Let’s face it—House of Cards was always about power: how to get it, how to use it, and how to eliminate anyone who got in the way. But when Kevin Spacey, the show’s initial lead, was let go after serious misconduct allegations, the series was left to confront an existential question: what if the central character is missing, but the brutal political game continues?
The sixth and last season had the daunting challenge of bringing closure to a saga that orbited practically solely around Frank Underwood’s Machiavellian ascension and domination. With Frank deceased—off-camera and summarily cut out of the narrative—the narrative switched to Robin Wright’s Claire Underwood, who took over the presidency and the story’s attention.
Wright, previously a force to be reckoned with in the series, gave a good performance: icily detached, authoritative, and silently powerful. But for all her efforts, the season couldn’t shake the specter of Frank. He haunted every scene—talked about all the time, but never actually there—his absence more distracting than conclusive.
In their place, the show brought in new nemeses: billionaire twins Annette and Bill Shepherd, played by Diane Lane and Greg Kinnear. They stood as the new big menace—a rich, well-placed couple with their political agenda and connections to the Underwoods’ history.
Yet whereas Lane and Kinnear were given weighty roles to play, the Shepherds were always running behind a narrative nearing conclusion. Their history with Frank and Claire is referenced but never properly expanded upon, and their machinations, as complicated as they are, do not share the same level of intimacy and moral depravity that made Frank’s plots so addictive.
Michael Kelly’s Doug Stamper is still the best connection to the show’s early DNA. His journey in the series finale stems from obsession, guilt, and a disintegrating sense of purpose. As Frank’s most loyal fixer, Doug continues to hold on to his ex-boss’s legacy, even as that devotion devours him.
His last showdown with Claire is supposed to be the season’s tearful climax—a confrontation between the final two believers in the Underwood mythos. But the episode, exposition-heavy and tension-light, falls flat. Doug’s confession of his involvement in Frank’s killing, designed to be a big surprise, lands with more inevitability than surprise.
Fundamentally, the season never quite makes up its mind what it wants to say about power in post-Frank America. It teases with the possibility of Claire dismantling the patriarchal structure, only to undermine her at every turn with crazy storytelling and narrative misfires. Is Claire a pioneer, or just Frank with a different suit? The season never makes up its mind, and by attempting to have it both ways, it pleases neither reading.
Rather than narrowing its focus on the complex dynamic between Claire and Doug—or offering deeper introspection into Claire’s leadership—the series introduces an influx of new characters, geopolitical subplots, and even a brewing conflict with Russia. The pacing suffers as a result, and the show frequently pauses to reference Frank, almost as if afraid we’ll forget who set this chain of events in motion.
By the end, House of Cards is less a show that grows and more one that attempts to keep ahead of its singular history. The original British series delivered scathing social commentary regarding political corruption. The American version, especially in its ultimate chapter, has less interest in the look of power and more in the appearance of power. Frank and Claire rarely used their influence for anything beyond self-preservation, and once the game finally ends, we’re left wondering what the point of it all truly was.
All six seasons remain available for streaming, but the finale is a sobering reminder: in the absence of direction, absolute power doesn’t just corrupt—it becomes hollow.
