For the world of 1982, those superpowers are the U.S. and U.S.S.R., with Afghanistan being the Cold War staging ground of the day. Between the month prior to the November 10th in which the season begins, and the February of 1989 in which the Soviet War in Afghanistan would officially end, Sylvester Stallone’s Rambo character will transition from a veteran hated by his country, to the savior of the “gallant people of Afghanistan.” “They want to make this our Vietnam,” the Jennings’ new handler, Gabriel (Frank Langella) warns them over Scrabble and ice cream. He’s a friendlier face for the Centre than we’ve seen the Jennings work with before, and he’s just one example of a season-wide change in strategies. As Tatiana (Vera Chernysheva), a mysterious new member of the Russian embassy makes clear at one point, “propaganda is more important than anything.”
For the Jennings themselves, a war of attrition is being fought over the heart and mind of one person in particular: daughter Paige (Holly Taylor). As a potential second generation illegal, Paige could do more for the cause than Philip or Elizabeth combined, but the struggle to control her future exposes a growing ideological schism between the two parents. It’s a conflict that reads as absurd on paper, yet hits on many tangible fronts. Removed from all the spycraft shenanigans, what makes the Jennings marriage the most fascinating on TV is how the complexity of their situation only brings into sharper relief those most basic questions of national and domestic identity. What does it mean to be a responsible citizen, or spouse, or co-worker, when holding to one allegiance sometimes means sacrificing the others? Does being a good parent entail making the world better for your children, or preparing them for the one they have right now?
The Americans not only asks the right questions, but knows how to do so in a manner that’s just as compelling. Daniel Sackheim directs the heck out of the first two hours, confidently imbuing efficient visual storytelling with a sense of understated formal grandeur. The very first scene of the season is dripping with theme statements if you’re looking for them, but the power of the series has been in how it subtly reclaims the techniques and symbolism of classic melodrama, delivering outsized emotion in an unassuming, pedestrian package. In the first episode, the camera panning a few inches and racking focus all of three feet reads like a shift into DEFCON 1; in the second, a candy bar unites two people on opposite sides of the Iron Curtain.
At the Television Critics Association earlier this month, network president John Landgraf envisioned a five-season plan for The Americans, and it’s hard not to imagine such an investment paying off. Chronologically, the show still has plenty of time left to explore its often brutal nook of Cold War history (episode two’s guide to corpse disposal is not for the squeamish), and the individual elements are as exemplary as they’ve ever been. Rhys and Russell are still giving two of the very best performances on TV, and if the first two hours are any indication, Noah Emmerich is going to have a big year as FBI agent Stan Beeman. But even as the show continues to sharpen itself to a finer point, there’s still the inescapable feeling that The Americans is building towards something great and catastrophic. At this rate, the pyramid Weisberg and Fields are building may end up being the most landmark addition to Cold War spy fiction since le Carré gave it the Circus.
