occasion with Anderson after 2012s The Master. Phoenix is renowned for immersing himself in the roles that he takes on, and since production ended earlier this year footage from an extra on the set has emerged of Phoenix in full-Sportello-attire. And it just so happens to be here...

3. Anderson is seemingly immune to failure.

Since Boogie Nights Anderson has repeatedly proved himself to be an exceptional writer/director. His works often have a tendency to examine as well as present, rather than simply the former, and that's what Inherent Vice is all about. It's Pynchon's tribute to 60s and 70s Los Angeles, and all the hedonistic activity that came with it. Anderson is more than adept at examining specific periods in time, as we've already seen his great takes on 1950s post-war America and the turn of the century oil-boom.

'What Does I.T. Really Stand For?'; The Brilliance of The IT Crowd, and why Graham Lineham's Comedy is So Important

There's a marked and primary difference between American and British sitcoms. Most, when asked, would probably say it's the humour, which is a valid point, but not the one I'm aiming at. Others might say that there tend to be more American sitcoms than British ones overall, and they often tend to be more successful, and again this is a great point, but I'm thinking of something else. And that's quality over quantity.

Both American serials and dramas tend to have something of an obsession with the number 20 through 25, because this is often the episode count for a season of production. On the other hand, British shows often only run for six or seven episodes, nine or ten at the most, and while the reason could be pegged to America having a more dedicated platform for media production, I would argue that it's the precedence of quality over quantity in the televisuals that they produce, and one man is at the forefront of this; Graham Lineham.

Graham Lineham - or 'Glinner' to much of his fan base - is the mastermind behind several of the most iconic and popular sitcoms in British television. His career broke out into the limelight in 1995 upon the release of his first full length television series, Father Ted. The sardonic show focused on the exploits of the eponymous Father Ted Crilly and the other larger than life inhabitants of his house on Craggy Isle, a remote and somewhat desolate Irish island seemingly cut-off from the rest of civilisation. Over the last eighteen years it has gone on to become one of the most enduring sitcoms in British televisual history, outlasting just about all of its ilk, and is still broadcast routinely to this day. Shortly after the close of his first hugely popular creation, Lineham's Black Books closely followed. Debuting in 2000, the show ran until 2004 for three hugely successful series, following the obscure day-to-day life of borderline psychotic bookshop owner Bernard Black and his friends Manny and Fran.

With the pre and post millennium-turning sitcom era over, it could have been assumed that Glinner's time as a creator of sitcoms was well and truly over, especially after two such popular television shows. But then, in 2006, Lineham returned with his third concurrent sitcom success. Despite getting off to something of a slow start, The IT Crowd became one of the most popular and iconically relevant programmes in recent years. The premise was simple, and brilliantly so; it followed the employees of the IT department of multi-billion dollar company Reynholm industries, who are confined to an office in the basement. The department is singularly composed of workshy Roy, socially inept genius Moss, and relationships manager Jen, and follows their day-to-day experiences doing the occasional oddjobs for the computer-oblivious workers upstairs, all the while coping with their prodigious ability to get into overwhelmingly awkward and overtly embarrassing situations.

The show succeeds on so many inimitable levels within it's medium. The actors and the characters they portray aren't the make-up drenched type that you'd expect from US production; while they're all very much likable, Moss and Roy are frequently social victims to their line of work and the awkwardness that comes with it, and Jen is, at one point, referred to as 'looking a bit like a man.' That said, the 'beautiful' people tend to exist in the world above, inhabiting the upper floors of the Reynholm Industries building, while the overlooked IT department are confined to the basement; quite literally basement dwellers, in the vein of the stereotyped dungeons and dragons players - an entire episode of which the show is based around. Of course, the characters wouldn't break free so brilliantly from their basic archetypes without one of the shows most important and excellent production aspects, and that's the writing. It's been remarked in the past by Chris O'Dowd that if he phrased a line differently to how it was written in the script, that would be the end of the take; Lineham's writing is careful and minutely controlled, and the comic timing with which the actors execute their lines adds all the more to the sheer presence of apparent quality in the writing and timing of the shows various plots.

However, what separates the IT Crowd most of all from its American sitcom counterparts is Lineham's creative control over it. His admirable quote on ending the series was that he 'didn't want to have the brain be dead but the body still rolling around on the floor.' On the 27th September, just two weeks ago, the show ended with a one-hour special, that being it's 25th episode, tying up the characters stories and bringing it to the close that it very much deserved. Where many sitcoms have a tendency to plow on based on ratings alone, regardless of artistic merit or the quality of production - I'm looking at The Big Bang Theory here, particularly - Lineham chose to end the IT Crowd despite consistently increasing ratings, an original and great premise and a dedicated fan base. It came to an end with its dignity intact and the knowledge that it was smarter than just about all other recent sitcoms.

If you were to watch all 25 episodes it would only take you around 10 hours, likely a little less than that, but those ten hours would be some of the most enjoyable television you could experience in this modern age. The episodes premises frequently revolve around the themes of social awkwardness, embarrassment, humiliation and, on a completely different note, Lineham's seeming obsession with making the concept death comical. They're cringeworthy because of how well they portray embarrassment in the modern age, instead of being cringeworthy for negative reasons - that they might be, simply but, bad. But in ten years time, when The Big Bang Theory enters it's nineteenth season and everyone's praying for something close to a dignified end for the show, one or two people might google the term 'shows like The Big Bang Theory.' And they might just stumble on a seasoned and exceedingly witty sitcom from the UK that ran for just four series before coming to a proper and perfect ending.

Breaking Bad - Season 5, Episode 16, 'Felina' - Review

'I was alive.'

With Felina, TV's greatest drama has come to an astonishing, redeeming, fulfilling end. Breaking Bad's final episode may not have tied up every single minute loose end, but certainly brought the tale of Walter White, chemistry teacher turned drug manufacturer to a brilliant finish. The show couldn't have ended any other way than the way it did.

After we see Walt steal a car, narrowly avoiding a police patrol and leaving his winter retreat, the Gilligan set up one of the tensest pieces of television that I've ever witnessed. I am, of course, referring to the sequence involving Walt's arrival at the Schwartz household. It was obvious from this point that Gilligan himself had directed and written the episode; the whole scene was pulled off with pure formal mastery and genius and, as per, it was impossible to tell whether Walt would apologise or kill both of them. But he didn't. He asked for Andrew and Gretchen to deliver his remaining nine million dollars to his son upon his eighteenth birthday, but as a gift from them, rather than from himself. From this point there's a real and noticeable absence of pride and egotism in Walt, although not completely; he still exercises a strong precedence of fear of the Schwartz's, claiming to have two world-class hitman waiting just outside with sniper dots on their chests, threatening to have them killed if the money never gets passed on... Which appears to be true. That is, until Walt returns to his car and we discover that the two best hitmen west of the Mississippi are in fact Badger and Skinny Pete, armed with laser pointers.

We then see Walt intruding on a meeting between Todd and Lydia, apparently attempting to set up a business deal that is completely and utter false on his part. But what it does allow him is to swap Lydia's tea sweetener for something a little less savoury, that being a dose of ricin. This is made clear by the slow zoom from above, down into the contents of the cup. After this, we see Skyler leave a conversation with Marie that converges into the slow reveal that Walt is standing across from her in the kitchen of her new temporary home. He gives her the lottery ticket alluding to the location of Hank and Steve Gomez's bodies and asks her to strike a deal with the prosecutors. More importantly, in a very poignant moment, he readily admits for the first time that he has done everything for himself. The execution of this line was one of the best Cranston has ever pulled off in the series, to the point of being captivating as the character himself; there wasn't a trace of the actor beneath the beard and straggly hair. He sees his baby and his son one last time before leaving for Uncle Jack's 'clubhouse'.

Prior to this we see him out in the desert, creating a rotating mechanism that works via transmission of his car keys. Before Jack states that he will kill Walt, he brings in Jesse, chained and scarred, for Walt to see that he is not a liar and is indeed been held captive, rather than working as a partner of Jack's crew. Walt pretends to attack Jesse, landing them both on the floor before clicking his car keys and triggering the mechanism, revealing that it is connected to his previously purchased M60 and acts as a rotating device, firing round after round into the clubhouse. This, combined with Walt and Jesse's subsequent revenge against Uncle Jack and Todd, respectively, made for a final vengeful moment that Walt and Jesse shared, proving that they always beat the enemies in their line of business. More so, it acted to establish that Walt no longer cares about recovering his lost money, after Jack attempts to strike a deal with him before Walt shoots him at point blank range.

There was a real and genuine poignancy in the final moments between Walt and Jesse. After Walt has called Lydia to inform her of her impending and unavoidable fate in the most unsympathetic of ways, they share a moment as Jesse is about to get in the car and leave. He looks at Walt and Walt looks back at him, and all they do is nod to each other. Nothing else needs to be said. We know everything that's happened between them, and so do they, as they both realise how their partnership has come to a necessary end. But there's a real sense of gladness between the two, a mutual understanding about the events that occurred over the past two years that would be hard to imitate in any other franchise. It was wonderful to see Jesse riding off into a more solid future, finally in control of where he chooses to go in his life, and hopefully it's a reflection of the woodworking Jesse we saw earlier in the episode, handcrafting a storage box in a unfilled workshop.

Coming to the end of Breaking Bad, as we look down at Walter Hartwell White, aka Heisenberg, drug manufacturer legend and extraordinaire, and above all, family man, you suddenly realise that this has been a story about the celebration of life. As Walt laid his hand on the canister for the last time, almost a goodbye to an old partner in crime, I thought back to the episodes most beautifully honest line; 'I felt alive.' At it's heart this is a story about life, but it's also about reaching a real form of life by rebelling against societal constraints and really doing something bold and dangerous. It's easy to forget that the entire series only takes place over the time frame of just over two years. It's amazing to think about how far Walt has come in two years and I'm betting that, in the world of the show, he's experienced more in that time than he'd ever experienced prior to one wacky day in which he ended up riding through the desert in an RV in nothing but a pair of boots, his underwear and a gas mask, alongside his unconscious ex-student-turned-dealer, having cooked a batch of illegal substances, all the while with two bodies rolling around in the back. Strangely enough I was reminded of the character of Lester Burnham in Sam Mendes's American Beauty; here we have a man who makes one simple decision to change his life forever, and things are never the same.

For all it's drama and heartache, this has been a genuinely funny and ingenious TV show, and one of the best I've ever had the pleasure of watching. Staring up at the ceiling of the lab in his final moments, I hope and bet that Walter White didn't regret a single thing that he did, because I certainly didn't regret watching it, and most of all I didn't regret going along on this psychotic journey with him.