There’s something about a woman in silk gloves that smells like smoke and Chanel No. 5. Something about a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes, but still cuts like a scalpel. Claire Underwood walks through the halls of power like she were born there, like marble was moulded just to feel the weight of her heels. Lana Del Rey sings into old microphones like she’s whispering state secrets through red velvet. And when you look closely—closer than you’re supposed to—it becomes painfully, poetically clear: these two women are dancing to the same doomed anthem. One is a fictional titan of politics; the other, a flesh-and-blood siren of song. But both are wrapped in the American flag like it’s a second skin—beautiful, burdensome, and always, always watching.
This is not a character study.
It’s not a playlist analysis.
It’s a séance, stitched together with lace and loss and lipstick-stained diplomacy.
Because when Claire Hale says “My turn,” she’s not just talking about the presidency. And when Lana Del Rey sings “God bless America, and all the beautiful women in it,” she’s not praying—she’s performing. And maybe that’s what binds them most: the fact that they were never just women. They were ideas. Ideals. Symbols painted in red, white, and melancholia.
Claire’s power is all cold calculation and pressed white collars. Lana’s is all warm decay and gauzy nostalgia. But both know the truth: femininity is the most potent weapon of all, especially when it’s wielded by someone who’s already been underestimated. Their stories aren’t about freedom. They’re about control. Ownership. Stage direction. Who gets to speak and who gets to suffer prettily.
We love women like Claire and Lana because they terrify us in ways we wish we could be terrifying.
They are contradictions that make sense: soft and brutal, quiet and deafening, fragile and unstoppable.
They don’t flinch when someone calls them names—they’ve already whispered worse things to themselves in the mirror before curling their lashes.
Lana lives in the world of Americana—motels and Marilyns, guns and goddesses, heartbreak and Hollywood. But beneath the vintage filters and floral dresses is a scream so muted, it feels sacred. Claire operates in a grayscale world of backstabbing men and hollow smiles. Her emotions are dossiers, her tears scheduled—if they’re allowed at all. But the performance? Oh, darling. The performance is flawless.
Lana once said “I’m your national anthem,” with a sugar-sick smile. Claire doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to. She is the nation—an idea wrapped in silk and steel, a country in a woman’s body, unbothered and undefeated.
And the flag? The flag is no longer a symbol of patriotism.
It’s a blanket.
A noose.
A veil.
A costume that both women wear to remind you that they can play the game better than anyone else.
So no, this isn’t really about House of Cards. And it’s not really about Lana Del Rey’s discography. It’s about what happens when a woman is forced to live in metaphors for too long—when love becomes currency, when beauty becomes surveillance, when power has to be worn like perfume. This is about what it feels like to fall asleep in an American flag—not safe, not swaddled—but trapped in the myth of the woman you were told to be.
And maybe, just maybe…
It’s about waking up inside it, too.
And realising you’re not the dream anymore.
You’re the one being dreamed about.
Madame President’s Playlist
National Anthem
“Money is the anthem of success…” She IS the anthem, baby.
When Lana sings “Money is the anthem of success,” she might as well be channeling Claire Hale herself. Claire is the embodiment of that anthem—commanding attention, carving her empire from pure ambition. This track isn’t about wanting wealth; it’s about inheriting it, owning it, and using it as a weapon. Like Claire, who doesn’t just play the political game, she rewrites it with every calculated move. She walks the line between seduction and domination, knowing that the real power doesn’t rest in a name or a title—it rests in being the national anthem. Everyone bows to her, and everyone knows it.
Money Power Glory
The ultimate Claire anthem. Cold, calculated, and always with a plan.
“Money Power Glory” is Claire’s soul in a song. It’s a perfectly manicured manifesto on why she does it all: the ambition, the ruthlessness, and the undeniable truth—everything she’s ever done has been to win, not to please. The cold, calculating tone of the song mirrors Claire’s approach to power—she doesn’t need affection. She doesn’t crave fame. What she craves is victory, and she’ll take it however she has to. She’d wear this song like a crown—because for Claire, the ultimate glory is the cold satisfaction of knowing she’s always one step ahead of the rest.
Cruel World
Her realization that the world is a chessboard, and she’s the queen.
There’s a brutal clarity to Cruel World, one that echoes Claire’s understanding of power dynamics. As much as Claire plays the perfect, poised First Lady, she knows that the world is a game of strategy—and not everyone gets to play. Lana’s dreamy yet sorrowful tone reflects the quiet sacrifice Claire makes every day, she sees the world for what it is—an unforgiving battlefield—and she doesn’t flinch. She’s not a pawn. She’s the queen. And she always wins.
Doin’ Time
Claire only suffers if it serves her.
“Doin’ Time” is what Claire Hale turns into performance art. She knows how to play the woman who’s been wronged, the one stuck in someone else’s hell. But make no mistake—she’s never truly trapped. Claire suffers strategically. She’s sipping rosé in the sun while quietly plotting your downfall. If she’s doing time, it’s because she built the prison herself and locked the door behind her—just to watch you squirm on the other side.
Cruel World
Claire’s love was never soft—it was strategy.
“Cruel World” is Claire letting go, but not because she’s broken. She’s shedding old skins. She’s the woman who leaves you without flinching—no tears, no apologies, no second thoughts. It’s not heartbreak; it’s a calculated exit. Claire knows love isn’t innocent. Love, for her, is leverage. And when it stops serving her, she burns it down and walks away in heels. Goodbye, baby, it’s a cruel world—but she was never planning on playing nice.
Brooklyn Baby
Claire’s satire lives in her silence.
“Brooklyn Baby” is what Claire Hale hears when she listens to the noise of the world trying to define her. She doesn’t need to mock anyone—she just smiles. Claire lets people underestimate her, lets them think she’s just a pretty wife, a side character, a blank canvas. But behind that smile? Satire so sharp it could slice through D.C. She plays the game, lets the world laugh—and then flips the board when no one’s watching.
Old Money
Elegance as armour. Nostalgia as discipline.
“Old Money” is Claire Hale in her most guarded moments—the part of her that still believes in tradition, in legacy, in the cold beauty of restraint. It’s not sentimentality; it’s survival. She wears her past like pearls—tight around her neck, shining but suffocating. Claire doesn’t cry over what she’s lost; she immortalises it. She turns every wound into ritual, every heartbreak into heritage. You’ll never know what she’s mourning—but you’ll feel the chill.
Black Beauty
Claire Hale, if softness ever won.
“Black Beauty” is the ghost of what Claire Hale could’ve been in a different world—one where softness wasn’t punished, where beauty wasn’t a burden. It’s the fantasy version of her, the girl who could’ve stayed vulnerable, hopeful, even happy. But that version of Claire didn’t survive Washington. What’s left is elegance with edges, beauty with bite. She wears black not for mourning—but for power. If softness lives in her, it’s hidden behind seven locks and a loaded smile.
love
The girlhood that couldn’t come with her.
“Love” is Claire Hale before the storm—before the silk blouses and sharpened smiles. It’s the ghost of innocence she never really got to wear. This is Claire in the mirror at sixteen, wondering if the world would ever love her without conditions, without agenda. Spoiler: it didn’t. But that ache never left. “Love” is what’s buried under all the armour, all the power plays—a longing so quiet it hums beneath her bones. It’s not that she can’t feel it. She just doesn’t trust it anymore.
Claire Hale doesn’t believe in love like the movies, but she remembers what it looked like. And sometimes—when no one’s watching—she mourns it like a myth she once believed in.
Ultraviolence
Love twisted into control, like everything she does with Frank.
“Ultraviolence” captures the twisted love story between Claire and Frank Underwood—like two political titans bound together in a deadly dance. Lana sings about love as a weapon, a form of control, and that’s exactly how Claire sees her marriage to Frank. There’s nothing soft about their dynamic. It’s a battle of wills. It’s about dominance disguised as devotion. Claire knows that in their world, love is just a means to an end, and she plays Frank like a puppet—making him think he’s in control, while she tightens the strings.
Gods & Monsters
Power, seduction, and destruction—like Claire’s entire existence.
Lana’s haunting Gods & Monsters is Claire Hale in a nutshell. The lyrics speak of seduction wrapped in destruction—a perfect metaphor for Claire’s entire existence. She wields power like a goddess, seduces with grace, and ultimately tears down everything in her wake. Claire understands that with great power comes great sacrifice, and she’s not afraid to destroy the world around her to maintain control. She’s the monster in the mirror—tired of playing by anyone else’s rules. The Gods may watch her rise, but only she decides what’s left standing in the aftermath.
Fucked My Way Up to the Top
Let’s be real—she would sing this, but make it deadly.
Let’s not kid ourselves. Claire Hale would absolutely own this song. She would sing it with a cold smile, fully aware of the power she’s accumulated by manipulating every situation, every relationship, and every person in her orbit. Lana’s lyrics speak to using one’s allure as leverage, and Claire does it with a precision that’s almost surgical. She may never admit it, but her rise to power wasn’t by accident—it was calculated, and she made sure everyone knew it. This is Claire’s anthem—but make it deadly.
Dealer
Underneath the perfect smile, chaos brews.
“Dealer” captures the duality of Claire Hale—the public face of perfection, and the internal storm of chaos that brews just beneath. The track has that familiar eerie vibe that whispers, there’s always more lurking behind the facade. Claire’s cool exterior hides her ever-present need for control and her awareness that power is always a gamble. She’s a dealer in both politics and passion—always pulling the strings, making deals that benefit her, even when the stakes are sky-high. Her perfect smile? Just a mask for the storm she’s always one move away from unleashing.
Chemtrails Over the Country Club
That unhinged, yet poised, energy.
“Chemtrails Over the Country Club” is where Lana’s dissonant beauty and surrealism collide, and it perfectly mirrors Claire’s carefully curated public image. Claire is polished, elegant, and poised—but under the surface, there’s a level of chaos she keeps buried away. She walks the fine line between being a symbol of grace and an agent of destruction. As much as she appears untouchable, there’s always an edge of volatility in everything she does. The track’s dreamy yet dark undertones parallel the undercurrents of her own psyche: no one’s safe in Claire Hale’s world—not even her.
24
Silent, dangerous, and calculating.
Lana’s “24” feels like a heartbeat under Claire’s cool exterior—a ticking clock that reminds you she’s always thinking several steps ahead. It’s the quiet before the storm, the stillness before the game-changing move. Claire operates in this exact space. She’s always watching, calculating, biding her time until the perfect moment arrives. When it does, you won’t even see it coming. That’s her secret weapon—her silence. Claire is never in a rush. She’s got all the time in the world. And when she makes her move? It’s game over.
High by the Beach
Claire walking away from the mess she just made, calm and collected.
Lana’s “High by the Beach” is exactly how Claire would leave a trail of destruction behind her—calm, collected, and ready to watch it burn. She never panics, never rushes. Claire understands that the aftermath is part of the game. She’s already walked away, having made sure everything falls into place while the rest of the world scrambles to pick up the pieces. Like Lana, Claire can sit back, knowing that every storm she’s caused was a perfectly executed strategy. She’s on the beach now, watching it all from a distance, knowing she won.
Shades of Cool
Aloof and emotionally distant, yet magnetic.
“Shades of Cool” is the perfect soundtrack for Claire Hale’s enigmatic energy—cool, detached, and impossibly magnetic. Lana croons about a love that’s distant yet irresistible, and isn’t that just Claire to a tee? Her cold, calculated approach to everything from her career to her relationships radiates an aloofness that draws people in, even as it keeps them at arm’s length. She’s got the power to make you beg for her attention while keeping you at a safe distance, and that’s exactly how she controls the narrative. Claire doesn’t need anyone, but everyone needs her. It’s a dangerous game she plays, and she plays it so, so well.
The Greatest
Losing but doing it with grace and an endgame.
“The Greatest” is a tragic anthem, drenched in nostalgia and loss, but still with that undercurrent of victory. Claire Hale, the consummate strategist, knows how to lose with style and grace—because she’s always thinking about the endgame. She might let the world think she’s fallen, but in reality, every misstep is a calculated move towards her ultimate goal. She will always come out on top—and even when things seem lost, it’s just a part of the bigger picture. It’s about playing the long game, about watching the pieces fall into place, even if they crumble first. Claire’s not afraid to lose battles—she’s always in it for the war.
Born to Die
A funeral march for everything she sacrificed.
“Born to Die” speaks directly to Claire’s tortured soul. She knows that in the game of power, there are sacrifices—hugesacrifices. Every smile, every act of love, every political maneuver comes at a cost. She’s given up everything that could have been beautiful in exchange for the life she now leads, and yet, she wears it like a crown. Lana’s haunting lyrics about inevitability echo Claire’s own understanding of the cold, harsh reality of power. She didn’t choose this life; this life chose her. And now, with every sacrifice, Claire Hale becomes more untouchable, more legendary. Born to die? Maybe. But that’s not how she’s going out.
Change
Subtle yet deadly shifts in the game.
“Change” is Claire’s silent weapon—the subtle shifts in the game that no one sees coming. It’s a soft, almost imperceptible change that builds until it’s impossible to ignore. Claire knows that the most dangerous kind of change isn’t the loud, explosive kind—it’s the kind that creeps in unnoticed, quietly altering the playing field. Every move she makes is designed to manipulate the flow of power until she’s the only one left standing. This track is the soundtrack to every quiet power play she’s ever made. It’s about patience, about waiting for the right moment to tip the scales in her favor.
Black Bathing Suit
Layers of power hidden under elegance.
“Black Bathing Suit” is Claire Hale in an image—graceful, elegant, but hiding layers of ruthless power. She could be the epitome of beauty, walking along a beach, but make no mistake—beneath that perfect smile is a mind constantly working, always calculating. Lana sings about the innocence of a simple image, but Claire would turn that image into a weapon. A black bathing suit isn’t just a look for her—it’s a statement. Every inch of her appearance is crafted to leave an impression, while her mind works behind the scenes. Claire’s elegance hides a storm beneath, and she knows how to use it to her advantage.
Not All Who Wander Are Lost
Never as lost as she appears—always in control, always watching.
Never let them see you sweat. That’s Claire’s motto, and “Not All Who Wander Are Lost” is practically her theme song. There’s a part of Claire that always seems to be lost, wandering through her world, appearing vulnerable, but don’t be fooled. She’s always in control. She’s always watching. While everyone else is frantically trying to figure out their next move, Claire is simply biding her time, letting them think they’ve got a chance. This song is Claire’s power play—the act of wandering while secretly knowing exactly where you’re going. And trust, she’s already five steps ahead.
Hope Is a Dangerous Thing…
A glimmer of rebellion buried under layers of diplomacy.
The irony of “Hope Is a Dangerous Thing…” is the same irony that runs through Claire’s veins. Hope might be dangerous, but so is Claire when she’s angry. This track has the sweet, melancholic tone of a dreamer, yet there’s an undercurrent of rebellion—something Claire is no stranger to. Beneath her polished exterior, beneath the endless smiles and careful diplomacy, there’s always the possibility of a storm. Claire’s too clever to let anyone see it coming, but there’s always that quiet, simmering frustration beneath her surface. And when that glimmer of rebellion appears, you know things are about to get interesting.
Honeymoon
Love as strategy, calm in the chaos.
“Honeymoon” is Claire at her most seductively strategic. It’s about controlling the narrative while making it look like love is the motivation. This track is Claire’s favorite game—making love the ultimate power play. Whether it’s manipulating Frank or working her way into the hearts of those around her, Claire plays the game with an effortless grace that makes it seem like love is the goal. But we all know—her heart belongs to power, and love is just the way she gets what she wants. The calmness in Lana’s voice is the calmness Claire exudes when she’s spinning her web. No one suspects a thing until it’s too late.
Bel Air
Smooth, sophisticated, and ruthlessly intelligent.
“Bel Air” captures that part of Claire’s soul that’s unapproachably refined, the part of her that operates on a different level—where everyone else is stuck in the weeds, she’s playing chess in the penthouse. There’s something soothing about this track, a smooth sophistication that Claire exudes without even trying. She’s always a step ahead, always more intelligent, more poised, more in control. Claire has mastered the art of elegance without effort, the kind of effortless power that makes her untouchable. Everyone else might be struggling to survive, but Claire doesn’t even break a sweat. She’s got everything she wants, and if she doesn’t, she knows exactly how to get it.
White Dress
The hollow, delicate image of a woman who has everything, but at what cost?
“White Dress” is the perfect fit for Claire Hale—the image of purity, of elegance, but beneath the surface? Oh honey, it’s rotten. She’s had it all—money, power, influence—but what did it cost her? Everything. A soul lost to ambition, a life filled with sacrifice. She walks into rooms with the grace of a queen, but behind the perfect smile is a woman haunted by the choices she’s made. White symbolizes innocence, but Claire’s world is far from innocent. Her white dress is stained with the weight of her actions. The glimmering exterior hides a dark, tragic truth—and every time she steps out in that pristine white dress, she’s dancing with her demons.
Carmen
Tragic allure. Claire’s dark, secret side.
“Carmen” tells a story of seduction, power, and inevitable destruction—and that’s Claire’s dark side in a nutshell. She walks through the world with a tragic allure, an enigma wrapped in mystery–everyone’s too mesmerized to see the destruction in her wake. Just like Carmen, Claire is a woman who’s constantly caught between playing the role of seductress and the part of a woman in control. And at the heart of it all? A secret. Something too powerful to reveal, too dangerous to be exposed. Claire is the femme fatale, luring you in with promises of power and beauty, only to leave you broken and confused. Her tragedy lies not in what she’s lost, but in what she’ll never find—redemption.
Mariners Apartment Complex
Unmistakable power wrapped in empathy, but only on her terms.
“Mariners Apartment Complex” hits that note of being unapproachably powerful but eerily empathetic, just like Claire Hale. The woman who has it all and still claims to be misunderstood. She doesn’t need saving, but somehow, she makes people believe they need her. Claire’s power isn’t just about what she does, but the way she commands attention with the slightest of gestures. But make no mistake—this power is on her terms. Her empathy isn’t for everyone—it’s for those she allows into her inner circle, those who are useful to her. Claire, much like Lana, creates an illusion of vulnerability while really wielding power over everyone around her. She’s playing a dangerous game of manipulation while simultaneously acting as the one who understands. Genius.
Heroin
A self-destructive plunge beneath the surface.
Heroin is Claire Hale’s self-destructive side, the one that sacrifices everything for the sake of control and influence. It’s a chaotic descent into the abyss, but the abyss knows her name. Lana sings about falling into darkness, but Claire? She lives in it. Her habits might not be as literal as Lana’s, but Claire’s addiction isn’t to a substance—it’s to the high of control, the rush of power. Every move she makes pushes her further toward the edge, and she knows it. She’s been through the wringer, and there’s no way out for her—except maybe through destruction. Claire’s not afraid to take risks; she’s afraid of being vulnerable. Her descent? Inevitable. But oh, what a ride it will be.
Wild at Heart
Chaotic, controlled rebellion.
Wild at Heart speaks directly to Claire Hale’s internal world: a constant battle between chaos and control. She might appear poised, calculated, and diplomatic, but inside? She’s a storm waiting to happen. Just like Lana, Claire doesn’t fit into society’s neat little box of what a “perfect” woman should be. She’s rebellious, but she keeps it contained, playing the game, bending the rules—just enough to keep everyone on their toes. But Claire’s rebellion isn’t loud or reckless. It’s subtle, calculated chaos that leaves people questioning their every move. She knows she’s the storm, but she’s always in control of it. And that? That’s what makes her dangerous.
Norman Fucking Rockwell
Cynical clarity wrapped in vintage glamour.
“Norman Fucking Rockwell” is all about that classic, vintage glamour mixed with the underlying cynicism of Claire’s political world. Everything is picture-perfect on the outside—the power, the wealth, the looks—but deep down, Claire knows the truth: it’s all a fabrication. It’s as though she’s wearing a mask for the world to see, smiling in front of the cameras, playing the perfect role. But behind that smile, it’s clear that Claire knows exactly what the game is—and she’s playing it to win. She might look like a beautiful, glamorous woman on the outside, but on the inside, there’s only one thing Claire Hale believes in: control. And no amount of beauty or fame can change that.
Young and Beautiful
A manipulation of beauty as power.
“Young and Beautiful” is all about using beauty as power, which is Claire Hale’s ultimate weapon. She doesn’t need to rely on the usual political tactics to climb to the top—her beauty and charm are just as effective. She plays on what people want to see—a gorgeous, powerful woman who’s always at the top of her game. But here’s the kicker—Claire knows her beauty is fleeting, so she’s determined to use it to its full advantage. She knows that beauty isn’t just a physical trait, it’s a tool in the game of influence and manipulation. So, while she might be playing the role of the alluring woman, she’s really the one pulling all the strings.
Body Electric
She plays by her own rules and gets away with it.
Body Electric is the anthem of Claire’s untouchable nature. She doesn’t answer to anyone. She’s her own power source, and she doesn’t need anyone to fuel her. Her body is electric, and everything she does sends shockwaves through the power structure around her. Claire doesn’t play by society’s rules, because she’s created her own. And everyone else? They’re just players in her game. This song reflects Claire’s complete detachment from conventional rules—she doesn’t need permission to succeed. She forges her own path, and the world follows.
Yayo
Haunting, hypnotic, and seductive.
Claire Hale is Yayo in human form. Hypnotic, seductive, and effortlessly drawn into chaos. She can lure people in with a glance and send them spiraling with a touch. Her power lies in her ability to play both sides—tender and ruthless, vulnerable and untouchable. Yayo is all about seduction and control, and just like Claire, the more you try to fight it, the deeper you fall into her trap. She’s the kind of woman who knows she’s dangerous, and doesn’t care—because everyone else doesn’t stand a chance.
Cola
Tempting, but always one step ahead.
“Cola” is the perfect metaphor for Claire Hale’s allure. She’s the ultimate temptation, a concoction of sweetness and seduction, but when you think you’ve got her figured out? She’s already five steps ahead. Claire lures you in with her charm, but she keeps her cards close to her chest. She knows exactly how to keep you hooked, and just when you think you’re in the clear? She disappears, leaving you longing for more. It’s an intoxicating game of power—one that Claire always wins.
Pretty When You Cry
Cold vulnerability, because Claire never lets you see the full picture.
“Pretty When You Cry” speaks to the cold vulnerability Claire wears like a mask. She might seem fragile, vulnerable, even heartbroken—but only for a second. Claire knows how to turn the tears on and off, playing the victim when it suits her. She never fully lets you in; she’s always hiding a piece of herself. And that’s the most dangerous part—because you never know who she really is beneath all that vulnerability. But that’s the game, right? Keep ‘em guessing.
Art Deco
Sophisticated, dark, and deadly.
“Art Deco” is Claire Hale’s dark sophistication personified. The world sees her as the epitome of class, power, and luxury, but beneath that polished surface? There’s a deadly coldness. She’s playing a high-stakes game in a world of glamour, where the stakes are life and death. Claire is the epitome of sophistication, but like the art deco style itself, there’s something chilling about her beauty. It’s refined, but it could kill you if you’re not careful. Her allure is the danger you can’t escape.
Lucky Ones
Power in a gilded cage.
“Lucky Ones” fits perfectly for Claire, trapped in a gilded cage of her own making. She has everything—wealth, power, influence—but is she really free? No. She’s stuck in a world of luxury and control, constantly balancing her image with her need for autonomy. She’s the lucky one—but the price of that luck is her freedom. Every move she makes is a reminder of the power she holds, but also of the chains she’s bound by. In the end, it’s all part of her game: control without liberation.
Sad Girl
Manipulative innocence, a tool she masters.
“Sad Girl” is all about playing the part of the misunderstood, the vulnerable. And Claire Hale? She’s mastered it. She knows how to make you feel like her protector, like she’s the one who needs saving, but underneath it all, she’s in full control. It’s a classic manipulative innocence—you think you’re helping, but in reality, she’s playing you for exactly what she needs. Claire can be as sad as she wants, but don’t forget—she’s always pulling the strings.
Million Dollar Man
A slow, dangerous waltz of attraction and control.
“Million Dollar Man” is Claire’s way of taking her slow, dangerous waltz through life. She draws you in with elegance, wrapping you around her finger, and before you know it? You’re completely captivated. The attraction is undeniable, but it’s all on Claire’s terms. She knows the value of control—and just how to keep it. This dance? It’s hers to lead, and everyone else? Just trying to keep up.
Religion
The cult of power that she’s addicted to.
“Religion” is all about Claire’s addiction to power—it’s like a religion for her. She worships it, lives for it, breathes it. She’ll do anything to maintain it, no matter the cost. Power is her god, and every move she makes is in its name. She’s not interested in redemption, only domination. And just like a true believer, Claire sees no way out—her whole world revolves around maintaining control. She’s enslaved to it, but don’t think for a second she’d ever admit it.
The Other Woman
Claire is the other woman, and she plays her role to perfection.
“The Other Woman” perfectly embodies Claire Hale’s role in the game of power. She is the other woman—always playing a role, manipulating situations to her advantage. She’s not just an outsider, she’s a calculated player. She doesn’t get messy, though. She plays the game with finesse, making everyone believe they’re the ones in control while she pulls the strings from behind the scenes. And like all the best “other women,” Claire knows exactly how to use her status to get what she wants.
Season of the Witch
Deadly charm, like her public persona.
“Season of the Witch” represents Claire’s deadly charm that everyone falls for. She’s the woman you can’t resist, even when you know it’s dangerous. Claire walks through life with a calm, collected exterior, but underneath, she’s as dangerous as a witch casting a spell. She plays on her public persona, manipulating those around her into believing she’s untouchable. She’s not just charming; she’s deadly. And the worst part? You’ll never see it coming.
Paris, Texas
Emotionally detached, but always with a smirk.
“Paris, Texas” captures Claire’s emotional detachment—but it’s not a weakness, it’s her armor. She’s always one step removed from everything, never letting anyone get too close. She’s emotionally unavailable, but that’s what makes her so dangerous. She keeps everyone at arm’s length, smiling through it all with a smirk that says she knows something you don’t. Her detachment isn’t coldness—it’s power. And she’s always in control of it.
Terrence Loves You
A song that feels like a goodbye—but we all know she never leaves.
“Terrence Loves You” feels like a farewell—a goodbye—but Claire Hale? She never really leaves. She’s always lurking in the background, always ready to swoop back in when the time’s right. Claire’s the kind of woman who knows how to make you think you’ve lost her, only for her to return at the most unexpected moment, pulling you back into her web. She doesn’t say goodbye, not truly—she just knows when to disappear, and when to make her dramatic return.
Blue Jeans
Claire’s past, dark and untouchable, but still haunting.
“Blue Jeans” is Claire’s past—dark, haunting, and untouchable. It’s the part of her that’s always lurking in the background, the thing she can never quite escape. Claire’s past is full of secrets, mistakes, and things she’d rather forget, but no matter how hard she tries to bury it, it follows her. Like the song, her past clings to her, and though she moves forward, it’s always there, casting a shadow on everything she does. Claire Hale is the product of everything she’s lived through—and that’s a power she can never shake.
Get Free
Liberation, but only when she’s in control.
“Get Free” is Claire Hale’s idea of liberation—but here’s the catch: she only frees herself on her terms. She’s not interested in freedom in the conventional sense; she’s more focused on freedom through control. Claire gets free when she’s mastered the game, when she’s called the shots. She’s not running away from anything—she’s simply moving on to the next phase of her conquest. When Claire gets free, she’s the one in charge, and the world? It’ll follow her lead.
Watch what you say to me. Careful who you’re talking to.
Lana Del Rey, ‘Sad Girl’ (2014)
Am I really the sort of enemy you want to make?
Robin Wright as ‘Claire Hale Underwood’
God Save the Femme Fatale
Why Claire Hale and Lana Del Rey are the patron saints of soft power and sharper-than-thou stares.
There’s a very specific shade of power. It’s not loud, it’s not frantic, and it’s certainly not asking for permission. It’s the type of power that purrs instead of roars. That lingers in a room like perfume laced with cyanide. It clicks in heels, pours tea without trembling, and knows that timing is everything—especially when you want the whole world to think it was their idea to fall at your feet.
That’s femme fatale power. And in the worlds of House of Cards and Hollywood sadcore, two women reign as undisputed queens: Claire Underwood Hale and Lana Del Rey.
And girl, they don’t walk.
They glide.
Like danger in designer.
The Art of the Lethal Lullaby
Let’s get one thing straight: femme fatale isn’t just a label. It’s an aesthetic, a weapon, and a survival tactic all stitched into one silk-lined trench coat. Claire Hale doesn’t just enter a room—she possesses it. The silence around her is not awkward, it’s orchestrated. Calculated. It’s the kind of hush that says: “Watch your words. I don’t miss.”
Lana, on the other hand, lures you in with vocals so soft they feel like secrets. Her music is like leaning over a balcony in the dead of night—beautiful, risky, and oh-so-deliberate. “Tell me I’m your national anthem,” she sings, half seduction, half warning. She’s not begging. She’s building an altar out of your spine.
They both understand that the most terrifying thing a woman can be is in control of how she’s perceived. Claire curates. Lana crafts. Neither of them stumbles into power—they sculpt it, stroke by aching stroke.
Softness That Slices
There’s a myth that a femme fatale is heartless. Wrong. She just knows better than to wear her heart where men with agendas can reach it.
Claire’s kindness is a currency, one she spends only when the return is tenfold. She’ll compliment your blouse while prepping your downfall. And the thing is—you’ll thank her for it. That’s the trick. That’s the talent. She doesn’t just play the game. She rewrites the rules, in cursive.
Lana? She feels everything—but she filters it through retro aesthetics and metaphors like “cinnamon girl” and “queen of disaster.” Her emotions are messy and massive, yes, but she makes them elegant. Palatable. Marketable, even. And in doing so, she wins. Because the world doesn’t fear a woman in pain—but it does fear a woman who can profit from it.
Venus in Furs and Valentino
What they wear matters. It’s never just fashion.
Claire’s tailored monochrome wardrobe is a mirror: pristine, perfect, untouchable. She’s not dressing to impress—she’s dressing to intimidate. Her body is a boardroom. A battlefield. A blueprint for ambition.
Lana, in contrast, chooses pastels and pearls like she’s cosplaying innocence—but the effect is still the same. Disarm. Disorient. Destroy.
Both of them use aesthetics as armour. Whether it’s pillbox hats or flower crowns, the message is the same: you can look, but you can’t touch what’s already touched the sky.
The Gospel of Gaze
To be a femme fatale is to weaponise the way you’re watched.
Claire stares with eyes that have already decided your future. She doesn’t just see you—she studies you. Her gaze is a courtroom, and you are always on trial.
Lana? She gazes into the camera like she’s making love to it and also daring it to hurt her again. Her stare says, “Yes, I’ve suffered—but I’ve made a playlist about it, and now it’s your problem.”
They don’t just understand the male gaze—they own it. Rent-free. With interest. They turn it into a performance, a trap, a throne. They are not muses. They are the goddamn artists.
Kiss Me, Kill Me, Crown Me
The femme fatale isn’t always the villain. But she’s never just the victim, either.
Claire Hale doesn’t believe in redemption arcs. She believes in results. Her version of mercy comes with conditions and clauses. She will save you if it serves her. And honestly? That’s fair. Because no one asked how many people Frank Underwood trampled—but god forbid Claire wanted the same power in a cleaner suit.
Lana, meanwhile, paints herself in bruised vulnerability, but always with an edge. Her sadness is cinematic. Curated. And if you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss the knife behind her back—or worse, you’ll love her for it.
They don’t need to be forgiven.
They need to be feared.
And adored.
And remembered.
Because in a world that punishes women for wanting more, the femme fatale is the one who dares to take it anyway—with a smirk, a strut, and a smoking gun.
Amen to the Antiheroine
So God save the femme fatale, indeed.
Save her from the soft narratives. The redemption arcs. The tired tropes.
She is not your sweetheart, your saviour, or your sob story.
She is the storm in satin, the “I told you so” in heels, the melody that haunts your speakers at 3 AM.
She is Claire Hale sipping wine after an impeachment scandal.
She is Lana Del Rey crooning about death and desire like they’re the same thing.
She is the dream and the danger.
And she’s not asking for your approval—
she’s rewriting your ending.
The Politics of Softness
Okay, here’s the tea: vulnerability? That’s not weakness, honey. That’s a weapon. And when Lana Del Rey and Claire Underwood put their softness out there, they’re not looking for sympathy — they’re looking for control. Lana’s whisper isn’t a plea; it’s a slow-motion ambush, like when you’re trying to be lowkey but end up suddenly the center of attention. Her fragility isn’t actually fragile, though. It’s like this delicate trap — the calm before the storm. When she sings that soft stuff, it’s not about being a damsel. Nah. It’s power wrapped in silk. Softness is just another weapon in her arsenal — like a quiet storm you didn’t see coming.
Now Claire, she’s a whole mood. The woman doesn’t even blink when chaos is around her. Her stillness? Total mastery. Her soft gaze? A calculated move, like when you’re on your serene vibe but you know damn well you’re three steps ahead. Softness in her world doesn’t mean vulnerability. It’s leadership in its purest, coldest form. She’s unshaken, even when the whole damn world is crumbling. She doesn’t need to scream to show she’s got it all under control. It’s like, “you want me to be emotional? Nah, I’ll just stay unbothered and have you shook while I pull all the strings.” Softness? It’s her flex.
Motel Rooms & Marbled Halls
Let’s talk contrasts, fam. Lana’s chillin’ in some smoky, beat-up motel room, right? Cigarettes everywhere, dust in the air — but don’t get it twisted. That’s her vibe. She’s not a mess; she’s the art in it. Her authenticity isn’t polished or pristine, but that’s why it hits different. She’s grunge, she’s raw, she’s all about the broken beauty of life. And let’s be real, there’s something hypnotic about that — it’s like she’s made her peace with chaos, turning it into the backdrop of her most iconicmoments.
Then there’s Claire. Marbled halls, my guy. Presidential silk, glass walls, polished floors. She’s got that cold, calculated power that’s impossible to ignore. But don’t think for a second she’s lost her edge because of the luxury. Nah, she thrives in the game of power, and those halls? Her stage. She steps in and owns it. Where Lana makes you feel the struggle, Claire makes you respect it. Both women know how to work a room — whether it’s a dingy motel or the Oval Office. They’re not shaped by their surroundings; they shape them.
Gaslight, Gatekeep, GIRLBOSS
Alright, buckle up, because we’re diving into the dark side. Lana and Claire? They both got that girlboss energy—but like, in a way you wouldn’t expect. It’s like, “Hey, I might be broken, but I’ll still break you if it suits me.” Lana’s gaslighting game? Legendary. She’s this broken beauty in every song, but she controls how you see her pain. You’re gonna feel bad for her, sure, but deep down, you know she’s manipulating that emotion like an expert. It’s not just about suffering; it’s about the performance of suffering. And honey, she’s pulling all the strings behind that sob story.
Claire’s got that shut up and sit down energy. She doesn’t need to scream. Nah, she operates quietly, but trust, the whole world is watching her every move. She’s got that god complex on lock. The way she plays people? Cold. It’s all about knowing exactly how to manipulate someone without them even realizing it. She can gaslight with a smile, gatekeep with a wink, and still be the queen of the game. People think they’re playing her? Nah, she’s already five steps ahead, making you dance to her tune. You don’t even see it coming.
These women live in the gray area between being the victim and the villain—and they own it. They’re masters of control, turning weakness into strategy, manipulation into power. Every move is a calculated performance, and we’re just lucky enough to watch them pull it off.
Lady Liberty Cries in Prada
You know that feeling when you think the American Dream’s gonna save you, but then it feels more like a trap in Prada? Yeah, that’s Lana and Claire, fam. They embody the myth of the American woman—that idealized, strong, free lady who’s supposed to have it all. But oh, honey, the flag promised freedom, and all they got were expectations that didn’t come with any real emancipation. Both of them live inside this contradiction where they’re expected to thrive under the weight of femininity, but the system is built to keep them boxed in.
Lana’s whole aesthetic is this haunting beauty wrapped in the disillusionment of the American Dream. The thing is, she’s the perfect symbol of what that myth does to women—wraps them in glitter and promises them the world, but then slowly crushes them with the weight of that image. Her lyrics aren’t just about longing or love; they’re about the haunting realization that the America we’re sold isn’t the one we’re living. She’s crying in Prada, because the dream of freedom and femininity is a joke—a game she plays but doesn’t win. It’s like, she’s beautiful, she’s tragic, and she’s the embodiment of a country that was never really for her.
On the other hand, Claire’s in power but still trapped. She’s the American Dream personified: educated, polished, successful, but at what cost? She’s expected to be perfect, not just to survive but to rule — and still, every move is calculated in a system that doesn’t want her to be a woman; it wants her to be a perfect machine. The myth of the American woman is that she’s free, but both of them know too well that freedom comes with a high price. Lady Liberty’s in Prada, but she’s weeping behind those designer shades.
Desire as a Political Statement
Desire isn’t just about love in Lana’s world. It’s a manifesto. For both Lana and Claire, desire is a weapon—a tool they use to control, manipulate, and ultimately get what they want. Think about it: Lana’s songs are ruthless in how they make you feel like the longing she’s singing about isn’t just romantic—it’s the core of how power works. That longing? It’s a demand. A demand for attention, control, and ultimately, validation. Desire drives the narrative of her life—and, damn, does it manipulate the story she’s telling.
Claire Underwood’s desire? Oh, it’s not sweet. It’s cold, calculated, and aimed straight at the jugular of power. She doesn’t just want Frank—she wants to shape him, control him. Every move is a strategy in the battle of who gets to call the shots. Her desire isn’t about romantic love; it’s about owning everything around her, including people. She knows how to twist that longing to her advantage. And the thing is—both these women, whether they’re singing about longing or making power plays, use desire like a chess piece. They know how to twist it into an advantage and bend it to their will.
Desire here isn’t sweet or pure. It’s raw, politically charged, and used to shape the world around them—they make love a tool, a weapon, and an unspoken pact that they both wield with deadly precision.
lana del rey and claire underwood—Built to Be Looked At
Let’s talk about the male gaze. Lana and Claire, both looked at and used for their beauty, but they know exactly how to turn that gaze into power. Lana has always been under that microscope. Whether it’s the music videos or her persona, her entire career is built around being watched—and she knows exactly how to use it. She turns the male gaze into her stage, but she doesn’t just perform for it. She owns it. By leaning into her sexualization, she creates a world where she’s the one controlling the narrative. That gaze? It’s a reflection of what society wants her to be, and she knows how to exploit it to get to the top.
And Claire? She’s a master at weaponizing the gaze. Don’t think for a second that she’s passive in the way she’s looked at. She uses her beauty as a tool, just like she uses her calm, controlled persona. Every move is a performance. Every smile is calculated. In a world where women are constantly watched, Claire has learned how to stay invisible to the gaze while still using it to get what she wants. She’s cold, but she’s also an object of desire-and in that tension, she wields more power than anyone realizes.
Both women exist in this strange paradox, where they’re constantly watched, but in their own way, they make being watched their superpower. They control the gaze, make it work for them, and turn it into another piece in their elaborate power play.
The Blonde Ambition Complex
Both Lana and Claire knew from the jump they had to create themselves as myths. Because, let’s be real, the moment you step into a spotlight that’s this bright, someone’s gonna try to tear you down. So what do they do? They sculpt their public personas into something untouchable, like some perfect myth. Lana, with her tragic beauty, becomes an icon of longing and lost love before the world can even define her. She makes herself an unreachable symbol—something more than human, something that represents the ideal that everyone else is chasing. But the truth? It’s all a carefully curated image of who she wants to be—or rather, who she wants us to believe she is.
Claire does the same thing, but her myth isn’t built on heartbreak — it’s built on strength, control, and ambition. She crafts herself as the woman who’s not just surviving the game but winning it. She’s untouchable, cold, calculating, and her image as the perfect power player is as important as the power itself. She curates her life like a tight, perfectly planned political strategy — the moment the world tries to knock her down, she elevates herself into myth.
Both of them became untouchable before anyone could try to break them. They created these larger-than-life personas to survive in worlds that would’ve eaten them alive. Now? They’re legends — and not just because of what they’ve done, but because of what they’ve made us believe about them.
The Dream and the Damage
The American Dream, huh? It’s a beautiful fantasy, but these two women? They exist in the wreckage of it. Lana’s America is one of broken promises, disillusionment, and a longing for something that was never real. Her lyrics are full of that existential yearning—that search for meaning in a world that sold her an idea, but never delivered on it. The Dream promised her a kind of freedom, but all she got was the weight of unmet expectations.
Claire, on the other hand, plays the game within the Dream’s walls. She’s at the top, but her life is built on a hollow version of success. She knows what the system promised her—but she’s not naïve enough to think it’s ever really hers. The cost of playing the game? Your soul. Your humanity. She is the American Dream, but it’s a dream that’s rotted from the inside.
Both of them are haunted by the idea of the Dream—the myth that America tells them they can achieve anything, be anyone, if they just play by the rules. But they know better. In the end, what they’re left with isn’t the Dream, it’s the damage. The cost of ambition, of wanting something bigger than yourself, and then realizing that it was always just a fever dream.
For more such fun and intriguing articles, visit HerCampus at MUJ.
And for a tour in my corner at HCMUJ, visit Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ!