What Shireen was to Stannis, Dorne was to Benioff and Weiss

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episode 10, Game of Thrones, got, miodrag zarkovic, review, season 5

A review of “Mother’s Mercy,” the tenth episode of the fifth season of “Game of Thrones”

by Miodrag Zarković

Not that David Benioff and Dan Weiss necessarily realize it, but the decision to include Dorne in Season 5 of “Game of Thrones” was possibly their luckiest one ever. Essentially, the presence of the Dornish subplot presented their apologists with a precious opportunity to appear “objective” when they deal with long overdue criticism. For example: “I don’t think it was illogical of Sansa to agree to marry Ramsay, and I don’t share the notion that Stannis would never burn his daughter like that in the books, and the stabbing of Jon Snow was as powerful as in the novel, if not more so—but, hey, if you think I’m just too big a fanboy to ever acknowledge any flaw of the show, let me tell you, the Dorne material was really shameful this season, it was a disaster, and I can’t even express how disappointed I am in that specific part of the season; so, I’m objective, am I not?”

(In case you’re wondering, this was not a direct quote from any of the reviews, but if it actually resembles some of the “arguments” out there. Well, it was bound to happen.)

So, this review will address literally everything, except Dorne. We’ll go through all the other parts of “Mother’s Mercy,” the last GOT episode of the year, but the southernmost kingdom of Westeros will be left alone this time. It suffered too much already, as Benioff and Weiss’ version of a sacrifice to the Gods of TV Criticism.

Dorne is discussed enough elsewhere anyway. No need to open those wounds just to join the choir. Let show apologists handle Dorne.

And, of course, right at the start, we’re going to break that promise. Because, this is a “Game of Thrones” review, after all. People need to be shocked. And is there a better way to shock people than to manipulate them into thinking something, just so you can do exactly the opposite the first chance you get?

So, Dorne, here we come. Prepare your good wives. And that other group. Good daughters, of course. Who else?

Anyway, to say that Benioff and Weiss hate Stannis would be a huge understatement. By now, it’s evident they abhor the Baratheons as a concept. Not even the long-dead members of that royal family can rest in peace. See, what Myrcella’s “I’m glad you’re my father” little speech to Jaime actually indicates is that she’s euphoric not to be Robert’s daughter. Not just happy but truly overjoyed. Don’t let her relatively calm demeanor in that scene trick you: essentially, she doesn’t mind she’s been lied to all her life, or that she’s a product of incest. Or that neither she nor her brother have any claim to the throne their family occupies at the moment, which theoretically might put their lives in danger. Looks like not being Robert Baratheon’s daughter outweighs all the consequences that stem from the fact.

Also, it makes Robert even stupider in hindsight, because, besides him and possibly the High Septon, is there anyone in Westeros who didn’t figure out Jaime and Cersei’s dirty secret?

(Well, there actually was one more person: Tywin Lannister. But we’ll come back to him in the review of the entire season.)

At least, that’s how the entire angle about the twincest, this scene included, is written in the show. In Benioff and Weiss’ universe, it really isn’t a big deal. Only those backward Baratheons overblow the importance of Jaime and Cersei’s affair, but everybody else is more or less okay with it.

Like incest, kinship is also not a concern. Why would Trystane Martell’s cousins trouble their conscience with him at all? Why would his aunt Ellaria give a flying kiss about his wellbeing? Caring is for pussies! Though not for bad ones, apparently.

And that’s what the perception of family in GOT boils down to. It’s a vague connection between people with common ancestry, the connection that doesn’t actually oblige anyone to follow some strict rules of conduct and behavior. God forbid. Because the idea of family doesn’t translate too well onscreen, right? “The Godfather,” anyone? “The Sopranos”? Do we really need another epic failure of that kind?

Alright, kidding about Dorne is the easiest thing ever, but who are we kidding? Was the rest of the season substantially better than that “you need a bad pussy” brilliance?

Of course, it wasn’t. How can TV Sansa’s “If I’m going to die, let it happen while there’s still some of me left” line be taken more seriously than Tyene’s mindless vulgarity? Who talks like that? What does it even mean? “While there’s still some of me left”. . . Did an adult person really think such a line would add some gravity to TV Sansa’s supposedly tragic arc? You know, in order to be tragic, an arc has to exist in the first place. And if it lacks any basic logic whatsoever, it can never exist. And if that’s the case, no line, no matter how overloaded with words desperately covering for the lack of depth, can save it. Did an adult person honestly think such a line would help the audience forget the stupidity of the path that led Sansa to the current situation?

Is that kind of audience theoretically possible?

Looks like it’s not only possible, but very real, because the reports say that “Mother’s Mercy” was the most watched GOT episode ever. So, if numbers are anything to judge by, TV Shireen didn’t burn for nothing a week earlier. Her death at least attracted strong ratings, with people presumably expecting to see how the sacrifice was going to pay out for TV Stannis.

Was the audience satisfied with the result? Much more than Stannis himself, definitely. He was doomed, because at last he faced an opponent he couldn’t overcome with magic: logic.

Benioff and Weiss finally decided, and in the most awkward moment, to treat Stannis’ story logically, which meant that half of his forces deserted the lunatic who burns his own daughter for no reason. It wasn’t realistic, because the desertion happened with a ridiculous secrecy, but at least it was logical. And that’s precisely why the outcome was even more absurd.

In a way, that is exactly what Benioff and Weiss did with Sansa this season, too. Both her and Stannis’ arcs were destined by highly unreasonable, unexplainable, unacceptable choices they made: she agreed to marry into the family that betrayed and murdered her family, and he agreed to burn his only child as a sacrifice to a deity. And once they made their respective decisions, both Stannis and Sansa couldn’t help but suffer dearly, because from then on their arcs developed somewhat more logically: his campaign ended in a devastating defeat, and she was exposed to constant physical torture and humiliation by her husband.

And that’s the main problem with their arcs. Stannis’ TV fate proves why no person with any sanity left would even think about doing what he did to Shireen under those circumstances. Sansa’s TV ordeal proves why no person with any sanity left would ever agree to marry into a family of known traitors and usurpers. Ultimately, Sansa and Stannis prove why no writer with any talent should ever so much as consider writing something so stupid as their respective decisions this season.

There are some who disagree, naturally. On his “The Nerdstream Era” blog, Stefan Sasse took issue with my review of the infamous “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken” episode. Specifically, my notion that Ramsay not raping Sansa would be an illogical outcome once they’re married, Stefan found to be an example of logical fallacy, and he “took up the challenge” of providing a satisfying alternative that could make Sansa’s marriage to Ramsay work. He then describes what he calls several propositions, which, honestly, to me look like they all come to essentially the same thing: Roose forbids Ramsay to molest Sansa, and Ramsay has no choice but to obey.

But of course, just because an alternative can be described, it doesn’t mean it’s logical in any way. The very demand on Roose’s part would ring untrue, not the least because in the show there are no Northern lords, the reaction of which might trouble the Boltons. And besides, what PR problems would Roose worry about, when someone as informed as Littlefinger wasn’t able to find out anything about Ramsay? But even that aside, a villain who’s so obedient to his father isn’t exactly a villain anymore. Just compare Stefan’s proposal with the situation from the book, where Ramsay threatens Reek just because Roose is about to briefly take him away. And, no, Ramsay just can’t be compared to Joffrey, nor to the rest of Margaery’s husbands, which is something any reader—or show watcher—would have to agree.

But the biggest fallacy of Stefan’s argument is the very idea that two wrongs make something right. Like, if Sansa’s ridiculous acceptance to marry Ramsay is followed by the equally ridiculous PR concerns and Ramsay’s obedience, everything’s going to be fine. In other words, let’s put Sansa into some nonsensical arc, but we mustn’t infuriate Sansa’s fans so we’ll perform some additional acrobatics to elude the most logical outcome of the said nonsensical arc.

Well, if you don’t want to infuriate Sansa’s fans, how about not putting Sansa in an arc without any sense whatsoever? Keeping her away from Ramsay would be a good start, most probably, because that way she wouldn’t have to make a decision no reasonable being ever would.

And anyway, what’s this big reward Sansa was taken to Winterfell this season for? What was the big payoff? A jump from the walls? Is that how she avenges her family? Is that how she learns not to be a bystander any more? Is that how she won’t be running away all her life? Also, if TV Sansa is to eventually end in the same place as book Sansa (which is Benioff and Weiss’ self-announced intention for all the major characters at least), now she has to leave Jeyne Poole’s role and go back to Sansa’s book path—which clearly means her arc this season was nothing but a filler.

How contagious was the entire idea of TV Sansa in Winterfell is also evidenced by the utter destruction of Theon’s book arc. What Theon goes through in “A Dance with Dragons” is widely and righteously considered one of the highlights of the entire saga and one of the strongest ASOIAF claims for a place in a literary Pantheon. Atmospheric, suspenseful, highly disturbing and at the same time strangely poetic, armored with both political intrigue and supernatural elements, and commanded by perhaps the hardest personal struggle any character in the series had to overcome, those chapters are not only memorable as a reading experience but also very cinematic for a screen adaptation. Something would inevitably be lost in the transition, like Reek’s famous rhymes, but there’s enough other meat there to make a brilliant TV season’s arc without any alteration. What we witnessed in the past ten weeks, however, is not even a pale shadow of that arc. Partly because Benioff and Weiss were portraying Theon’s agony for two previous seasons (also in a very unsatisfying manner), and partly because this season Theon’s story had to share screen-time with that of Sansa (and, by extension, Littlefinger), they were all shorthanded in the end.

The only thing the Winterfell subplot this season “lacked” in comparison to the infamous Dornish one were some poorly choreographed fight scenes. And also, unlike Dorne, Winterfell was occupied by characters that weren’t just introduced at the beginning of the season. But if we put these differences aside, the story in and around the ancient seat of the Starks was really not a bit better than the Sand Snakes’ shenanigans. That is the “power” of TV Littlefinger’s plan for TV Sansa!

Meanwhile, TV Stannis was almost bearable in the first half of the season, which, given Benioff and Weiss’ well documented mistreatment of the character in the past, was a rather surprising turn of events. But, everything came to “order” in the last two episodes. As said, the logical fallout from Shireen’s sacrifice only made matters worse: of course that half the army (at the very least) is going to desert a monstrous zealot who burns his own daughter, and that is precisely why not even a religious zealot would do something so inhuman, not even if he’s totally emotionless toward his daughter, let alone if he actually does have feelings for her, as the show itself tried to establish early in the season. Even if TV Stannis is someone who’d choose ambition over familial love (and we have no reason to doubt such a description, since it’s Benioff himself who delivered it in the “Inside the episode” video), only an imbecile would confuse the Episode 9 situation with such a choice, just like Episode 10 ultimately proved. Having all that in mind, Stannis’ subplot this season really came close to the infamous Dorne, at least at the very end, which managed to be comically bad even without “bad pussies” in the offering.

So, Stannis and Sansa’s arcs this season make a pattern of incompetence of a sort. But it goes even beyond that. As an unlikely couple of tragic victims of this “adaptation,” Stannis and Sansa present the strongest case against everything “Game of Thrones” managed to destroy from its source material. These two characters are seldom analyzed in sync, but maybe they should’ve been, because together they reveal all the richness of Martin’s unique vision and the astonishing range of his storytelling genius. Between the two of them, you have everything there is to love about “A Song of Ice and Fire,” with Sansa’s being possibly the most intimate POV in the saga, and Stannis probably the least intimate but most epic perspective of the series (and he’s not even a POV character), and last but not least, the situation is changing with both of them, in that Sansa is more and more engaged in the dynastic war (of which she was part of against her will at first, but by now she seems to fully accept her involvement in), while Stannis’ choices are becoming more and more personal (if for nothing else, then because Davos, his father figure and conscience, is not with him at the moment to help him with decisions).

It is quite an “accomplishment” to mishandle both of them. It takes some kind of effort. My impression is that Benioff and Weiss hate Stannis, while they are completely disinterested in Sansa. But it could just as easily be the other way around: they hate Sansa, and it’s Stannis who interests them in no way. Or any combination in-between, really. But what is absolutely certain is that Benioff and Weiss understand and/or love neither Stannis nor Sansa.

But, is there anything they do love and understand about ASOIAF? It doesn’t appear so. They’re possibly in love with their twisted take on some of the characters, like Tyrion or Cersei or Margaery or Olenna, but not even their TV fates offer some extraordinary rewards to dedicated viewers. Like, in the season finale Tyrion was just handed a city to rule! How can that be even remotely engaging or intriguing for any true ASOIAF admirer? Book Tyrion fights for both his survival and basic dignity in almost every scene in ADWD, while his TV namesake receives Meereen on a plate only days after he reached the damn city! He even gets Varys once again. It is not a bit less ridiculous than Dorne, truth be told. And, by the way, Meereen also suffered from some abysmal choreography this season on several occasions, which is, again, completely comparable to the Sand Snakes and their action scenes.

Add to that Daenerys, and her character that was all over the place this season, and especially that last scene when Dothraki riders circle around her for some reason, and I honestly fail to see why was Meereen better than Dorne this season.

Was Brienne’s arc better than Dorne? Hardly. She was also cursed with nonsensical dialogue, involved in a ridiculous fight, and left aimlessly to wander between two other people’s plots: Sansa’s and Stannis’. Needless to say, none of her scenes resembled anything from her book chapters, which even if often underappreciated by some readers provide a pretty solid and eventful arc that could’ve made a strong TV season. Again, the viewers knew Brienne from before, and she wasn’t handling poisons but candles, but in reality, that’s all that separated her “arc” from that Dornish rubbish this season.

The least bad storylines were those in King’s Landing and Braavos, but that’s not to say they didn’t suffer from grave problems. Speaking of Arya, her final scene, in which she goes blind even though she didn’t consume any potion that might be responsible for the condition, but not before No One Who Looked Very Much Like Jaqen died for some reason, only to be instantly reborn in another same-looking body, was one more exercise in forced stupidity, created out of a wish to change the source material at any cost.

Meanwhile, in Westeros’ capital, the things ended much better than they started, because of the powerful Walk of Shame scene, that was—surprise, surprise—the most faithful one to the source material. In the name of that, let’s leave the rest of it to the review of the season as a whole.

And finally, the Wall. Where it all started. And where, as media reports suggest, TV Jon’s life actually ended. His arc was not ruined beyond recognition, like Sansa’s or Stannis’ or Jaime’s or Brienne’s (or Sam’s, for that matter). But it was one missed opportunity after another. Brilliant points from his ADWD storyline were either completely cut (his dealings with Bowen Marsh and other direct subordinates, for example, and also his gradual involvement in the Northern politics), or thoroughly underwhelming (the Wildings entering the realm), in order to give space to the show invention of the Battle at Hardhome, that ultimately ruined the climactic moment of the entire season: the stabbing of Jon. His supposed death in the show was so unearned, not only because his intention to confront Ramsay was omitted but also because the Hardhome experience was rendered meaningless in the show universe. Like, if the dramatic battle against the merciless enemy in full force, wasn’t a reason enough for the mutineers to at least delay their move against the Lord Commander, then it’s really not a surprise his direwolf is now called Olly, same as that annoying kid who managed to undo both Ygritte and Jon.

(Come to think of it, Ramsay does have his match finally. If anyone can stop him, it’s Olly. Better not disappoint this youngster, Mr. Bolton.)

So, how do TV Westeros and Essos look like at the end of Season 5? It’s a place where wars are decided by 20 good men. Where highborn girls willingly marry into families that destroyed their lives. Where children actually prefer to be products of incest. And where an entire city can be delivered to a complete stranger with a dark and mysterious past.

How did we exactly get to such a silly place? We’ll talk about that in three days, on Friday, when the review of the entire season, in a refreshing form proposed by the management of the site, will be posted here.

Is there anything we, as a community of ASOIAF admirers disappointed in this “adaptation” that seems back on its feet once again, can do to remedy the situation? You know, there actually might be something. More on that on Friday.

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Wronghome

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episode 8, Game of Thrones, got, miodrag zarkovic, review, season 5

A review of “Hardhome,” the eight episode of the fifth season of “Game of Thrones”

by Miodrag Zarković

(DISCLAIMER: It’d be tempting to blame the ladies who run this site for the fact that the promised second part of “Not a Review” is still not posted. With their track record of torture and abuse of poor, unprotected journalists, who’d have a single reason to doubt it? But the truth is that they are not to blame, it’s all my fault. Job and life got in the way, the piece is still not done, and I’m sorry for that. It will hopefully be finished in a few days and post it here. Meanwhile, back at the Wall…)

Creatively, to a lot of fans and critics alike it made sense to really like “Hardhome,” because they wanted and needed it to be good. Lately, the fifth season of “Game of Thrones” was almost universally received as a letdown, so it was on much-hyped “Hardhome” to save what could be saved. And, by the reaction it was received with—almost universal praise—it looks like the episode performed beyond expectations even.

A pity that it definitely ruined any connection to the source material in the process. There wasn’t much left of it even before the episode, but after “Hardhome” the show is not just a completely separate beast from the books: it’s a completely different universe now.

What this hour (and it was just seconds shy of one full hour, which is very rare for “Game of Thrones”) managed to betray, is possibly the fundamental quality of the “A Song of Ice and Fire” book series by George R. R. Martin. All the complexity of the novels, the sophisticated political intrigue, the social structures that bite, the layered and vivid characters, all that came from the most important decision an author can bring: to write a story that is not simplistic. And Martin did make that choice in the early `90s, just when he was about to start working on the series.

Without that decision, ASOIAF would’ve been an essentially different narrative. Perhaps it’d be a success even in that case. Simplistic stories can be remarkable, just like complex stories can be utter failures. Nothing is guaranteed, one way or the other. But it wouldn’t even resemble the ASOIAF we know today.

The paramount importance of that decision lies in the simple fact that an author must know what he wants to achieve. Otherwise, it’s all just random. And, once the decision is made, the author has to stick with it. When the process of writing ensues, it’s not just about creativity any more, but also a matter of discipline. Many a Siren will try to lure Odysseus away from the actual Odyssey and into some other arc. It’s on the author alone to resist those challenges and stay true to the initial idea.

As said, Martin made the call. It’s not only evident by the series itself but he also confirmed the choice famously stating, many times and in various occasions, that he wasn’t interested in a rather simple Good vs. Evil narrative. He wanted ASOIAF, although a fantasy epic, to be much more true to the real life than to the genre tropes:

“The battle between Good and Evil is a theme of much of fantasy. But I think the battle between Good and Evil is fought largely within the individual human heart, by the decisions that we make. It’s not like evil dresses up in black clothing and you know, they’re really ugly.”

That’s what the man said. His actual words, from an interview he gave back in 2011 when, after the show’s debut season, mainstream media got a hint that fantasy can be so much more than gathering all the good guys on one side and all the bad guys on the opposite corner and pitching them against each other. Such a revelation led quite a few journalists on a task of finding where did all that complexity come from, and, since every single element of the show that fascinated both the audience and the critics was directly taken from the source material (while, on the other hand, all the annoying stuff, like the infamous “sexposition,” was produced by the showrunners David Benioff and Dan Weiss), the research couldn’t help but end with George R. R. Martin. He was quite a popular person that summer, and in each interview he gave, he was asked how he had managed to create a world as multifaceted as the one ASOIAF is set in. And every time Martin’s answer was the same. Here’s another example, also from that time:

“Much as I admire Tolkien, and I do admire Tolkien—he’s been a huge influence on me, and his Lord of the Rings is the mountain that leans over every other fantasy written since and shaped all of modern fantasy—there are things about it, the whole concept of the Dark Lord, and good guys battling bad guys, Good versus Evil, while brilliantly handled in Tolkien, in the hands of many Tolkien successors, it has become kind of a cartoon. We don’t need any more Dark Lords, we don’t need any more, ‘Here are the good guys, they’re in white, there are the bad guys, they’re in black. And also, they’re really ugly, the bad guys‘.”

Now, just compare that stance of his to the last 20 minutes of “Hardhome,” and you’ll clearly see why that entire sequence, much hailed as a savior of the season or even the best thing the show has ever done, is so different from the source material “Game of Thrones” is supposedly adapting.

What the Hardhome battle is both in substance and on facade, is the one thing Martin didn’t want his saga to be recognized as: good guys (the handful of Black Brothers and thousands of Wildlings) against the bad guys (White Walkers and Wights in seemingly endless quantities). Truth be told, prior to the battle itself there were some tensions between various factions of the “good guys,” but the cataclysmic evil that soon avalanched on them rendered all those tensions, as poorly-built as they were, practically irrelevant. When the battle started, all that mattered was that the attackers, every single one of them, were the menace, while the Black Brothers and the Wildlings, every single one of them, were either fighting the menace or running away from it.

One might say the books are also progressing to the same spot. Ever since the prologue of the first novel, it’s clear that the battle against the Others is what will determine the fate of the whole of mankind. Therefore, it is only logical to expect a grand showdown between Good and Evil in the books, too. Does that make Martin a hypocrite, then?

Not really, because his words aren’t to be taken literally. Avoiding a cliché shouldn’t be the same as avoiding the basic reasons that has been driving the art of storytelling since time immemorial. A story must have a climax. An epic story must have an antagonist. The most reasonable climax of an epic is a battle against the antagonist, and for it to be memorable, the stakes at that point have to be as high as ever. Hence, the battle versus undoubted Evil is a natural conclusion of an epic saga. The journey there, however, is what can make all the difference in the world. The manner, the moment, the atmosphere in which the forces of Good are lined up, can go a long way in renouncing the cliché and staying true to Martin’s intent of avoiding simplicity.

It stands to reason that Martin is doing exactly that: once ASOIAF is completed, the Others will probably be recognized as the prime antagonists, which is how they were built up ever since the beginning, but if the story is completed in style, everything that happened before the climax will only make it more impactful and memorable.

And that’s why discipline is important. The battle of Good versus Evil has to be left only for the climax. It shouldn’t be truncated before that, or else it hurts the narrative logic that drives the entire story. In some other story, created with some other intention, the final battle could be delivered in smaller installments that precede the ultimate one. Here, in ASOIAF, that’s not what the author wanted and he worked very hard to avoid it.

Just recall all the battles Martin wrote in the books so far. There isn’t too many of them. In AGOT, there’s the Battle on the Green Fork, which could definitely be seen as an early showdown versus Evil, because at that stage the Lannisters were as good as antagonists, if not for the most important fact that the entire battle is told through the eyes of the single Lannister who’s by that time already proven not to be an antagonist. Everything Martin did with Tyrion up to that point was meant to portray him as a sympathetic character, which serves, among other things, as a prevention against cliché the author wants to avoid. Two victories of Robb’s army, which was logically recognized by a reader as the forces of Good at the time, therefore it happened off-page, and we’re only told about them later on.

In ACOK, there’s the Battle of the Blackwater, told through three POVs—Davos, Sansa and Tyrion—all with their specific perspectives and neither as an antagonist. A reader is welcome to pick a side, but Martin evidently restrained from doing it and thus once again avoided the dreaded cliché.

In ASOS, there’s the Battle at the Wall, and while Jon Snow is one of the main protagonists, the author went to great lengths to convey both the ambiguous feelings Jon harbors for the enemy and also the perspective of the Wildlings themselves, with whom Jon had spent much time in the recent past.

And that’s it. Three big battles so far in the series, and in each of them the author covered multiple angles in order to rule out the Good vs. Evil context. Of course, it was deliberate and in service of the coming showdown reserved for the climax.

Also, recall that one instance where the early battle against the Others could’ve been written: at the Fist of the First Men, when Jeor Mormont’s ranging expedition is attacked. The battle itself is skipped, which some readers deem a mistake. The mistake, however, would’ve been to depict the battle, for the same reason the depiction of Robb’s victories would have. (And, anyway, opting to deliver the aftermath of the battle through Sam’s first POV chapter was definitely not the easy way out.)

The show abandoned that path for good, with the battle in “Hardhome” that was like the textbook case of a clash in which the sides were already and clearly picked by the authors. As already stated, that is the betrayal of the narrative logic the source material’s driven by.

In another story, a move like that wouldn’t necessarily be bad in theory. But for the story that was meant to be an adaptation of ASOIAF, that was all kinds of wrong. And that’s why, after “Hardhome,” GOT and ASOIAF don’t even belong to the same universe anymore. It’d be like remaking “Apocalypse Now” but with a skirmish between Kurtz and Willard somewhere around the midpoint: no matter how effective the added scene might be, it’d inevitably change the story in its core. Or, like remaking “The Sopranos” having Dr. Melfi engage in an affair with Tony for a little while.

Not that GOT viewers minded the change. The reaction to the episode points to a conclusion that, perhaps for the first time this season, Benioff and Weiss managed to satisfy their audience. Which, in turn, means exactly what it sounds like: the show’s audience is by now completely different to the books’ audience.

It doesn’t mean the book readers don’t or shouldn’t watch the show, or vice versa. But regardless of how much they do overlap, those are still different audiences, in the sense that an ASOIAF reader can also watch “The Walking Dead” and enjoy it even, but for reasons that have nothing to do with his/her interest in ASOIAF. It was pretty clear from the early days of the show, but now it’s just too damn obvious, that ASOIAF and GOT are consummated for vastly different rationales. Sometimes you want just sex; sometimes you want to spend the entire life with the one you love; the former may lead to a decent marriage, and the latter may end in an emotional disaster, but no person with healthily developed sentiments would ever confuse the two.

Analyzing GOT on its own is, therefore, a completely futile assignment at this point. Why would anyone put a strictly sexual relationship under scrutiny? They meet, they have sex, they part ways until the next time. That’s it. Nothing to talk about. You can film the intercourse and later watch it, share the video with friends even, but any reasonable interest ends there.

Why talk about Dany and Tyrion’s scenes then? Of course they’re offensively stupid if you think about them, but they’re not there to be thought about. They’re there for people who enjoy simply seeing Dany and Tyrion on screen at the same time. Whatever he or she said, it doesn’t matter. They’re interacting and that’s all that is important.

Why discuss TV Sansa and TV Theon? Of course she behaves in a way that creatively makes sense to the showrunners because that’s how they wanted her to behave; whether her behavior is logically sustainable or not, that’s a completely different issue that, honestly, doesn’t matter at all. Same with Theon, who not so long ago bit his true sister, but now breaks before his foster one: it’s not supposed to make any sense, other than that “creative” one Benioff illustrated so vividly.

TV Ramsay will do whatever the showrunners’ famous creativity wants him to do. He’s going to kill Stannis. Or get himself killed. Or neither. But why bother with it? It’s just a casual relationship. You can get in bed with TV Ramsay, or find another sex buddy in some other story, just don’t think about any of it.

One zombie is stopped by an arrow, the next one eats arrows for breakfast; the Thenn leader hates Jon Snow so much he opts to face the White Walkers on his own, but minutes later the same Thenn leader sacrifices himself for Jon Snow; a group of zombie kids patiently wait for that young wildling mother to make up her mind about fighting them, and only after she realizes she can’t they kill her; and zombies are afraid of sea water for some reason . . . But so what? It is not supposed to make any sense at all. Creatively, Benioff and Weiss are absolutely certain this Hardhome business was a great idea, because they wanted it to happen.

And they’re clearly not alone. They found their sex buddies again. The relationship was in a little crisis for the past seven weeks, but now everything’s okay, because, obviously, zombies are the most powerful aphrodisiac the medium of television has to offer at this point. Good for them. All of them: zombies, Benioff and Weiss, their sex buddy of an audience. Honestly.

For the rest of us, if we’re so hell-bent on analyzing things, we can talk about all the ways GOT keeps betraying its source material week after week. But analyzing the episodes on their own? No, thanks. It’s someone else’s sex party. No reason to spoil it.

Not a Review, Part I

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episode 7, Game of Thrones, got, miodrag zarkovic, season 5

An article that has almost nothing to say about “The Gift,” the seventh episode of season five of “Game of Thrones”[i]

by Miodrag Zarković

It’s fitting that, when discussing something originally created by the mind of George R. R. Martin, alliances are not so easy to form. Enemy of your enemy doesn’t have to be your friend in any way.

In the matters of “Game of Thrones,” a TV show that was supposed to be an adaptation of Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” book series, my enemies are David Benioff and Dan Weiss, the two showrunners. Needless to say, they’re not really my enemies. I wish them no harm. I present no threat to them or anyone they love or care for. I’m just regularly appalled by the dismal results they produce in HBO’s hottest item of the decade and by the frustrating disrespect for the source material they display week in, week out. Nothing more and nothing less. It’s not a “life or death” situation, but it is a serious issue.

Is then the sudden, long overdue, and very strong critique of their show, that surfaced ten days ago, a reason to celebrate?

Well, no. Not really. For the same reasons one couldn’t enjoy those misplaced complaints some four years ago, following the second episode of the debut season of the show. The episode, titled “The Kingsroad,” ended with the execution of Lady, Sansa Stark’s direwolf, and immediately after the credits rolled internet went ablaze with accusations from thousands of viewers that the show is advocating animal cruelty and that they won’t watch it again. The controversy was so big, Martin himself had to react on his “Not a Blog” and remind everyone that: 1) the dog that played Lady was actually not hurt in the scene, and 2) the kid who played Mycah, the poor butcher’s boy who was also slain in the episode, was okay too, in case someone was wondering. Possibly ashamed by Martin’s sarcastic remark, the complainers stopped with their rage, but it was an early sign that something’s very off with the public perception of this show. A legion of viewers truly thought they had to defend the species of direwolves from the man who actually brought them back to life in his saga. Yes, GOT was a strange journey from the very beginning.

TV critics were not too different from common folks. See, ahead of each season, critics are given screeners, e.g. a certain number of episodes in advance, so they can prepare both previews and early reviews. For the debut season, they received the first six episodes. The vast majority of them expressed their positive impressions of the show, hailing production values, interesting plot twists, a grittiness that was surprising for a fantasy show, good acting, and especially Peter Dinklage’s performance as Tyrion. Well, there was one exception on the last account. One critic was openly displeased with Dinklage’s performance, most of all with his accent. Some viewers also noticed the problems Dinklage, an American, had with the British accent and by extension with the delivery of some lines, but critics, apart from that one, reached the consensus that the Tyrion actor was a revelation. Here’s the catch: the one critic that disagreed was writing her reviews right after watching each episode. Opposite to other critics, she penned her reactions before watching the next episode, and she didn’t want to “correct” them afterwards, even if she changed her opinion on a particular issue later on. Her colleagues, on the other hand, just binge-watched the six screeners and only then went back and wrote respective reviews for each of the episodes. And, naturally, the sixth episode, titled “A Golden Crown,” left the biggest impression on them, because it actually was the last fresh material they’d seen. And, truth be told, it was the episode Dinklage excelled in, with his dealings with Mord and his trial at the Eyrie as high points.

In short, that may very well be the explanation for the Dinklage euphoria that accompanied the first season and practically lasts to this day. The critics, save that one (who was tastelessly attacked on show-dedicated sites as a “traitor”), simply didn’t pay too much attention to “details” like actors’ delivery and cared much more for their general feelings on the material. Because Tyrion was the unexpected hero of the last screener they received and watched, it was easy for them to single him out as the stand-out among the cast, even though his performance in the earliest episodes was far from remarkable.

At the time, I couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if the critics were given seven instead of six episodes. Would Jason Momoa as Khal Drogo, who pretty much owned the seventh hour with his war speech after the attempt on Daenerys’ life, become the favorite of the critics and receive an Emmy later on? What would’ve happened if there were only four screeners? Would Michelle Fairley, with her striking turn in the scene in which her character Catelyn Stark captures Tyrion, receive the biggest acclaim in that scenario? We’ll never know, of course, but the fact that the strongest character in the last screener reviewers received ahead of the first season became the critics’ darling and, later on, favorite of the showrunners as well (who went on to write a number of invented TV scenes that seemed to serve Dinklage first, the story itself a distant second), could be more than just a coincidence.

At any rate, this showed that TV critics aren’t to be too trusted either, at least when it comes to “Game of Thrones.”

The rest of the season only strengthened the feeling. The beheading of Ned Stark was universally praised as a revolutionary move for the TV industry, in that no show before GOT had killed its main character in the first season. Back then, however, critics weren’t asking the question that by nowadays seems like the most frequent one about GOT: was Ned’s death gratuitous, e.g. just for the shock value? Was it meant just to take viewers by surprise and send a signal that anything can happen on this show (a thought often rephrased as “Anyone can die in GOT”), or did it carry some higher importance?

A pity, really, because the answer was there all the time, offered by the showrunners themselves, in the now infamous “Inside the episode” videos and regular media interviews. In regards to Ned’s death, all they could talk about was how utterly shocking and disturbing it was supposed to be. (This is the exact quote: “It’s great to be surprised in that way, and I only hope that the people who come into this show without having read the books will have the same Holy shit response that I had when I read the book, because it was a big Holy shit for me.” Dan Weiss, eloquent as ever.) Not a word on some thematic importance, some sophisticated meaning, some subtle message if you will. No, TV Ned died solely to convey how dangerous and merciless the world of GOT is, which really is just a code word for a successful attempt to shock the viewers beyond their wildest imagination.

And pretty much the entire first season served that one purpose: to portray what a dark and unforgiving setting the show managed to create. “No good deed goes unpunished,” another direct quote, this time by Benioff, about Mirri Maz Duur effectively killing Drogo after Dany saved her.

But why would such a setting be interesting in the first place? Why would the audience care for the world in which no good deed goes unpunished? What artistic or philosophical significance could individual fates in that environment possibly have for the viewers? What was supposed to separate “Game of Thrones” from horror rides in amusement parks?

All those questions were left not only unanswered, but practically unasked, during the first ten episodes. Even the last scene, in which Daenerys stands up amidst the ashes with three little dragons on her, was hailed as a triumph and “the most effective” usage of a naked body in recent memory. Apparently, nobody had a problem with the obvious failure of the scene, e.g. its chronological discontinuity represented by the fact that Dany enters the pyre at night and emerges from it on daylight. Those rare viewers that didn’t particularly like such a break in continuity were easily convinced by the showrunners that it was a necessity, because of some difficulties with special effects.

As if it was impossible to insert the red comet as the reason behind the sudden light. Yes, the actual red comet: it appears in the books, too, and it was heavily shown in the very next episode, the premiere of the second season, so it’d probably be much more logical to have a bright comet shining on the site, instead of making the entire khalasar sleep for a few hours while Dany burns.

The critics and the viewers, however, were thrilled. It’s a fantasy show that doesn’t hesitate to kill its main characters, after all. Who gives a damn if there’s no logic for some of the most instrumental moments in the story? Who cares if a crucial political decision (King in the North) takes no more than 30 seconds to be reached, just so we can have that endless “Naked whore exits Pycelle’s chamber” scene, or that even more futile verbal sparring between Littlefinger and Varys? It’s a show about some dreaded world in which anyone can be killed at any given moment and honor is just a shortcut to an early grave and everything’s bleak and everyone’s cruel and nothing is sacred . . . We need that world, so we can favorably compare our own reality to it and feel great about ourselves. Therefore, it’s a brilliant show. It has to be. Right?

The sad truth is that, just like countless other shows and movies, the first season of GOT really offered not much more than pure escapism. And was hailed for it.

A very small minority was disappointed. The corresponding book (those days it was still possible to recognize one, at least) offered a multitude of finer explanations and explorations that went well beyond that “You didn’t see that coming, did you?” pettiness that is sometimes confused with good storytelling, but almost none of those found its way into the show. Those that did seemed to exist on screen despite the showrunners’ intentions and not because of them. But most were missing. There was no connection to the past (Ned’s dream, for example) that determines the present. The importance of one’s heritage was practically erased, most notably from Ned’s arc for which it was the most important aspect in the books; the one exception was the character who was only bound to appear inconsistent because of that later on—Tywin. There was no underlying humanity in, say, the Night’s Watch, where TV Alliser’s cheap “Come winter, you’ll die, like flies” speech had way more gravity than Jon standing up for Sam and securing him a place on the Wall (the second part was actually omitted).

Sadly, rarely anybody seemed to care. Cersei speaks of some dead infant? The Trident scene was amateurishly filmed? Doesn’t matter, an alleged animal cruelty in the same episode needs be addressed. Ned was robbed of his dream sequence and given only one scene in the dungeon? Doesn’t matter, everybody just loved he was killed. People are going to be confused about battles and war strategies and army movements and secessions and complicated political relations between the kingdoms in the realm? Don’t worry, look how strongly everyone hates Joffrey!

The second season came with only bigger problems. Instead of delivering a rather complex but enlightening back-story about his troubled upbringing that left eternal consequences on his personal views on deities, TV Stannis was literally teased by Melisandre into a sexual intercourse. And on top of everything, Bryan Cogman, a trusted accomplice of Benioff and Weiss, was actually angry when asked about the decision to go overt with the Stannis/Mel sexual affair, opposite to the books where it’s only hinted at: he openly revealed that the two of them also have sex in the novels, despite the fact the positive confirmation is still to come in the source material, strong hints notwithstanding. He, who’s always so careful not to spoil anything from the future episodes, actually didn’t hesitate to spoil the books in order to defend the show’s need for nudity and sex scenes.

This is not about being a Stannis fan, of course. In case somebody’s interested, I’m not, by the way. Technically speaking, I’m a fan of all the characters. Even Ramsay: I literally can’t wait to read the next chapter he or some letter of his appear in, which probably makes me a fan of Ramsay, too. So no, I’m not a Stannis fan strictly speaking, but I was shocked by the sad truth that this “adaptation” is headed by the men who find Stannis’ alleged sex life much more interesting than his religious beliefs. He is the closest ASOIAF comes to Prometheus: he wants something given by the gods (the position of a monarch), though not to serve deities but the realm (e.g. humans), and there’s a fire involved heavily in his arc . . . And yet, in the show he’s reduced to a power-mad warlord who can’t control his sexual impulses. But, in battle he’s the first to climb the besieged walls, without a helmet even, so the show won that round, apparently.

Arya’s Harrenhal sequence was deformed into a vehicle for two actors to appear together on screen. Sansa’s arguably bravest deed (saving Dontos) disappeared after the initial gesture, along with some of Sandor’s lines that—again!—went Littlefinger’s way. Jon was learning how to be an idiot whom Ygritte can best in any way. Tyrion was busy with grammar dilemmas and not with actual ruling. Jaime was preoccupied with murdering his relatives for no reason at all. Theon was realizing the life without Ramsay has no closure—literally! Robb and Dany’s respective arcs were seen as improvements of the source material, because, apparently, it’s better to have moronic characters and nonsensical twists in more scenes than believable characters and tight stories delivered in less . . . sorry, fewer memorable scenes. And Bran and Rickon stopped being important to anyone. That’s the outline of the “season of romance,” as Benioff called it, and, again, hardly anyone complained. It was still the show with horrible things happening to everyone and bad guys were still winning. What’s not to like about it?

Season 3 came a year later, with the scene Benioff and Weiss always emphasized as the main reason they went in this “adaptation” to begin with. Without going into details, here’s just one, often overlooked example, of what the writing in the show looked like by then: when Robb is informed by Talisa she’s pregnant, she asks him: “You’re angry with me?” Seriously, someone in the writing team thought it’s a theoretically possible line in a world that has no idea of anti-baby pills and little of other forms of contraception. (The scene belongs to the episode written by Martin himself, but, until proven otherwise, I’m positive the man didn’t write a single line for the abomination called Talisa, and the scenes often get shifted between episodes anyway.)

By the way, Benioff and Weiss’ most beloved book scene, the Red Wedding, was so gratuitous in the show that in the end it was obvious the infamous Talisa was added mainly for the massacre to be even more shocking, by having her repeatedly stabbed in the belly.

Once again, the critics managed to largely miss or purposely avoid all the low points of the show. Occasionally, someone wrote about the assassination of this character or that one, which was a big step of course, but it was still an exception and not the rule. The vulgar honeymoon between GOT and the critics was still far from over.

And then, last year, something happened. The romance between the media and the show abruptly paused. The reason was the scene in episode 3 of Season Four, depicting the now infamous intercourse between Jaime and Cersei in the sept, right by Joff’s corpse.

“Rape!” yelled the critics in fury, every single one of them. And, if one didn’t know better from the books, it actually looked like a rape. Cersei’s resisting at first, but Jaime doesn’t want to stop and she eventually surrenders. For the unsullied eye, it could look like nothing but the forced sex in which one party was clearly violated. The crew, however, claimed something else. When the scandal broke, the showrunners, the director of the episode and the actors themselves kept saying the scene wasn’t meant to be seen as a rape.

I remembered the case with Lady’s death in Season 1 (not the least because Martin himself once more felt the need to react and remind everyone the scene in his book is written way differently), and realized once again there are two sides making strange claims, neither having any grasp whatsoever over whatever the hell they’re talking about.

Let’s start with the crew first. It’s truly something special, though really not in a good way, when you manage to film a scene and practically everyone sees it differently than you do. That’s quite a milestone in the history of TV incompetence. As far as memory serves, no other show, or movie for that matter, managed to unintentionally convey something so different from the original idea. There’s a lot of unintentionally funny moments in the history of motion pictures, but before this there was probably no unintentional rape scene. Everyone who wrote, directed and edited the said scene, should really go back to the basics of their jobs and start the career all over again. Some things really can’t be fixed, only reset, and this is obviously such a case.

On the other hand, even if we agree it was a rape (and, again, to anyone who didn’t possess the knowledge from the books the scene could look like nothing else), I’m still to hear why any Unsullied critic/viewer was upset over it. Isn’t this the show in which everyone can be killed, or maimed, or brutalized? Or raped? How was an Unsullied to know if such a scene will lead to any meaningful conclusion or not? If we look at the show as a separate entity from the books—which is a line every show lover, TV critics included, kept parroting all these years—there was simply no way to tell what the show intended to do with this development in Jaime and Cersei’s relationship.

As for book readers, this scene could be just the last straw in a long string of serious misinterpretations of Jaime’s character—similar to last week’s situation with Sansa. If one’s concerned with the way Benioff and Weiss are adapting Jaime Lannister, one was bound to be unhappy ever since the second episode of the first season (the scene in which Jaime, a member of the Kingsguard, mocks Jon and the very concept of the Night’s Watch), angry ever since the murder of cousin Alton in Season 2, and outraged after witnessing the humiliation Jaime suffered in that duel with Brienne in Season 3. To start attacking the show only then and there, over that one scene? That didn’t sound convincing to me back then, and it doesn’t sound any more convincing now.

And the best thing is, it’s pretty much evident Benioff and Weiss were speaking the truth when they said it wasn’t meant to be a rape.

I don’t believe them when they say they love and respect Martin’s books, because with every given episode they’re just proving they’re much more in love with the garbage they invent. I don’t believe them when they say they had to make this change or that one because the corresponding source material wouldn’t look good on TV: with every given episode they prove how little they know of any medium at all, be it literature or television. I don’t believe when they say weather conditions forced them to give Sandor’s lines to Littlefinger, because the scene itself proves it couldn’t be the case.

But when they say they didn’t write Jaime raping Cersei, I believe them. They were just trying to solve the mess they created with their Cersei. You see, TV Cersei loves her children. It’s not only she who recognizes it, but basically everyone around her agrees. Even Tyrion, who openly hates her, admits she’s a loving mother. Why they wanted her that way, I can only guess, but the fact is that a loving mother would never have sex right by her son’s dead body. No. Freaking. Way.

Ahead of the fourth season, Benioff and Weiss figured it out, or more probably someone told them. And they saw they were in a trap. It was one of those butterfly effects Martin was warning them about. Book Cersei is obsessed only with herself and, while she doesn’t hate her children and, as Martin once told, she sees them as extensions of herself rather than as individuals she loves, she really sees no problem in having sex with Jaime right by Joff’s dead body. Jaime, who’s a POV character in that chapter, outright says he feels nothing for Joffrey, which is a clear signal Cersei also doesn’t, not really, because otherwise she wouldn’t engage in intercourse with her lover in the most inappropriate of moments and at the most inappropriate of places. Anybody who ever grieved for anyone can testify to that: just ask yourself if you would be able to have sex right by the fresh corpse of your loved one. That is why the intercourse in the book is clearly consensual, just like the author explained—because book Cersei doesn’t love her children, at least not in the most common meaning of the word.

TV Cersei, on the other hand, loves her kids. That’s how Benioff and Weiss created her pretty much from the start. And then, facing the sept scene, they realized they can’t have her in a consensual sex with Jaime in those circumstances. To the Unsullied viewers, who for years watched Cersei as this loving mother, that would be extremely odd. So, talented as they are, Benioff and Weiss tried to fix their mess by having Jaime somewhat more forceful at the beginning of the scene. And just at the beginning. That’s how they operate: a loving mother would never have a consensual sex with her lover right by their son’s corpse . . . but, if he pushes her a little . . . now we’re talking! It doesn’t start as consensual, but it ends like that. Problem solved!

Trying to preserve their twisted characterization of Cersei, they ruined the character of Jaime, once more. Granted, instead of dodging a little storm, they caught the big one. Butterfly effect. Martin was warning them. They didn’t listen. Their funeral. Not an atom of mine felt sorry for them. Remember, they’re my enemies.

But I also couldn’t side with the enemies of my enemies in that case. All those critics that crucified Benioff and Weiss obviously had some agenda, but their agenda was not something that in any way corresponded with one of mine: the love for the ASOIAF books. Book purism, if you will.

In that controversy from a year ago, book admirers were the only side that wasn’t represented, other than in Martin’s brief statement on “Not a Blog” and on fan forums. The scene was discussed either from the perspective of show apologists, who continue to claim there’s nothing wrong with it and everyone should just have complete trust in Benioff and Weiss’s skills, or from the perspective of politically correct media that pursued their own interest, which wasn’t much different from the already mentioned “animal cruelty” scandal after “The Kingsroad.”

Something similar happened last week, with the new controversy, this time around TV Sansa’s rape. Contrary to last year’s situation, there is no doubt this time—it was a rape. Theon’s face confirmed it clearly, along with Sansa’s own reaction in this week’s episode, “The Gift.” Contrary to last year, Benioff and Weiss are silent this time around. Contrary to last year, some media outlets are not only listing silly accusations, but openly declaring they’re going to stop covering/promoting the show from now on. Contrary to last year, some other media outlets are determined to justify Benioff and Weiss by throwing some silly accusations of their own about other people’s accusations. In short, everything seems different this year, except from one detail: again, nobody was talking on behalf of those who love the source material, both Sansa fans and the rest.

(to be continued before the next episode)

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[i] Just like the headline and the subtitle say, this was not meant to be a standard review. However, it wasn’t a decision made just because of the gravity of last week’s controversy but also for practical reasons. “The Gift” was, truth be told, an unbelievably dull episode, in which the show reused all the nonsensical aspects that plague the current season. The one refreshing thing is that Dorne was probably not the most moronic part of the episode, thought they did try hard to preserve the status, both with Myrcella’s almost Talisa-like outburst at her “uncle” Jaime, that ironically contained the most truthful line of the entire subplot (“Why is it happening at all?”), and with the poison triggered by the sight of boobs. Alas, the stupidest sequence has to be the Tyrion/Jorah weekly adventure. That cheap attempt at a “Gladiator” rip-off, combined with Tyrion’s sudden martial prowess that was not an unintentional rape but was certainly unintentionally ridiculous (and don’t forget a complete nonentity releasing him at the most convenient of moments), has to be included in textbooks as a perfect example of dishonoring not just one but basically two source materials. Congratulations, Benioff and Weiss, you again managed to outdo yourselves. The rest of the episode was just a bridge between the nonsense seen in the first half of the season and the final three episodes, therefore, it will probably be addressed in the coming reviews, when it will be put in the context.

Unbroken, Unbent, Unbroken, Unbowed, Unbowed, Unbent…

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episode 6, Game of Thrones, got, miodrag zarkovic, review, season 5

A review of “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken,” the sixth episode of the fifth season of “Game of Thrones”

by Miodrag Zarković

(A small forward: Years ago, David Benioff and Dan Weiss were asked who’s their favorite character in the books. Many were surprised when they answered it’s Theon Greyjoy. Before you finish this review, perhaps you’ll agree with me that there’s a damn good reason they’re so in love with the only remaining son of Balon Greyjoy. And now, let’s go to the review.)

“But it also happened in the novels!” has to be the most hypocritical phrase ever uttered by those blindly in love with everything they see in “Game of Thrones.” The fact that the show’s supposed to be an adaptation of the “A Song of Ice and Fire” book series by George R. R. Martin, is something they remember and recall only when they think it suits them—while in the very next moment they can shamelessly claim it’s actually good that GOT deviated as much and that it owes no fealty whatsoever to its source material.

The closing scene of “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken,” the sixth episode of Season 5, is one of those instances. Ramsay and Sansa’s wedding night bears some strong similarities with the corresponding scene in the books, claim these show-loving folks.

For the sake of argument, let’s agree that there actually is a corresponding scene in “A Dance with Dragons,” in which Ramsay Bolton does have sex with his new bride (though not Sansa, but her best friend Jeyne Poole), and that poor creature once known as Theon Greyjoy is also present and playing a part in the horror Ramsay orchestrates. In fact, not only that the scenes do resemble each other in quite a few ways, but also, what happens in the novel is even more disturbing than what Ramsay did onscreen.

So, one might ask, why is the show scene getting this negative reaction the book scene was spared from? Without a doubt, book Ramsay’s wedding night was recognized as one of the most disgusting moments in a saga not lacking in them, but it never received such a deep contempt its show counterpart is met with. Why is that so?

Now, David Benioff and Dan Weiss, the two showrunners, quite possibly don’t have any real answer to that question. And that is the saddest aspect of the entire “Game of Thrones” endeavor!

All Benioff and Weiss could offer would probably amount to: “People are just upset that it isn’t as in the book.” That is what show apologists keep repeating ever since the episode aired, after all. And they even go further, accusing show complainers of some kind of inhuman favoritism: “You were cool with Jeyne going through what Sansa tasted in the show, so why are you bothered all of a sudden? Is it because you care just for Sansa and not for Jeyne?”

In other words, they wonder why is Ramsay brutalizing Sansa Stark more upsetting than the same Ramsay brutalizing Jeyne Poole.

The answer is, however, quite a simple one: storytelling is really not the same as legality. Under the law, book Jeyne would deserve at least as big a compensation as TV Sansa, for the crime committed against both of them by Ramsay Bolton. But in a narrative way, book Jeyne is something completely different to TV Sansa, because a reader’s sympathy is not earned by the letter of law, but by inspiring him/her to bond with the character, and that takes a skill, or time, or, most usually, both.

Her brief appearance in the first book of the series “A Game of Thrones” aside, Jeyne Poole became a character not before she was introduced to Theon/Reek in “A Dance with Dragons.” Even though it is soon revealed, through scarce but precious exposition, what a nightmare she lived in ever since Littlefinger took her under his wing, only when she’s presented to Theon as “Arya Stark” is Jeyne’s real arc launched. And, like with many characters in ASOIAF, for poor Jeyne things first become worse before (if at all?) they get better. Things become way worse for her, actually, because what Ramsay submits her to is truly devastating—but, in a way, it also serves to lift Ramsay’s arc, because, in all fairness, he’s also relatively a newcomer at that point, and any insight into his mind and mentality is valuable.

So, when Ramsay brutalizes Jeyne on their wedding night in ADWD, it is actually the first time we see both of them in their respective roles: Ramsay as this unprecedented sadist whose menace is so all-consuming not the least because of the almost casual, effortless way he inflicts irreparable damage on any human being that had the misfortune to stand in his proximity, and Jeyne as a deeply traumatized individual who is surprised there’s something even worse than what she’s endured previously. In those haunting lines, Ramsay and Jeyne are fully realized as new, but important characters, worthy of readers’ full attention and despise (Ramsay) and empathy (Jeyne).

And then, there’s the third character, Theon, a.k.a. Reek, who’s forced by Ramsay to take part in the brutalization of Jeyne. Somewhere between the wedded couple, in the sense that he’s to be somewhat despised for his past crimes but also somewhat felt sorry for because of the constant psychological and physical humiliation he suffers from his “beloved” Ramsay, Theon is, actually, also debuting in his “new role.” A familiar face from the very beginning of the saga and a POV character in “A Clash of King,” Theon is revisited in ADWD and, at first, all we see are the horrific consequences on his mental and physical integrity left by Ramsay’s treatment. We witnessed some of that treatment in the first half of the book, but only when Ramsay orders him to prepare Jeyne for the marriage consummation the full extent of the torture Theon experienced in the Dreadfort is finally comprehended in full measure.

So, in the book scene, unsettling as it was, all three participants were fleshed out in unforgettable details and in the roles we’ve never quite seen them in before. From the pure narrative aspect, that scene is as effective as any other in ASOIAF, which does say a lot. With some other characters, something similar could look unearned, or cheap, or shallow, or manipulative, but with these three it was nothing but brilliant in its obvious depravity. When you’re trying to show the worst in humanity, that is how you want to do it, because otherwise you might as well be promoting it.

The corresponding scene in the show, however, is the polar opposite. In it, there was no character progression to speak of. As a matter of fact, for two of the participants it was just a repetition, just more of what these characters are already associated with and for a long time, while for the third one it was a clear regression, the return to past misery and then some more.

TV Ramsay was already there. In fact, he never left the place: between maiming Theon, killing random girls, having violent intercourses with his supposed girlfriend Myranda and flaying random lords, he barely had time for anything other than his sadism; even his conversations with Roose, that might’ve been useful for the creation of at least some perspective in this torture porn that poses as an arc, were kept to a minimum.

TV Theon was already there. In fact, he never left the place ever since Season 2. All he’s been doing these past years is witnessing or tasting Ramsay’s sadistic cruelty.

TV Sansa was not exactly there, but she was near enough. She’s been in a very similar place for more than two seasons, between Ned’s beheading and Joffrey’s death. And then she was taken from there and put on what looked like a different path. The new path was silly, of course, with several truly ridiculous elements like Littlefinger’s helplessness in the investigation into Lysa’s death or Sansa’s new dress code, but it did look like a path on its own. Alas, this season the path started meandering and, eventually, it transformed itself into . . . the arc of another character from another storyline! And to make matters worse, it reached a place that very much looks like the one TV Sansa was in already: in the hands of a merciless psychopath who takes pleasure in hurting her.

All of which means that, because of two decisions by Benioff and Weiss (to start showing the cruelty of their Ramsay and the torturing of their Theon as early as in third season, and to have their Sansa take the arc of book Jeyne), TV Winterfell is aimlessly repetitive. Since it’s simultaneously garnered with a lot of violence and sadism, it’s also cheap and exploitative. When you’re trying to depict the worst in humanity, this is the most offensive way to do it, because it can’t help but look like those primitive mechanisms for shocking the viewers by exposing them to some repulsive banality they’ll tend to talk about tomorrow at work.

But, truth be told, TV Winterfell wouldn’t be better off even if Ramsay didn’t brutalize Sansa on their wedding night. There’s a saying: When you’re on the wrong road, each stop is wrong too. The moment Benioff and Weiss decided to take their Sansa to Winterfell to marry Ramsay, her road became wrong. They put themselves in a hole out from which they could never crawl. Let’s speculate for a moment how the episode would look like if it ended with Ramsay restraining himself from consummating the marriage. It wouldn’t be offensively exploitative, but it’d definitely be ridiculously unconvincing and offensive for the viewers’ intelligence. Ramsay making love to Sansa instead of violating her? The same thing: that wouldn’t be Ramsay! And so on. There is no scenario in which Sansa’s marriage to Ramsay can work.

And that is because no one with Sansa’s experience from King’s Landing would ever willingly expose themselves to a marriage into the family that murdered their mother and brother.

Why did Benioff and Weiss make that decision then?

One can only guess, and not a single possibility is pleasing. But what is possibly even worse, is seeing some of the media that just a few weeks ago praised Sansa/Ramsay as a bold and welcomed departure from the novels, start to attack GOT all of a sudden. Similar to last year’s Jaime/Cersei fiasco, politically correct entertainment journalists again seem to care only for those issues that fit their shallow agenda, and rape is one of them.

Yes, of course, Benioff and Weiss don’t know how to deal with rape in a meaningful manner. But they don’t know how to deal with anything in a meaningful manner either. Have you seen the way they deal with death, murder, revenge, punishment, war, love, sex, religion, faith, honor, duty, emotions, slavery, responsibility, parenthood, poverty? Not a bit better than with rape. They are still to meet a sensitive issue they understand, let alone address in a competent way.

Just recall the similar fashion in which they changed Dany and Drogo’s wedding night in the pilot episode. Back then, the show was in its infancy and many a fan was willing to turn a blind eye to a misstep or two, so that scene created no uproar similar to the one inspired by Jaime and Cersei’s sept scene, but by all accounts it was worse. With Jaime and Cersei, they most probably didn’t intend to film it as a rape (if anyone’s interested, I can explain in the comments how, years in advance, I predicted the trouble they were going to have with the sept scene, because of Cersei’s changed characterization in the show, and all I saw in that scene makes me think they actually tried to remedy the mess of their own creation by making Jaime somewhat more forceful at the beginning), but with Dany and Drogo, they are on record admitting they really wanted the first sexual encounter to be as brutal as it was. Naturally, it never occurred to them that there was an important reason behind Martin’s decision to put Dany’s consent in the book: it completely eliminates the Stockholm Syndrome nonsense the show embraced. From the very start, Martin showed he’s not in the business of writing about characters that find their happiness by loving their abusers.

The critics were, however, okay with the nonsense from the pilot. Just like, until the very last episode, they saw no problem in Sansa marrying Ramsay. I’ll repeat once more: some of them were even congratulating Benioff and Weiss on a job well done!

I’d really like to know how would those critics solve the wedding night. Would they choose to make it ridiculous by having Ramsay act normal and omitting the rape? Ramsay? Normal? Do they really think that would cure the mess created the moment TV Littlefinger sent a raven with the marriage proposal to the Boltons?

It wouldn’t! That mess had no place in what’s supposed to be an adaptation of ASOIAF in the first place. You want Ramsay to rape someone on his wedding night? There’s Jeyne Poole for you. She’s not a living person, you know, just like Sansa isn’t. Jeyne can’t be hurt, not really. She can make sense or not, she can carry some meaning or not, but you won’t really harm her if you put her in Ramsay’s hands. So, if you want Ramsay to brutalize his wife, use Jeyne Poole. It will make sense. It did in the book, to great effect. But don’t put Sansa, or Brienne for that matter, or Cersei, or whoever, in Jeyne’s shoes, because it will make no sense whatsoever, and something will definitely be hurt: the intelligence of the audience.

By putting Sansa in Jeyne’s role, Benioff and Weiss practically ruined what little they managed to do with Sansa in the four previous seasons. It can never be overstated how lacking her TV arc was in comparison to its book origin, but once they sent her to Winterfell it lost any resemblance to any arc that could possibly have some meaning.

When show apologists say that the difference between Ramsay’s wedding nights in the book and in the show is no big deal, they miss the point because they ignore the narrative logic. Ramsay’s wedding night in the show could be tantamount to this hypothetical situation: Theon and Jeyne escaped Winterfell and Stannis’ forces captured them, but then, for some reason, Jeyne agrees to marry Clayton Suggs and, to her horror, he brutalizes her on their wedding night. That would mean that Jeyne’s escape from Ramsay was actually ineffective in a narrative sense and that, after the author manipulated the readers for a while into thinking she’s on her way to some sort of salvation, she just ends up in the same place as in Winterfell.

That would be repetitive and cheap and exploitative. Luckily, Martin will not do that, just like he never did anything similar. His world is no cartoon city, people do suffer terrible fates in his books, but never without a narrative reason, and never in a repetitive manner.

When you’re repetitive in a short form of fiction, it’s clumsy and silly. When you’re repetitive in a huge saga, it can be tiring and draining. But when you’re repetitive in an adaptation of the source material that is anything but repetitive, it’s outright pathetic. And when the repetition includes sensitive matters like violence, it’s also insulting and tasteless.

But the Winterfell sequence was not the only repetitive thing in the episode. There was one more thing, spotted in the already infamous fight scene around Myrcella Baratheon in the Water Gardens.

First, the entire fight scene and everything that lead to it was ludicrously amateurish. From writing to acting, to choreography and direction, everything was simply embarrassing. Thankfully, it is discussed all over the internet and, from what was possible to observe, never in a forgiving way, so it’s not necessary to go through all of that here. There’s a suggestion, however. A Mexican standoff is, per Wikipedia, a confrontation between two or more parties in which neither party can proceed nor retreat without being exposed to danger. After “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken,” a new expression should be coined, A Dornish standoff: a confrontation of an ever-increasing number of parties in which not a single party follows any reason whatsoever in its actions and yet suffers no real consequence either. (I will not take this back even if it turns out Bronn was indeed poisoned with that dagger that wounded him, because the very idea of a seasoned warrior that brought poisoned daggers in a mission to kidnap a princess is fascinating in its absurdity.)

Second, let’s remember how Dan Weiss praised Kit Harrington’s fighting skills a year ago, in the “Inside the Episode” video for “The Watchers on the Wall,” the penultimate hour of last season. Weiss said that, when he and Benioff were checking the raw footage in the editing room, at one point they thought someone sped up a part of the scene with Kit, because Kit’s moves looked too fast and therefore unnatural. So, Weiss says, the two of them called the special effects guy and asked him to remove whatever effect was applied on the footage, because they didn’t want the final product to look like that. To their surprise, it turned out that no effect was applied and nobody sped the footage up, Kit was simply fast and handy with his sword.

Let’s also remember something that, years ago, secured my reputation as an obsessively pedant GOT hater: the essay I wrote about the second season of the show, in which the editing was especially critiqued. In particular, I wrote about the two instances from episodes 5 and 15, in which the raw footage was sped up in order for fight scenes to look “more effective,” which, naturally, resulted in the most essential problem motion pictures can ever suffer from: discontinuity of the experience of consuming a visual content.

Well, the geniuses did it again, in this episode, in the Dornish standoff. When Bronn kicks Tyene and she falls on her back, she quickly jumps back on her feet. Ahem, not quick enough, it appears, because her jump was sped up in the editing room, which is why Bronn, who’s in the same frame all the time, makes some rapid and unnatural moves. If you look at Bronn while Tyene’s jumping, you’ll clearly see what I’m talking about and why no filmmaker in their right mind would ever do anything similar. That is how low this show actually is. They’re doing the one thing Weiss himself described as a no-no not a year ago. This episode was one big festival of repeated idiocy, hence the title of this review.

But who are we kidding? This show was never taken seriously by anyone other than Martin and fans (several actors included). By everyone else, it was always treated as a joke. Well-paid and fame-earning, but a joke nonetheless. After all, there are cock merchants in GOT now! And, please, did anyone catch why the hell Cersei summoned Littlefinger at all? When she told Qyburn to send a message, she insisted for Littlefinger to come immediately. But what was so important? She just wanted to hear him say that the knights of the Vale are loyal to the Iron Throne? Is that the reason Littlefinger had to leave Sansa in Winterfell?

Benioff and Weiss are charlatans, first and foremost. It is, I believe, wrong to ascribe sexism or misogyny to them. Like countless talentless writers, they are even less competent when they write characters of the opposite gender, and generally, characters whose experience they didn’t share personally. And, all in all, they’re no fundamentally better when dealing with male characters and their arcs. Just recall the ridiculous Jon arc in season 2, when his brilliant mission with Qhorin in the books was completely ruined just so he can flirt with and be dumb in comparison to Ygritte. Just look at TV Stannis and everything that happened to him whenever his scenes strayed away from the source material.

Benioff and Weiss endless incompetence suggests privileged backgrounds, which are typically associated with political correctness. Their rare but insightful political comments seem to point in the direction of progressivism as their real-life mindset. All of which could mean that they are not consciously mistreating women or homosexuals (or almost any other group, really) in their writing, but it is the product of their drastic lack of skill and craft.

Perhaps they are not Tywins of the House HBO, in that there is not some dark mission behind their missteps and failings. Perhaps they’re also not Ramsays, because they’re not even enjoying all the damage they’ve inflicted. Perhaps they really are like Theon Greyjoy when he, per some wild chance, took Winterfell under his command: murdering little children, just so they can appear competent and to hide their shortcomings.

A pound of flesh, but not one drop of blood

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Game of Thrones, season 5

“Game of Thrones” got their pound of flesh tonight. In a season that has seen nearly all characters obsessed with vengeance, Sansa Stark was shoehorned into an absurd plot for what was clearly now meant to have her terrible victimization and trauma be played out for shock value, under the paper-thin guise of this allowing her to get revenge on her family’s killers. In truth, we didn’t need to wait for the disgusting optics and aurals to be seen and heard in this sixth episode. Indeed, from the moment D&D proposed that Sansa Stark’s arc was interchangeable with that of Jeyne Poole’s—a character who can’t even be properly understood to have an arc in the full sense of the term—we could have predicted what an absolute travesty this all would turn out to be. For those who question why this could happen to Jeyne and not Sansa, the answer is simple: these two girls might have been friends in the books, but their identities and experiences are not one and the same. Jeyne is sent to a brothel to be brutalised and trained into being submissive and compliant. Sansa Stark remains in KL to suffer much abuse too, but her development as a main character is focused on her becoming stronger and more resilient as a result.

Unlike Jeyne, whose sexuality becomes the means of her terrible exploitation in the series, Sansa’s sexuality is tied to her liberation and empowerment. It’s not a matter of her being “saved” from rape as some readers interpret, but rather that Sansa is constantly resisting attempts to get her to submit sexually to her oppressors. She comes to understand in that famous wedding scene with Tyrion that her desires are important, and that she is not willing to sacrifice herself for what her husband wants, even if she’s in a situation where she couldn’t be more powerless. Sansa’s sexuality, and her control over it, is an integral part of her growth towards agency. When you have her raped in a show and still want to speak of her as being a player, you are not only warping the character’s development and themes critical to her storyline, but you are using rape as a plot device to motivate a character, which is every bit as bad as it sounds. For fans looking for some kind of hope after this appalling event, we can only direct you to the author’s latest statement on his blog, where he recommends checking out the TWOW sample chapters if you want to get an idea of where the real story is headed. D&D have their pound of flesh, but the true heart and soul and blood of Winterfell remains in the series written by George R.R. Martin.

Something is slow in the state of Denmark

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episode 5, Game of Thrones, got, miodrag zarkovic, review, season 5

A review of “Kill the Boy,” the fifth episode of the fifth season of “Game of Thrones”

by Miodrag Zarković

There might be a solid reason behind the surprisingly slow pace of “Game of Thrones” in the current season. Not that David Benioff and Dan Weiss, the two showrunners, would ever admit that there’s anything slow about it, let alone that they’re doing it on purpose, but one wouldn’t necessarily be wrong in concluding there’s a system in keeping the characters at a distance from possible resolutions of their respective arcs.

That is, if we assume Benioff and Weiss are honest when saying the endgame of the show will be the same as that of its source material, the “A Song of Ice and Fire” book series by George R. R. Martin.

Take Jaime Lannister, for example. At the moment, Martin’s Jaime is in the Riverlands. His last book chapter ended with a cliffhanger, so readers are in a dark about his condition and well-being, but it’s strongly hinted that whatever happens to him is crucial—not only for his storyline, but also for at least two more characters’ journeys. For the endgame Martin envisioned, Jaime simply has to be in the Riverlands.

Benioff and Weiss, however, sent their Jaime to Dorne. If anything, that positions him across the continent from his original arc’s resolution. He’s as far from his book endgame—both physically and logically—as ever.

TV Jon is a similar case with his pit stop at Hardhome: whatever happens there (and from the production news we know, there’s going to be a big battle at that location), Jon will almost certainly come back to Castle Black, where he’ll meet the same fate that fell upon his literary origin in the last published book. In other words, the Hardhome detour will bring him no closer to his original endgame. What’s more, in recent interviews, Carice van Houten, who plays Melisandre, indicated there are more scenes with her character and Jon before the season ends, which, again, probably means that the Wall part of the Season 5 story will end at exactly the same point as in the novels.

That would also mean that Melisandre will also return to Castle Black and won’t influence the clash between Stannis and the Boltons. But, there’s no real sign that we’re going to see that showdown at all. On the contrary, all the hype about Hardhome as The Battle of the year points to the opposite conclusion. Say what you want about HBO, but they’re never shy about the things they invest their money in. Had they filmed the battle between Stannis and the Boltons, we’d probably have heard of it by now or even watched some report from the set. All of which means that the resolution for the main storyline in the North is probably not going to happen this year, and that the season will leave Stannis and the Boltons as they were in “A Dance with Dragons.”

As for TV Sansa, her storyline this season is an unprecedented mess (more on that later), but as her screen time in Winterfell passes, it seems more and more evident she’ll get out of there in a similar way as Jeyne Poole did in the novel. It’s hard to imagine TV Sansa, say, murdering Ramsay or deposing the Boltons and taking Winterfell under her rule. Most likely, she will, possibly after tasting Ramsay’s sadism, save herself by escaping Winterfell, perhaps with someone’s help (Theon and Brienne are the strongest candidates). If that actually happens, it would essentially mean TV Sansa’s Winterfell departure had no effect on the bigger picture, and, pending on her wedding night with Ramsay, even her character’s arc may not be terribly influenced by it: although definitely much more traumatized than in the novels, where she’s still in the Vale waiting for a chance to turn the world upside down with her claim to Winterfell and there’s no reason to think she even knows who Ramsay Bolton is, at the end of this season TV Sansa will possibly be able to return to a path relatively similar to her book origin’s arc for the next two books. At least, that’s how incompetent writers that aren’t too concerned with characters’ consistency and in-story logic might look at things.

And so on. Basically, so far none of the show characters stepped on the territory of “The Winds of Winter,” the sixth yet unpublished installment of ASOIAF. Season Five just passed its midpoint, and yet, Benioff and Weiss still didn’t capitalize on their alleged insight into the material Martin will deliver in the coming novels. And not only that, but it also looks like they don’t even want to go there yet. All their deviations from the source material notwithstanding, none of the storylines is even near passing the point of the published books. As a matter of fact, the one storyline that was bound to enter the future books material—Bran’s—was entirely omitted from this season. Another plotline that was heading in the same direction—Davos sailing to find Rickon and Osha—was also delayed by having Davos at the Wall with Stannis instead of in White Harbor with Wyman Manderly (who wasn’t even cast so far).

Now, wouldn’t the alternative be more in accordance with the approach from the previous seasons? Remember, Benioff and Weiss were so impatient to reach Catelyn’s famous conversation with imprisoned Jaime that they moved part of it way forward, to the finale of Season 1 (and ruined it in the process, truth be told, but still). They also fast-forwarded Brienne & Jaime’s journey to King’s Landing, by both starting and ending it before its time. Jon and Ygritte? Boy, they couldn’t wait to start with that one, so much so that they mercilessly sacrificed poor Qhorin and his role. Or what about Arya’s material from the preview “Mercy” chapter? Once again, they wasted no time in putting parts of that one into their show way sooner than needed. Also, Theon’s torture porn from Season 3 could’ve been delayed a year or two, but no, Benioff and Weiss couldn’t resist speeding up that storyline too.

Indeed, in previous seasons the show looked as if running toward the point at which it will overpass the books. The speed with which they were going through the source material surprised even Martin himself, who, after the debut season, seemed confident enough that the show would not catch with his writing before “The Winds of Winter” were out.

Also, considering the lack of respect toward the novels that Benioff and Weiss displayed over the years (cutting out one iconic line after another, changing characters and plotlines at whim, inventing new and fairly ridiculous subplots and characters while simultaneously removing those existing in the source material), wouldn’t it be expected from the showrunners to jump at the opportunity to become the primary tellers of the story? Wouldn’t it be beneficial from financial and marketing points also? Not to mention that even some book fans would hail such a move: it is no secret that the last two novels divided the readership and that those who disliked them consider a lot of the stuff there to be “fat” or “filler,” so they’d probably welcome the show if it rushed through AFFC and ADWD material.

Actually, there’d seem to be no downside for Benioff and Weiss in that scenario, right? Especially with the fact that the show’s length is predicted at seven seasons, eight at most, which means that Benioff and Weiss are running out of time to tell everything Martin designed for the remaining books (at least two of them, but possibly more). And yet, five episodes in, we’re still firmly in books territory, with small chance to reach the other side before the season ends.

Just consider what the show has to cover in the remaining five episodes in order to simply catch up with the books without overpassing them: those five hours will be as packed as anything in GOT, so it’s really hard to imagine any TWOW stuff to find its way in there. That is true even for the Meereen plotline, which, on first glance, could look as destined to go beyond the novels. But don’t let Barristan’s death trick you. Since the show is, evidently, only interested in checking significant plot points, with little to no regard at all for aspects like natural character progression or thematic significance, Ser Barristan was more than expendable in that universe. Just like Benioff and Weiss didn’t know what to do with him ever since Season 1, they also saw no purpose for him anymore and they decided to kill him off, honoring their own sense of storytelling economy. That, however, doesn’t mean that the Meereen storyline is moved to a higher gear. On the contrary: Dany has to marry Hizdahr, welcome Tyrion (published production shots prove they will meet this season), spend some “quality time” with him (Tyrion is Benioff and Weiss’ favorite character after all, with Dany not so far behind), and fly off on Drogon. Oh, and we have to follow Grey Worm and Missandei’s romance, which quickly grows into one of the more consuming subplots time-wise. All in all, there’s hardly going to be any space for TWOW moments in Slaver’s Bay this season. If anything, the never-ending scene of Barristan’s death only slowed down the progress.

And really, take a look at the content of the five episodes so far. It’s crowded with true fillers of all kinds. The last episode, “Kill the Boy,” was no exception in that sense.

That dreadful dinner Sansa had with the usurpers from the Dreadfort? Filler, as pure as they come. It further solidified Sansa’s stay in Winterfell as probably the single stupidest idea Benioff and Weiss ever had, but it added very little to the plot or the characters: 1) it increased the number of idiots by one, when Walda said to Winterfell-born and raised Sansa: “It must be difficult for you, being in a strange place”; 2) it announced Walda’s pregnancy, which doesn’t seem to bear any significance whatsoever to anybody who isn’t Roose or Ramsay; and 3) Theon was picked, by Ramsay, to give away the bride at Ramsay’s future wedding to Sansa.

Now, that third point is not very logical, because, in opposition to the book where Theon is instrumental for the wedding since Ramsay is marrying a fake Stark, in the show Ramsay’s bride to be is a true Stark, so nobody, not even broken Theon, has to vouch for her identity. Even more, it’s strange that the idea for Theon as a bride-giver comes from the man who’s supposed to be committed to changing Theon’s identity (in the novel, Roose is the one who includes Theon in the wedding, which is infinitely more logical). But the most interesting thing is that the TV Boltons had a way better solution than Theon: Robin Arryn, the Lord of the Vale and actually the last known living kin to Sansa Stark. If the TV Boltons were to think and act logically, they’d ask for Robin to give away the bride at Ramsay’s wedding, which would only strengthen the alliance between the North and the Vale that is supposed to be the idea behind the marriage proposal Littlefinger initially sent to Roose. However, since TV Sansa has to be shoehorned into book Jeyne Poole’s role, Theon it is.

Therefore, what little was established in the dinner scene that lasted for ages, only made the entire Winterfell calamity more nonsensical. And the behavior of TV Sansa herself didn’t help either: with her eye-rolling, sighing and face expressions that emit nothing but scorn, she could trick only some morons. Luckily (for the lack of a better word), the TV Boltons look exactly like the morons needed for Littlefinger’s ridiculous plan to live an episode or three more, as evidenced in the scene in which they discuss the coming war against Stannis.

What about Myranda’s two scenes? Filler, all the way. Until proven otherwise, this author believes Myranda originally died last season, killed by Ramsay while the two were having sex at the moment of Yara’s attack on Dreadfort (which would explain those blood trails on shirtless Ramsay once he faces the Ironborn), but her death was edited out later on, so that she can appear again this season. If I’m right, it would confirm she’s a completely expendable character, revived only in order to prolong the Winterfell storyline this year. But even if I’m wrong, her contribution to the story is still non-existent, and her scenes in “Kill the Boy” reaffirm that notion. Really, how insane has one to be to come up with an idea about a love triangle centered on Ramsay Bolton? Was there ever a less appropriate character for that storytelling trope?

The only thing we learned from Myranda’s involvement in the episode is that Benioff and Weiss are scared to death of the possibility that their writing is boring: just like Cersei in that flashback that opened the season insults the witch by calling her boring, here it’s Ramsay who threatens Myranda never to bore him. In Benioff and Weiss’ universe, being boring looks like the cardinal sin. As if their subconscious is sending us some signals…

The library scene at the Wall with Gilly, Sam and Stannis? Filler, through and through. There is not a single point in that exchange. It was a complete waste of everyone’s time, especially given that Randyll Tarly, Sam’s father, doesn’t even appear in the show.

Brienne and Pod’s turn this week? Okay, that was possibly not filler, depending on their importance for Sansa’s escape from Winterfell. But, boy, was it a stupid scene! Even government contractors in old communist regimes had higher recruiting norms than TV Brienne.

Jon and Tormund? While not a filler on its own (though a dull scene nevertheless, and not a pale shadow of the corresponding negotiations in the book), it opened the door for Jon’s trip to Hardhome, which, again, may very well prove to be a giant filler of the season.

The Meereen scenes did move the plot in that part of the world, but not without sacrifice. See, when TV Dany has one Master devoured by her dragons, it renders the Mossador execution from Episode 2 completely meaningless. To remind you, Mossador was beheaded because he murdered an accused man without a trial—“The law is the law,” Dany explained to him—and the execution enraged the ex-slaves and shattered the honeymoon with their Mhysa. Now, even if Dany’s turbulent relation with the masses she freed is revisited in the future (chances of which are not big, knowing Benioff and Weiss), Mossador’s death was in vain, not only because in this episode Dany became The Law, but also for the fact that a little later she again went back to political mode and coerced Hizdahr into a marriage. With a central character switching personalities at such a rate, almost everything seen up to that point inevitably became as good as a filler, Mossador’s execution most of all.

(While on the subject of Meereen, the info on Dany that Sam read to Maester Aemon, who, by the way, seems to be channeling Yoda with his advice to Jon later on, is not to be overlooked. Here’s the entire note: “And though Daenerys maintains her grip on Slaver’s Bay, forces rise against her from within and without. She refuses to leave until the freedom of the former slaves is secure.” First, what forces from without? Aren’t those forces completely cut from the show? Even Aemon says that Dany is “under siege,” but in the show universe there is no siege to speak of. Is it too much to ask from the showrunners to keep track of their own deviations? It obviously is, if we remember the number of Cersei’s children as a similar case, and also Benioff’s comment about the finale of Season 3, when he said that Mhysa moment was the fulfillment of a prophecy for Dany, even though no prophecy of that kind was ever mentioned in the show. Second, how the hell would anyone in Westeros know that Dany plans to leave once slavery is defeated? Did she ever make her plans public? Did she send ravens to all the corners of the world announcing her invasion in the Seven Kingdoms is to start as soon as she’s done with Meereen?)

All in all, opposite to, say, Season 2 which was, per Benioff, a “season of romance,” this year is evidently a season of fillers. The majority of the scenes in these five episodes were totally unnecessary in the sense that nothing would be lost without them. The season is shaped as if Benioff and Weiss, for the first time, are trying to stall as much as possible.

It’s not without reaction. Among the fans of the show, the number of those who say they’re bored by the new season seems to be higher than ever, while the official ratings are in a small but steady decline for the first time. In other words, the current season doesn’t sit well with many viewers, and the slow pace—resulting from the yet unseen amount of fillers—is universally cited as the primary reason for this dissatisfaction.

As said earlier, there could be a solid reason for the snail progress of the current season. Behind all that cockiness and shallow self-confidence Benioff and Weiss often display when asked about overtaking the books, the two of them obviously realize the sad truth: they really aren’t up to the task of writing Martin’s story before him. Their high opinion of their own storytelling competence is obviously unrealistic, but they’re not completely delusional. Deep down, they seem to be aware of their limits after all. And they wouldn’t be comfortable at all if those limits were fully exposed, which would definitely be the case if they overpass the published books. They’d rather wait as long as they can for the two last huge installments of the series, and then butcher them down to two or three drastically rushed seasons, than to live up to the almost universal praise in the media and really boldly start approaching the endgame on their own.

Or, perhaps, their knowledge of the endgame is far less than usually assumed. Perhaps Martin, not unlike the most devious of his characters, didn’t reveal all of his cards as soon as Benioff and Weiss guessed who Jon Snow’s mother is.

Whichever the case, the two showrunners look like the biggest losers of this wait for the “The Winds of Winter.” Instead of an abundance of material, Benioff and Weiss apparently have to deal with the excess of screen time, resulting from the shortage of real time as they’re approaching the point at which they have to go on without any help from George R. R. Martin, the author whose magnum opus they disfigured beyond recognition. Now, when it’s far too late to go back and fix any of the numerous ingenious mistakes they’ve made in this “adaptation,” it looks like Benioff and Weiss finally realized how out of their depth they truly were from the very beginning of their rogue journey.

With Benioff and Weiss, faith is always a dangerous thing

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episode 4, Game of Thrones, got, miodrag zarkovic, review, season 5

A review of “Sons of the Harpy,” the fourth episode of the fifth season of “Game of Thrones”

by Miodrag Zarković

Rest assured, dear reader, this review will eventually deal with the dualistic nature of TV Littlefinger: part human, part Wikipedia. But first, let’s address other issues.

One thing David Benioff and Dan Weiss, the showrunners of HBO’s “Game of Thrones,” can’t ever be accused of, is subtle writing. For the previous 43 episodes, they never bothered with it. So, when in “Sons of the Harpy,” the fourth episode of the fifth season, a coup d’état that was happening right in front of our eyes was never mentioned by name, it’s probably not because of Benioff and Weiss’ intention to keep the recognition under the radar—but because they actually don’t know what the hell they’ve written.

A little background: in the George R. R. Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” book series that they say the show is based on, we encounter the Faith Militant. Introduced in “A Feast for Crows,” it serves as the military arm of the Faith of the Seven. And it means exactly what it’s supposed to mean: the Faith Militant deals with transgressions against the religion, but not with matters that concern royal authority. That is why the High Septon arrests Margaery Tyrell, her cousins, Osney Kettleblack, and finally Cersei Lannister—all on charges related to the Faith. For example, both Cersei and Margaery are accused of extramarital fornication, which concerns the Faith only because both of them swore marital vows precisely in the sept. For comparison, they could never charge Ramsay Bolton or Jeyne Poole for the same crimes, regardless of whom they were having affairs with, simply because Ramsay and Jeyne didn’t swear anything to the Faith of the Seven. Ramsay and Jeyne never committed themselves under the jurisdiction of the religious institution that is headed by the High Septon.

It would also mean that one’s business manners are also of no concern for the Faith. Septons may preach against the greed and corruption, but that’s it. They don’t get to punish those who immorally took financial advantage of the social turmoil. Sexual appetites are also off-limits, at least until the person swears the sacred vows that he/she will be loyal to their spouse. In short, the Faith Militant and the Faith itself have no jurisdiction in matters the royal legal system deals with or in social customs and traditions. As another example, they’d absolutely have no business in a possible trial Tyrion could face for patricide.

That’s the books. The show has, of course, taken a different approach, and ended up with an unspoken coup.

In “Sons of the Harpy,” the Faith Militant is seen attacking what is probably a marketplace and destroying everything they deem excessive or sinful (one would assume it was ale that was spilled over those stairs). They also stormed a brothel and physically molested prostitutes and customers both, and launched a campaign against homosexuals, the arrest of Ser Loras Tyrell included. Practically all of these actions signal that a sudden overthrow of the entire political system the Seven Kingdoms rest on already happened. To clear any possible doubt, the show sealed the coup with the scene in which King Tommen is denied a meeting with the new High Septon while His Holiness is praying. Yes, royal authority is no more in King’s Landing. There’s a new ruler in town, and by extension in the realm. Thus, the War of the Five Kings was effectively won by the sixth one, who’s not even a king, by the way, but a barefoot humanitarian known as High Sparrow.

(Speaking of his bare feet, the High Sparrow didn’t burn his shoes, or throw them to the sea. As he himself explained in the previous episode, he actually gave them to someone who needed them more. So, why are his disciples acting in a completely opposite manner in this episode? Why are they destroying instead of distributing the excess?)

And yet, besides Margaery Tyrell, nobody seems disturbed by the coup. Not that she is concerned with the legal consequences of the Faith Militant’s actions, of course; she worries about her brother exclusively, but at least she’s visibly bothered. She, and no one else.

When the Anne Boleyn of TV Westeros is the only individual acting somewhat reasonably, you know Benioff and Weiss managed to outdo themselves once again in terms of incompetent storytelling.

After four and a half years of carefully watching their work on GOT, one can spot with ease the patterns and characteristics of Benioff and Weiss’ writing. Based on that, it is beyond doubt that the two of them have absolutely no idea about the consequences the actions of their Faith Militant would inevitably have in any social circumstances that can be considered realistic and logical. The thought that what they actually wrote is effectively a coup never crossed their minds. All their expertise on Martin’s world and legality starts and ends with the pure fact that HBO paid dearly for their right to mess with it big time.

However, that’s not to say the Faith Militant in the show didn’t serve its purpose. “Cersei, meanwhile, sees the High Sparrow as a weapon in her feud with Margaery, yet—as has happened a time or twelve in our own world’s history—doesn’t seem to understand how difficult it is to control religious extremists once you’ve armed them,” writes Alan Sepinwall in his review on HitFix. James Hibberd, reviewing the episode for Entertainment Weekly, ironically concludes this about Cersei’s move: “It’s an excellent idea, because if history has taught us anything, it’s that nothing bad can come from giving religious fanatics weapons.”

Similar stances can be found in any number of this week’s reviews. And it very much was the goal of Benioff and Weiss: to feed the liberal, politically-correct media with a desired antagonist that is easy to crucify. Of all those professional reviewers that continually avoid addressing any of the blatant, the obvious, the daringly evident missteps and fallacies of the show, not a single one missed the opportunity to take a shot at religious extremists and, by extension, at the religion itself.

It’s a travesty of today’s culture that people who obviously lack the understanding of basic rules of a society, get the opportunity to “adapt” a story that deals with human societies with possibly unparalleled depth. In Martin’s novels, Sparrows are a movement that is – historically accurate and believable—rooted in the need for a systematic response to the horrors of a devastating civil war. The movement gradually grows into a more prominent role and its depiction is never biased one way or the other: while some of their actions may seem disturbing, either by nature or by form, the just cause that triggered the creation of the movement is never forgotten.

Self-declared as an agnostic, Martin is remarkably balanced and thorough when dealing with religious themes. It is therefore a shame that the two guys who got to adapt his magnum opus don’t find it necessary to honor such an approach by translating it to the screen faithfully, but instead go for cheap sycophancy towards the liberal agenda that dominates modern media.

Truth be told, Benioff and Weiss never cared for the religions of ASOIAF. In the novels, religious themes are introduced in the second book, “A Clash of Kings,” when Stannis Baratheon and his retinue, headed by the Red Priestess Melisandre of Asshai, enter the story and up the stakes to the highest possible level. The prologue of ACOK may very well be the moment in which ASOIAF elevated itself above genre fiction once and for all. ASOIAF is speculative fiction, of course, because its many social and political themes simply couldn’t be covered in a setting from any particular period of actual history: no real chain of events ever combined a brutal dynastic war with a religious war and a war against oppression (slavery). With dragons and the Others or without them, ASOIAF simply had to be speculative fiction. But, at the same time, it easily transcends genre boundaries and grows into a work of literature worthy of analytical approach and detailed studying. And what drives that point home is the introduction of religious themes: was there ever a more important aspect of humanity than our relationship with the very concept of eternity, the concept that throughout history was most often represented by deities?

So, remember how did Benioff and Weiss tackle those issues? By having Stannis and Mel have sex in the second episode they appeared in!

Have things improved since then? Not at all, judging by “Sons of the Harpy” and the scene in which Mel tries to seduce Jon. The only thing that seems changed is the dress Mel takes off every now and then: for some reason, it isn’t red any more. Everything else is the same as always, with a Mel who’s unable to achieve anything without offering sex (or money, in Season 3). Amidst fierce competition, she may very well be the most ruined character in this “adaptation,” because, besides the name and gender, the TV version doesn’t seem to share anything with the book original.

For what it’s worth, this author really wouldn’t be surprised had Benioff and Weiss decided to let their Jon succumb to lust and have sex with Mel right there and then. Had the scene been interrupted before the resolution for some reason, I honestly wouldn’t be able to guess how Jon had reacted. That’s the legacy of Benioff & Weiss’ approach to adapting: they changed so much that nothing would be surprising at this point.

Another thing that gives depth to ASOIAF, its characters, is also criminally mishandled in GOT. And Stannis is a perfect example once more, as evidenced by the scene with him and Shireen: had he been properly developed and portrayed so far, such a scene wouldn’t be needed at all.

And if you wanted to know how badly Stannis is written in the show, the showrunners confirmed it themselves, in the “Inside the episode” video.

In general, those clips deserve reviews of their own. Imaged as the ultimate place where the show meets logic, the “Inside the episode” videos are actually the strongest hints about the storytelling talent “Thrones” desperately lacks. Take a look at how Weiss and Benioff explained the scene with Shireen and her father.

Weiss: “We’re so used to seeing Stannis in a single-minded pursuit of the Iron Throne and he’s done such a good job, by intention, of sweeping any complicating factor out of the way. And, obviously, having your love for your daughter is a complicating factor. It tempers you as a person. And I think Stannis doesn’t feel like he can afford to be tempered as a person in that way. And yet, he does clearly feel a real love for this little girl, which he expresses in that scene beautifully.”
Benioff: “It was important for us to see some different colors of Stannis. We’ve kinda seen him before standing above the map table, you know, trying to determine his next move, but there’s more to him than that. And this scene was a crucial one for us because we really wanted to see more what makes Stannis tick and what makes Shireen tick and we wanted to give him a scene that wasn’t just about him trying to conquer Seven Kingdoms, but it’s really just a father and a daughter talking.

If looked at closely, these words actually mean that in the previous three seasons TV Stannis was single-minded, obsessed with himself and uninterested in anything that isn’t connected to his goal. Is any additional critique of the TV character even needed? Can such a long mistreatment be remedied with a single scene, a scene that really isn’t worded or acted or filmed brilliantly? Of course it can’t, especially because the scene, as evidenced by Weiss and Benioff’s (possibly unintended) admission in “Inside the episode,” was designed specifically for that one purpose.

And not to mention that every “humanization” of a character Benioff and Weiss tend to undertake boils down to “he/she loves his/her children.” Just like they tried to humanize their Cersei by making a sort of iteration out of the statement that “she loves her children,” now they’re attempting the same thing with Stannis. “We need to make him more sympathetic, right? Let him show how much he loves his daughter! No, better yet—let him tell her that. In a lengthy monologue. It’s not like anybody’s going to remember we used to preach showing is always better than telling.”

While Stannis is revealing how he saved his daughter years ago, on the other side of TV Westeros Jaime Lannister is trying to save his. He’s accompanied by Bronn, who continues to ask one tricky question after another, all pointing to the inevitable conclusion: the mission Jaime brought him in makes no sense at all, both for the viewers and the characters themselves. But don’t worry, Ser Jaime, because your future opponents are not a bit smarter than you. See, war-pursuing Ellaria and three Sand Snakes, bastard daughters of the late Oberyn Martell, actually found out about Jaime’s secret mission, but at no moment they think of using it to their benefit. Like, Jaime’s mission gives them the perfect pretext to really start the war against the Lannisters. All they have to do is tighten the security around Myrcella, and when Jaime tries to take her away, instead they take him into custody or, better yet, kill him—not even a pacifist like Doran could ignore such a breach of the agreement he initially reached with Tyrion, and in the case of Jaime’s death the Lannisters would also be in a mood for war. What an opportunity, right?

Well, no. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes ignorantly stuck to their original plan, all the while participating in what is possibly the worst dialogue in the entire show. The scene could very well run with a disclaimer: No real-life brain cell was used for the scripting of this exchange!

And, finally, let’s visit the crypt of TV Winterfell, the most appropriate resting place for the “logic” of TV Sansa’s nonsensical arc. It was yet another victim of TV Littlefinger, who managed to kill it with a single line: “We mustn’t let her sniff out any trouble.” He’s talking about Cersei, of course. She summoned him to the capital, and he explains Sansa he has to go because—they mustn’t let Cersei sniff out any trouble!

Keep in mind that the man saying this is the same guy who was so relaxed while touring the countryside with Sansa and pronouncing her real name in packed taverns just a couple of episodes ago. The same guy who left the Vale supposedly because he feared someone could inform Cersei of Sansa’s whereabouts. The same guy, by the way, who undertook not a single measure to protect Sansa by hiding her true identity. That fellow is now persuading Sansa he absolutely needs to go to King’s Landing, because otherwise Cersei will become, pay attention, suspicious!

Well, if Cersei didn’t sniff out any trouble so far, then, Lord Petyr, you could return to King’s Landing under a banner with a direwolf, and no, the Queen Mother won’t be suspicious. As far as you’re concerned, she’s a moron.

Actually, everyone involved in this entire subplot has to be at least a little moronic, in order for it to have any chance at being received as somewhat faintly logical. That’s counting those Vale lords that allowed Littlefinger to take Sansa Stark with him, and the Boltons for not murdering Littlefinger as soon as he delivered Sansa to them, and of course Sansa and Littlefinger themselves for reasons stated in the previous review. But, most of all, it includes the person responsible for one more narrative theft committed by TV Littlefinger.

The episode as a whole was heavy on exposition, with multiple references to Rhaegar and Lyanna’s tragic love. The most important was, of course, delivered by Littlefinger, Benioff & Weiss’ stand-in for interactive encyclopedia.

The story of Sandor’s burnt face? He knows it. Prostitutes want to know more about the Starks’ history? He’ll teach them. Someone’s lost on the strict definition of chaos? Littlefinger will clear the confusion. Is it any wonder, then, that it’s TV Baelish who got to tell the story of the Harrenhal Tourney, along with the iconic “The moment when all the smiles died” detail that Ned Stark recalls in the book.

One might think it’s Benioff & Weiss’ strange view on egalitarianism: “Ned got the woman Littlefinger loved, it’s only fair Littlefinger now takes Ned’s famous lines.” But, after more than four years and 44 episodes and counting, we know better than to associate their take on Littlefinger with any kind of legitimate reasoning. They possibly have the obligation to feed Aidan Gillen, one of the most established actors in GOT’s cast back at the time of making the debut season, with a certain amount of screen time, which considering their storytelling “talent” actually backfired with this abomination the character of Littlefinger became long ago.

If such an obligation does exist, it would mean that, opposite to the character he plays, Gillen is a pretty smart fellow, who sensed early on he’s dealing with talentless amateurs way out of their depth. If only he shared that wisdom with Ian McElhinney, who tried to embody Ser Barristan Selmy. Or with Martin himself, who, like McElhinney, made the mistake of having faith (pun intended) that Benioff and Weiss really wanted to adapt ASOIAF, and not use the opportunity to run their own fan-fiction. Had Martin been on the same page as Gillen, perhaps GOT wouldn’t be in a mess it finds itself in at the very moment, the mess that eerily resembles the last scene of the episode: both Unsullied viewers and ASOIAF veterans lying helpless on the ground, bleeding, wondering what the hell just happened.

It rhymes with money . . . every time

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episode 3, Game of Thrones, got, miodrag zarkovic, review, season 5

A review of “High Sparrow,” the third episode of the fifth season of “Game of Thrones”

by Miodrag Zarković

Bold. What a word! “Merriam-Webster” defines it in three points: 1) not afraid of danger or difficult situations; 2) showing or needing confidence or lack of fear; 3) very confident in a way that may seem rude or foolish. Keep all three points in mind when you read the following excerpt:

“HBO’s Game of Thrones has been gradually edging away from its source material. Yet Sunday’s episode introduced what is perhaps the boldest departure yet from George R. R. Martin’s novels . . .”

It’s taken from Entertainment Weekly’s article about “High Sparrow,” the third episode of the fifth season of what was supposed to be the “A Song of Ice and Fire” book series brought to screen. James Hibberd, the author of the article, actually describes the departure in question immediately after the excerpt; but before getting to that part, let’s focus for a moment on the fact he called it “perhaps the boldest” one yet. According to “Merriam-Webster,” it should mean that the said deviation required courage, fearlessness, firmness and confidence from David Benioff and Dan Weiss, the two showrunners. That is what bold means, after all.

Bold. Has a very nice ring to it. One might fall in love with the term. One might even confuse it for identity and wish to take it.

Bold, Bold, it rhymes with told.

Okay, let’s see what are we told further in the article. What is this big, bold departure the show undertook in “High Sparrow”? Turned out it’s Benioff & Weiss’ decision to have Sansa Stark, the oldest living child of Ned and Catelyn Stark, marry the son of Roose Bolton, the man who, two seasons ago, murdered the firstborn child of Ned and Catelyn Stark. That is the departure EW called “perhaps the boldest” yet.

And departure it is. In the novels, the monstrous Ramsay Bolton marries not Sansa but her best friend Jeyne Poole, who was practically a nonentity in the show, where she briefly appeared—without a spoken line and never addressed by name—only in the pilot. In the books, Jeyne is the one who gets to be the lucky bride of the biggest psychopath in the saga (which says quite a lot, really), while Sansa at this point in the story is still in the Vale and has absolutely no connection to the storyline set in the North, the coldest region of the Seven Kingdoms.

Bold, Bold, it rhymes with cold.

EW’s stance implies considerable risks were taken by Benioff and Weiss in making the decision to move their Sansa into Jeyne’s role. Risks are an absolute necessity because, as Ned Stark would say, that is the only thing a man can be bold against. However, in the same EW article, just paragraphs below, Benioff and Weiss’ trusted wingman Bryan Cogman reveals something else entirely. Here’s the excerpt:

“Besides, Cogman pointed out: ‘You have this storyline with Ramsay. Do you have one of your leading ladies—who is an incredibly talented actor who we’ve followed for five years and viewers love and adore—do it? Or do you bring in a new character to do it? To me, the question answers itself: You use the character the audience is invested in.’”

Pay attention to what Cogman, also a writer for the show, says: “The question answers itself.” That does not sit well with risks and being bold. Answering questions that answer themselves is never a sign of bravery. It is quite the contrary, in fact. Letting a question like that answer itself may be smart or stupid, wise or shortsighted, rewarding or futile, but it can never ever be bold. Cogman actually says exactly the opposite of what was stated at the beginning of the article: that the show took a safer choice. Not more challenging, but more conventional one. In effect, the showrunners avoided risks by replacing a new character (which would be new in the first place, simply because Benioff and Weiss failed to introduce Jeyne Poole properly when the time was right), with an old one.

Bold, Bold, it rhymes with old.

But enough with the EW article. Let’s put the decision itself under scrutiny. So, how does Sansa’s marriage to Ramsay fit into the bigger picture in regards to logic, themes and narrative?

It doesn’t! For a number of reasons.

First, it could never be negotiated. How could Littlefinger and Roose Bolton ever discuss the idea of such a strange alliance? It’s unfathomable! It is already established that Littlefinger made the proposal (he himself said so in the previous episode, and his exchange with Roose this week confirms that), but really, why would Bolton ever accept any such suggestion at face value and not become suspicious to the point of alerting the Iron Throne of a possible traitor that resides in the Vale? Or even more, why would Littlefinger ever expect Boltons to accept it? Remember, this is supposed to be the world in which Ned Stark lost his head for being not too careful. The world in which the Northern army was massacred because Robb didn’t keep his word. How come the same rules don’t apply to Littlefinger and Roose Bolton, people who, on top of everything, were instrumental in the downfalls of Ned and Robb, so they can’t help but know the rules, which would only make them more cautious? Both Littlefinger sending the proposal and Roose Bolton accepting it are extremely careless moves that expose those who make them to drastic possibilities. Say what you want about Littlefinger and Roose, but however ambitious, greedy or brazen they may be, neither is careless. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be in their current positions.

Second, why the hell would Sansa ever go along with it? As seen last season, she’s the one who basically has control over Littlefinger now, not the other way around. She was the one who lied to save him a year ago, and one word of hers can get him killed in no time. After spending years as a prisoner of the Lannisters, she finally managed to not only escape King’s Landing, but also gain such a power over the Protector of the Vale. And now she’s going to throw all that and be the daughter-in-law of the man who can’t be anything but a nemesis and a usurper?

Third, how did Littlefinger manage to persuade Sansa so easily? She’s appalled by his idea at first, but then she accepts it a minute later. All it took to change her mind was a few badly-worded lines in which Littlefinger revealed nothing of importance nor offered any kind of assurance whatsoever. One would expect something stronger than “You’ll be running away all your life” is needed for such a radical change of heart. Actually, the entire scene of Sansa finally accepting Littlefinger’s plan was an exercise in heavy-handed, clichéd and baseless writing.

Fourth, what is Littlefinger’s plan actually? Let’s assume he hid it from Sansa (which only makes her more unbelievably stupid, though we’re well past that point anyhow), but is any viable plan by Littlefinger even detectable? Like, why would a man as ambitious and cunning as Littlefinger give away his most valuable acquisition, and to Roose Bolton of all people? In the novels, it indeed is Littlefinger who sends poor Jeyne Poole to Winterfell to pose as Arya Stark, but that in effect strengthens his grip on the Boltons, who are now ever dependent on anyone who can expose the ploy. By placing fake Arya in the hands of the Boltons, he risks not a single thing. In the show, however, Littlefinger practically gambles with literally everything. Just consider the possibility that Sansa accidentally slips who really murdered Lysa Arryn: at that moment, he, Littlefinger, would become the one who depends on the Boltons instead of the other way around. But even if nothing similar happens, Littlefinger is allying himself with the weakest ruler of the North in history, and in the process he’s giving away his main asset, who, by the way, could deliver the North to him without ever entering into any pact with the Boltons (in fact, this arrangement can only decrease Sansa’s reputation in her homeland): that’s not ambitious or brazen or unpredictable, that is outright absurd.

Fifth, once Sansa and Littlefinger reach Winterfell, it turns out Littlefinger lacks not only a plan, but also the basic information about the family he just formed a fateful treaty with. He doesn’t seem to know anything about Ramsay, a man we saw earlier being chastised by his father for allowing all the North to see what a monster he truly is. All of which means that TV Westeros is a land where the word of, say, Tywin Lannister’s death travels almost instantly, but news of Ramsay flaying lords and their families never reach the most informed guy in the realm (Varys is in another continent at the moment).

Bold, Bold, it rhymes with scold.

Yes, whoever came up with this “bold” departure from the source material deserves to be scolded and chastised over and over again, until he learns never to say Sansa is his favorite character ever again. Because he actually is saying exactly that:

“Sansa is a character we care about almost more than any other, and the Stark sisters have from the very beginning been two characters who have fascinated us the most,” Benioff was quoted in EW article.

Yeah, they love Sansa’s character so much they took her out of her arc and moved her somewhere she couldn’t belong in any meaningful way. The fact he’s saying that in the very article that deals with “perhaps the boldest departure” that actually involves Sansa, clearly proves the modern public increasingly looks as if adapted by Benioff and Weiss: who needs accountability anyway, accountability is for eight graders!

As a matter of fact, Game of Thrones may very well be the first show that doesn’t reflect the reality so much as accommodates it according to its own image. “You’re going to believe me or your lying eyes?” seems to be the order of the day at this point in the history of mankind, and nowhere is that more evident than in the case of GOT, the showrunners of which seem to have improved the catchphrase into: “What are you going to use for thinking, our interviews or your too-logical-for-its-own-good brain?”

Looks like too many choose to believe not their own eyes and minds, but Benioff and Weiss, even though the two were already caught lying in flagrante. And about the same storyline, no less. Back in Season One, when explaining why they gave book Sandor’s lines to TV Littlefinger, Cogman said it was because of the terrible weather conditions that messed up with the shooting schedule and forced them to make the switch. But in the scene itself, while Littlefinger’s telling Sansa the story of “brotherly love” between Gregor and Sandor, you can clearly see the latter standing behind, in the stands, right by Joffrey. The actor was actually there, in the scene, at disposal and very visible, and yet any number of viewers chose to believe Cogman and his ridiculous story about some weather conditions that influenced the script.

That arrogance in dealing with their own fans is the most annoying thing about the showrunners and their crew. But, one would be mistaken to confuse that arrogance with some sort of confidence. It is, in fact, the exact opposite: a calculated cockiness, aimed at leaving the impression of confidence where there is none.

Just look at the scene with the High Septon being forced naked out of the brothel. What purpose did it serve? The first part of the scene, in which the High Septon was picking whores, filled the nudity quota, of course, but the High Septon himself—no offense—certainly wasn’t disrobed for the same wisdom. He was made to walk naked through the streets of King’s Landing for one reason: to make the similar scene that is coming for Cersei at the end of the season not look too controversial.

See, last year, with the now infamous sex scene in the sept and the public outcry that followed it, the HBO executives most probably demanded from Benioff and Weiss never to repeat a similar controversy. And, while their understanding of the books is questionable at best, Benioff and Weis are probably very much in touch with the readers’ reactions to particular points of Martin’s novels. Like a politician obsessed not with his legacy but with his approval ratings: it’s not about what he wants or doesn’t want to do, it’s about how people are going to react to it. Therefore, Benioff and Weiss definitely know a significant part of the readership think Cersei’s Walk of Shame was a misogynistic measure against her. And they aren’t willing to risk their show being seen in the same light. No way. Hence the scene with the naked High Septon. This way, once Lena Headey puts her bare foot on the same streets, nobody will be able to accuse Benioff and Weiss that women are more tortured than men in their world.

That’s how bold they truly are. That is the boldness that stems only from a corporate giant that paid millions of dollars for your right to play petty games with a source material that is anything but petty.

Bold, Bold, it rhymes with gold.

And yes, the games Benioff and Weiss seem to be playing with fans of the novels often appear as petty. Just look at the Janos Slynt’s death scene. Really, how hard can it be to include “Ed, fetch me a block?” It wouldn’t take more than a few seconds for Jon to change his mind and instead of hanging to outright behead Janos. But no, Benioff and Weiss probably find some mysterious joy in omitting all the iconic lines they know the most faithful book readers simply adore.

Bold, Bold, it almost rhymes with “Ollie, bring me my sword.”

It is, after all, what they managed to do even with the first of those iconic lines: Ned’s “That is the only time a man can be brave.” There is no such line in the pilot, it’s only referred to much later on, near the end of the second season, when Robb tells Talisa about his late father.

What Benioff and Weiss possibly don’t get is that those lines didn’t become iconic because fans confused them for passwords that give access to their secret nerd societies. (Before the show, actually, ASOIAF was pretty immune to the entire nerd culture.) No, those lines are so beloved precisely because they are written as important points in the development of this character or that plotline. It’s never just about Edd or fetching or a block, but also about decisions these characters make and then go on living with them. Lines like those are what makes not only dialogues in ASOIAF but also characters so damn memorable and brilliant.

Partially because of those omissions, characters in the show are often flat and/or inconsistent. The aforementioned Janos Slynt, for example. A few episodes ago, in last season’s penultimate hour, Janos was hiding in Gilly’s room during the crucial battle with the wildlings. One episode ago, during the elections Sam was openly ridiculing Janos and his cowardice in front of everyone, and Janos did nothing at all—in effect, it means he’s a way bigger craven than Sam. But now, in this episode, all of a sudden he’s all disobedient and even rebellious when the new Lord Commander gives him a direct order. One might ask, what did Benioff and Weiss turn their Janos into such a wimp for, when they eventually ended his arc the same way as in the books? Really, how hard, or bold, it is to write a side character like Janos Slynt consistently, especially when someone else already did it for you in the novels?

And in those rare instances Benioff and Weiss are consistent (sort of), it’s for the worse. Enter Tyrion, a character who, if personal opinions are allowed, I find absolutely brilliant and one of Martin’s best in the books. But I like Tyrion only with both his best and his worst parts, and his absolute worst happens in “A Dance with Dragons,” when, all the while believing he was infected by greyscale, he penetrates a poor sex slave and thus possibly exposes her to the deadly disease. In the show, however, not only that greyscale is removed from his Essos arc but Tyrion also doesn’t sleep with prostitutes anymore. Like, he would but can’t! He appears to be an even better person than he was before killing Shae and Tywin. Some call it the whitewashing of Tyrion, but I prefer to call it the dumbing down of the entire story to the point where characters are allowed only to walk the narrow beats that were chosen for them somewhere in HBO’s focus groups-dealing departments. Tyrion is recognized as a protagonist up there, and therefore he’s stripped of layers and layers of complexity that made him such a wonderful creation.

Bold, Bold, it rhymes with mold.

It is what the show does all the time with all the characters. Benioff and Weiss are frequently praised by servile TV critics for their alleged boldness in deviating from the source material (and in the first season they were actually encouraged to do so), and looks like they came to believe it really is a question of courage. But what’s really going on is exactly the opposite. The ultimate result is that each and every deviation only made the story and the world and the characters more lame and flat and dumb, but in all fairness, the show’s deviations could never be bold. Not with all the push for them coming from all directions. Not with HBO demanding them, as evidenced by the reshooting of the pilot. Not with all the money HBO’s been pouring on the media, in the name of promoting Game of Thrones. With all the resources HBO invested in this project, taking the easier, safer route every time is never bold. On the contrary.

Bold, Bold, it rhymes with sold.

All our books and we still don’t know

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episode 2, Game of Thrones, got, miodrag zarkovic, review, season 5

A review of “The House of Black and White,” the second episode of the fifth season of “Game of Thrones”

by Miodrag Zarković

Let’s take a somewhat different approach this time. Let’s critique “Game of Thrones” by actually praising something they’ve done.

The first episode of Season 5 introduced flashbacks, but the second episode started with an even bigger precedent: a scene without burping, farting, cursing, whoring, lusting, humiliating, ridiculing, castrating, mutilating, insulting, chastising, tutoring, delivering quasi-philosophies . . . In short, it was a scene in which nobody was making a misery out of someone else’s life to any extent.

“The House of Black and White” opens with Arya on a ship entering the port of Braavos while the captain briefs her on the city, and then he takes the girl to her final destination, from which the episode borrowed its title. It is the same ship Arya embarked at the end of previous season, and the captain is apparently the same person as last year, which could indicate David Benioff and Dan Weiss, the two showrunners, finally resolved their recurring problems with continuity. But that’s not the point. The point is that the captain was not only helpful but also nice to Arya, and she was visibly grateful for that.

Trying to remember the last time two characters in the show had a decent, good-natured exchange, one might have to go back to the first season. And even then, those were the characters already bonded by family or friendship ties (for example, Ned’s respective scenes with Cat, Robert and Arya), or characters directed at each other by their positions (Ned/Barristan). Two persons that are almost complete strangers to one another? Yeah, Arya/Captain could very well be the first ever in the show.

(Tyrion/Yoren from episode three could qualify, had Benjen not interrupted.)

Ironically, it was a small departure from the books, where the captain was visibly eager to get rid of Arya (though he never denies her his service), but at the same time this TV scene is easily among the most faithful ones to the source material as a whole. The world George R. R. Martin built in his “A Song of Ice and Fire” book series is populated by people that aren’t unlike us and they happen to interact with each other in ways that clearly resemble human interactions from our reality. While the story is indeed focused on lords and ladies and other highborn people, ordinary folks are never too far away and most usually they’re reasonably decent to strangers they happen to meet on streets, or at the market, or at the inn. Of course, that somewhat changes in times of war and accompanying horrors, but never vanishes. And that is what gives the utmost realistic aspect to Martin’s world. If you don’t want realism to be jeopardized by gradually introduced supernatural elements like dragons and resurrections, you have to ground it in the most basic forms of humanity. That’s what the world-building should be in a character and culture-driven story.

“Game of Thrones” is, sadly, not that kind of story. Its characters are overwhelmingly inconsistent, and its societies are both superficial and unsustainable. And one of the main reasons is that for four seasons we practically didn’t have a single example of ordinary human decency. Instead, Benioff and Weiss clearly enjoy treating their viewers to a misery porn. In their world, common folks are constantly vulgar, rude, greedy, vile, touchy and aggressive, often without any reason or provocation whatsoever.

Perhaps that’s how Benioff and Weiss are trying to detail their world as adult and mature, but in effect they’re accomplishing exactly the opposite.

And that is why Arya’s story collapses as soon as she parts ways with the captain. When she knocks, a hooded man opens the black-white door and—guess what?—he doesn’t even want to hear her out. After uttering some cryptic ominous warning, he slams the door right in front of her nose and never opens it again, even though Arya spends what looks like days at the stairs and under heavy rain. She finally decides to move on, tosses Jaqen’s coin in the river and goes further into the city, where, later in the episode, she’s about to engage in a fight with some young bullies when—guess what?—the hooded man suddenly appears behind her, forcing the bullies to run away, after which Arya follows him back to the House of Black and White.

If a reason for any of this ever existed, it surely never left Benioff and Weiss’ writing room.

And then a small discontinuity occurs: when the hooded man changes his face to that of Jaqen, he also changes his voice to that of Jaqen. In the finale of Season Two, when the original Jaqen performed the same magic, he changed appearances, but not the voice. One more not too important but nevertheless evident detail the showrunners failed to remember from their own work.

But all that is small potatoes compared to the problems with the second scene, in which Brienne and Pod cross paths with Littlefinger and Sansa once again, this time at the inn. Let’s start with the biggest, most bizarre problem of all: horses.

Benioff and Weiss are known to have had issues with horses in the past, due to how difficult these animals are for filming, but this was a whole new level. Pay attention to this little dialogue between Brienne and Pod, that ensues after he spotted Sansa, Littlefinger and a bunch of knights at the opposite side of the inn:

Brienne: “Ready the horses!”
Pod: “We only have one horse.”
Brienne: “Find. More.

If you think about it even for a second, this exchange is as stupid as they come. Like, are horses a commodity in Westeros or aren’t they? Are they hard to obtain or not? If they are, then how the hell is Pod to “find more” in no time? If they aren’t, what the hell were Brienne and Pod doing with just one horse all this time?

For comparison, imagine a similar dialogue but on modern Earth, where cars are the prime mode of transportation: “Go start our cars.” “We have only one car.” “Find more!” See how absurd it gets when put in a familiar environment? And that is the biggest, most frequent deficiency of the show: too much of the stuff Benioff and Weiss came up with is completely unsustainable in any reasonable and logical surrounding.

Issues like those are dealt with on basic levels of writing classes, or even acting classes for that matter. There, one learned early on to be vigilant about the details that could betray the fundamental illusion the audience is being drawn into by the artist, be it a creator or a performer. It’s details that most easily corrode the glamor, whether the audience recognizes it instantly and consciously or not. And in the case of GOT, it’s not even that hard to immediately recognize all the missteps the show creators are making in every given episode.

After the nonsense with the horses, there’s a rare, and therefore remarkable, example of consistency in the show in regards to Brienne: she’s still to meet a Stark girl’s company she won’t start a fight with. Last year it was Sandor escorting Arya, this time around it’s the knights of the Vale escorting Sansa. It’s as if her actual priority is not to protect late Lady Catelyn’s daughters, but to kill everyone who happens to protect them at the moment. Here, she killed two of the knights that guarded Littlefinger and Sansa, but only because she had to rescue Pod. What was her initial intent is hard to tell, just like with great many of the actions characters in the show undertake. Once again, if Brienne ever had anything that resembles a plan when she ordered Pod to “ready the horses,” it’s still well and safe in the writing room of Benioff and Weiss.

Brienne also seems sworn to never mention a sister to any of the Stark girls. Just like last year she didn’t tell Arya anything about Sansa (which was understandable, truth be told), in this episode she managed to hide from Sansa the fact that she saw Arya recently. Again, a consistency! Not in logic, but at least in writing. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Bronn’s not as lucky as Brienne. His reasoning changes rapidly, as witnessed in the first scene he appears in this season. Last year, he refused to be Tyrion’s champion against Gregor Clegane because he wasn’t too much into “if and may and could.” However, when Jaime Lannister presented him with an offer that is nothing but “if and may and could,” Bronn accepted. And, in all fairness, Jaime’s offer is way more dangerous than Tyrion’s. Gregor Clegane was a beast, a freak of nature, a killing monster, but Dorne is an entire region. Kidnapping a royal hostage from the heart of a hostile region and bringing her back safely half a continent away, well, that sounds quite more perilous than challenging one man, even if it happens to be The Mountain.

But it’s not only perilous, it’s also absolutely stupid, at least on Jaime’s part. The entire plan is. First, why bring just Bronn along? Why not one more sellsword, or a knight? Why not two more? A party of three or four can be as light and fast as a pair, and the extra fighter or two can really make a difference between life and death on a mission like this one. The only reason one can think of is that, per the industry’s common wisdom, the buddy comedy commands just two participants. Since the showrunners obviously liked the “chemistry” between Jaime and Bronn, they saw no reason to disturb it by bringing more people into the mix, even if the in-story logic would have it otherwise.

Second, and even more important, what’s Jaime’s goal anyway if he actually doesn’t want to start a war, as he says to Cersei when he pitches his brilliant idea to her? How does he expect Dorne to react once he kidnaps Myrcella right from their very court and thus breaks the deal that sealed their shaky alliance? What is this world in which suicide missions like Jaime’s are actually expected not only to succeed but also to have no consequences whatsoever?

Stannis has Melisandre and her shadow-babies? Big deal! The Lannisters have Jaime. He’s a shadow-baby on cocaine! Jaime can reach further than Mel’s creatures and can perform much more sophisticated operations than just trust a shadow dagger through one’s throat. How come the Lannisters hadn’t thought of using him that way before?

While he’s in Dorne, by the way, would Jaime be kind enough to remove whoever was directing the scenes staged in that particular region of Westeros? So far we had just one such a scene, but it was enough. In it, Ellaria Sand, paramour of the late Oberyn Martell, confronts Oberyn’s brother and Dorne’s Prince Doran, demanding his approval to tear poor Myrcella to pieces, in retaliation for Oberyn’s death. Everything’s cartoonish about that piece of television: the dialogue is worded expectedly poorly, the camera work is more than lacking (when you’re having one of the most amazing locations in the world as your set, why not show its full beauty from, say, an aerial view?), and the acting is so one-note it hurts. Indira Varma as Ellaria and Alexander Siddig as newly-introduced Doran are experienced actors and proven in other roles. So, for the fact that neither of them changes their face expression during their minute-and-a-half long conversation, it’s probably the director who’s responsible.

The situation in Meereen is something not even Jaime the Commando could solve. When the story entered that city, apparently it ended 1) slavery, and 2) rationality. And sadly, nobody’s fighting to restore the latter, while the former has numerous champions, some of them even hiding inside the walls. What are they doing there? How did they get there? How did they ever plan to get out of there? Well, we’re like the Unsullied in patrol, too conspicuous, so we’ll probably never be told.

What does Dany want to do with the captured Son of the Harpy? To put him on trial, of course, like any reasonable 21st century leader only should. The problem is, she’s not in the 21st century. She’s ruling a recently conquered medieval-like city that used to run on slavery for centuries, so the very idea of a trial for such an unquestionable offense is rather preposterous. But even that aside, what would be the point of the trial in this particular instance? Is the captured fellow denying he’s a member of the terrorist group that’s behind the murders? Can he at all, considering the way he was captured? “We do not know what this man did or didn’t do, give him a trial at least,” says Ser Barristan, but in all actuality they do know the captured man was hiding inside the wall with weapons and a mask. What, he was hiding in the wall by accident? And what judicial bodies would conduct a trial? Would the trial be open? Would the accused therefore get the chance to address the masses and spread the poisonous ideas of his group? Really, how would a trial even look like?

We’ll never know, only not because we’re too conspicuous but because Mossador took the justice into his own hands and killed the prisoner. Did Mossador himself get a fair trial? Well, no. He was denied all those mysterious judicial possibilities that were meant for the Son of the Harpy. Mossador was simply executed in front of thousands of citizens of Meereen, both ex-slaves and former slavers. And of course, the former didn’t take it too kindly. How did they react? As if they came from Monty Python’s famous 1979 film “Life of Brian”: there’s a very similar scene in there, with the crowd of followers gathered outside of Brian’s window and answering unanimously to his complicated questions; the difference is, the Monty Python’s scene was meant to ridicule scenes like the execution of Mossador; Benioff and Weiss therefore have the dubious honor of being alluded to in a Monty Python movie 36 years ago.

It’d be interesting to find out what Benioff and Weiss really think of those poor ex-slaves in Meereen. What they think of their show’s viewers, however, is pretty evident and most precisely articulated in the Wall scenes in this episode.

The image they have of their core audience is illustrated by the members of the Night’s Watch in the elections: they can be persuaded into anything. A few lines by Samwell Tarly, who’s likely a stand-in for the modern TV critics that keep praising “Game of Thrones” in their weekly reviews, was all it took for both the voters and the viewers to forget what an incompetent fool Jon Snow was for the previous three seasons. Strangely, it also served to erase the memory of Sam’s advice to Jon just a minute earlier, when he was urging Jon to accept Stannis’ proposition. Even Sam seemed to completely forget about it: one moment he was prompting Jon to leave the Night’s Watch, next moment he was nominating his friend to lead the Black Brothers.

Once again, it was a blatant example of the show not taking itself seriously at all and going back on its own internal logic in just a minute or thereabouts. That has to be a new record.

And what Benioff and Weiss think of the viewers they inherited from the source material, they showed in the scene in which Selyse Baratheon chastises her daughter Shireen. “All your books and you still don’t know,” says the Queen at the Wall.

Yes, all our books, and we basically have no idea what is going on in this show that was supposed to be an adaptation of those books. And, so far, it doesn’t look like the show is better off because of it. Quite the opposite.

Be careful who you give the show to, HBO!

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episode 1, Game of Thrones, got, miodrag zarkovic, review, season 5

A review of “The wars to Come,” the first episode of the fifth season of “Game of Thrones”

by Miodrag Zarković

HBO seems to be making a habit out of placing “Game of Thrones” in the wrong hands.

This past weekend, the first four episodes of Season 5 of “Game of Thrones” were leaked on the internet, immediately reaffirming the epic fantasy as the most pirated television show in the world. HBO soon released a statement, confirming that “the leaked four episodes of the upcoming season of Game of Thrones originated from within a group approved by HBO to receive them.”

One might think they’re somewhat used to the situation by now. As in, this really shouldn’t be the first time they realized they trusted the wrong people about “Thrones.” And we’re definitely not talking about internet piracy.

In April 2011, when the debut season premiered, HBO wasn’t suspicious, but, after the second episode aired, many a fan expressed their concerns. The reason was a particular scene in which Cersei Lannister visits Bran Stark, who’s in a coma, and tries to comfort his mother Catelyn. And what a comforting it was! To the woman already half-mad because of the condition her son finds himself in, Cersei tells a story about the child she herself lost to a fever years ago.

That scene had absolutely no business being in a show based on the “A Song of Ice and Fire” series by George R. R. Martin. And now, four years later, it’s pretty obvious why.

“How many children does Scarlett O’Hara have?” asked Martin recently, referring to the differences between the “Gone with the Wind” book and its film adaptation, and implying two canons for the same story is not something unheard of. Well, Mr. Martin, you were possibly addressing the wrong audience about the wrong mother. It’s not us you had to discuss Scarlett’s kids with, it was David Benioff and Dan Weiss you had to discuss Cersei Lannister’s posterity with. Because, as evidenced by the Season 5 premiere, Benioff and Weiss, the duo behind “Game of Thrones,” clearly needed some help in keeping track of their own imagination.

When asked how many children Cersei Lannister gave birth to, one isn’t necessarily to choose between the show and its source material but—between two different seasons of the same show! Back in 2011, as explained, Cersei bore at least four children: Joff, Myrcella, Tommen and a boy who died of fever. Come 2015, and Cersei Lannister mothered only three kids: that’s what she was foretold as a kid, and that’s what she obviously believes in. Yes, we’re talking about the flashback scene, the historical first in the “Game of Thrones” universe that opened the new season, titled “The Wars to Come”. In the scene, Cersei and her hysterical friend (a sidekick kid that continually and loudly advises the main kid against the thing they’re actually doing, is one of the oldest and most boring clichés in storytelling, by the way), visit a witch able to foresee the future. When young Cersei demands to know hers, the witch tells her she’ll have, pay attention, three children of her own!

The number is the same as in the books, but, alas, it doesn’t add up when you add the poor kid Cersei was talking about in Season 1. And the scene with Cat wasn’t the only one Cersei mentioned the dead boy in. She also brought up the kid while talking to Robert Baratheon, in Episode 5. It actually seals the deal that the unfortunate infant did exist in the show universe in 2011, because otherwise talking about him with the man who fathered him would make no sense at all.

That’s “Game of Thrones” for you. Go on, count Scarlett O’Hara’s children as many times as you like and draw any conclusion you find fit, just so long as you pay no attention to the kids actual characters in the show keep mentioning and then totally forgetting about a couple of seasons later. It’s not a big deal, after all. Who among us isn’t confused about the number of kids we produce? Nobody said parenting was easy, counting your children included.

But, truth be told, more serious issues than pure math are involved here. Back in 2011, fans of the books didn’t need a witch to realize how troubling the story about Cersei’s  dead boy truly was. The entire scene had a neon sign that telegraphed Benioff & Weiss’ intention to humanize the queen of Westeros. That wouldn’t be a problem had she not been humanized in the books, but she was. Which means Benioff & Weiss were repairing something that wasn’t broken. No good could come from that.

Besides the now-you-know-them-now-you-don’t kids, one more thing was notably absent from the TV prophecy: the valonqar, e.g. the younger brother destined to squeeze the life out of Cersei once all of her children are dead. It’s completely puzzling that Benioff & Weiss decided to remove the crucial part which made the prophecy what it is.

In “The Wars to Come,” there’s one more female character completely rid of any possible valonqar: Sansa Stark. Once, she had two younger brothers of her own, Bran and Rickon. The show, however, didn’t have Sansa even acknowledge their existence or their “deaths” ever since she left Winterfell early in Season 1. Instead, she was last seen preoccupied with her cousin Robert Arryn, the Lord of the Vale.

But it wasn’t for long. In the first scene of the new season they appear in, Littlefinger and Sansa leave Robert to be fostered at Yohn Royce’s household.

If you don’t recall instantly, Robert is the neurotic kid that was supposedly the centerpiece of the unrevealed but strongly hinted at scheme Littlefinger and Sansa planned last year. In the already infamous scene that ended her Season 4 arc, Sansa appears at the top of the stairs in an ominous dress (really ominous, not like the TV witch’s prophecy) of her own creation, and joins Littlefinger in manipulating the terrified Robert. “Shall we go?” she asked seductively, before the scene ended, along with her story for the season. Next time we saw her was this Sunday, and it looks like there really was no plan for Robert after all. A year ago, when she invited them to go somewhere, she was apparently talking about Yohn Royce’s household. Taking poor Robert out of the Eyrie, that was the task Sansa had to dress herself for so strangely! That’s why she had to become a seductress overnight. Of course, Robert would never follow her had she kept her hair red, her dress green, and her cleavage unexposed.

Seriously now, manipulating Robert Arryn seems like one more strange direction that Benioff & Weiss abruptly took, and then even more abruptly abandoned after realizing it led nowhere. It was a pure waste of everyone’s time, which is the one resource the show doesn’t have in abundance. Other things Sansa’s arc this season already managed to abandon, however, are even more troubling. Because, along with the time, logic suffered too.

There is no logic whatsoever in Littlefinger’s explanation on why they are leaving the Vale. “So, where are we going? To a land where you trust everyone?” asks Sansa once they’re in a carriage. “To a land so far from here that even Cersei Lannister can’t get her hands on you,” answers Lord Baelish, thus making the audience as puzzled as Sansa seems to be.

You see, thanks to the information from the production and images from the trailers and incidents mentioned at the beginning of this article, it’s not a secret he’s taking Sansa to Winterfell, which is ruled by the Boltons at the moment. And you have to be a moron to run from Cersei by hiding among the Boltons. So, either TV Littlefinger is the moron for trusting the Boltons on any level whatsoever, or TV Sansa is a moron who doesn’t realize Littlefinger is about to sell her to the worst possible bidders, or . . . you know . . . like, HBO should really be way more careful about who they’re sending “Game of Thrones” episodes to.

Sansa’s storyline this season is emblematic of the biggest problem the show continues to suffer from: the lack of any context whatsoever. And it’s not just about the faithfulness to the source material. Yes, Martin’s novels offer any number of contexts that could and should have been exploited on screen to no regret. Benioff & Weiss, however, ignored the majority and used only a handful of them, and added many contexts they invented, as lacking as the latter may be. But eventually it’s all for nothing, because Benioff & Weiss apparently didn’t meet a context they were careful not to violate in a blatant way.

Really, why would anyone, be it Littlefinger or someone else, go all those lengths to save Sansa from King’s Landing, only to hand her over to one of the rare families that is visibly more disturbing and depraved than the Lannisters? It makes no sense at all. Not to mention that Littlefinger has no reason to expect the Boltons wouldn’t turn Sansa over to the Iron Throne the first chance they get. Roose and Ramsay aren’t famous for their loyalty, after all. Why would anyone expect a better treatment from them than the one Robb Stark received?

But no, looks like Benioff & Weiss didn’t think Sansa’s TV arc through. No wonder it’s only becoming a bigger and bigger mess: at one point, Littlefinger was saving Sansa from the Lannisters; next moment, she was saving him from the Lords of the Vale and the accusation about the death of Lysa Arryn; then, in no time, the two of them seemingly agreed to control the Vale by manipulating Lysa’s challenged son; alas, no, Littlefinger actually had something entirely different in mind, and what he plans now is, by the way, far worse than anything he or Sansa or both possibly intended up to that point.

That’s what you get when you write ignoring the consequences your decisions may have.

“The Wars to Come” contains at least two more blunt examples of ignored contexts. Chronologically, the first is the scene with Cersei and Jaime in the sept. The disaster was a given. There’s Jaime, there’s Cersei, there’s a dead body right by them, they’re alone and at a holy place. The context of messing with such an opportunity in a very wrong way is not the one Benioff & Weiss could ever ignore. And they did mess with it, big time.

“Did you set him free?” asks Cersei to her twin brother, referring to Tyrion, of course. Jaime instantly forgets he has a tongue, which Cersei correctly understands as the confirmation that yes, he was the one who released the Imp. And she’s not about to let her twin brother go off the hook lightly: “Tyrion may be a monster, but at least he killed our father on purpose. You killed him by mistake. A stupidity.”

And that’s it. That is all the punishment Jaime will receive from Cersei for saving the person she hated all of her life. Just to sum things up: almost the entire Season 4, Cersei spent carefully arranging Tyrion’s death, and when she was finally about to get precisely what she wanted, her little brother somehow escaped from the dungeons and managed to murder their father and the family’s patriarch, and then she finds out it was her other brother that started this chain of events by breaking the law and releasing Tyrion on his own—and she does nothing but chastise Jaime? It all comes down to scolding him!

That kind of storytelling actually isn’t connectable to a competent writing. Cersei is either obsessed with bringing Tyrion to his death, or she isn’t. Tywin’s death is either a big deal, or not. And if the characters themselves don’t seem affected by the crucial events at all, why would the audience be? If incidents like Tyrion’s escape and Tywin’s death effectively have no meaning for Cersei or Jaime, why would they mean anything to the audience?

Similar questions may be asked in regards to the closing scene of the episode, in which Mance Rayder refuses Stannis’ offer and chooses to be burned alive. The scene is so shallow and self-serving it looks like the logic perished in flames long before the King Beyond the Wall. Really, why would Mance refuse Stannis? Is not bending the knee really that more important than saving lives? And if so, why did the Wildlings ever bother to flee south in the first place? What the hell did Mance expect: to enter the realm, but avoid becoming a subject to one king or another, and lose not a single man in the process?

A season or two ago, his plan looked very differently. A season or two ago, he wasn’t opposed to the very idea of Wildlings fighting their way into the Seven Kingdoms. But now, when one Stannis Baratheon effectively offers them the help of his troops, Mance refuses? Suddenly, he’s a conscientious objector who’d rather burn than pick a sword against another human being?

“You’re a good lad, truly you are, but if you can’t understand why I won’t enlist my people in a foreigner’s war, there’s no point explaining,” says Mance to Jon before their final goodbye to each other. But it’s all wrong. From the very beginning, the Wildlings had to count on the armed resistance their invasion on the Seven Kingdoms will be inevitably met with. Fighting the 7K armies is not a possibility Stannis introduced. If anything, Stannis recognizes the common cause and proposes to join forces, since they obviously face the same enemy. But Mance refuses. And instead chooses to be burned alive. The reason be damned.

The first episode of the new season ended right after Jon Snow put Mance out of his burning misery by killing him with an arrow through the heart. And the big question remained hanging in the air:

Really, HBO, why weren’t you much more careful with granting access to this material?