Serious Question: Can Game of Thrones Be Great and Repulsive at the Same Time?

Serious Question is when we pose a question and then try to answer it. Usually the question is not very serious.

I hold a very isolating and unpopular opinion: I don’t like watching Game of Thrones. Here’s what that doesn’t mean:

1. It doesn’t mean Game of Thrones is a bad show.
2. It doesn’t mean Game of Thrones is unimportant.
3. It doesn’t mean other people are wrong for liking Game of Thrones.

On the other hand, here’s what that does mean:

1. I think Game of Thrones is hard to watch.
2. I don’t have an investment in the show’s circumstances or characters.
3. I only watch Game of Thrones because everyone else watches it, and because it’s one of the most interesting cultural phenomena of my lifetime.

I’m not sure it’s really safe to voice all that, but that’s about as clear as I can make it all. Let me explain a little bit further:

Game of Thrones is probably the single most impressive television show I’ve ever watched. It’s transportive, deep, beautiful, and as grand as anything you’ll see from your couch. As a production, it’s a remarkable achievement, from the costumes to the sets to the special effects. The show has advanced our expectations for the kind of spectacle TV should provide us, and it’s elevated HBO from a exclusive prestige platform to a popular prestige platform.

From a narrative standpoint, Thrones does as good a job as any show in weaving one of the trickiest storyline webs in television history. Quite literally, there’s never been a show this big. It’s expansive, covering more ground than anything else has even attempted, making such a display out of its own immense scale that the mere idea that two of its characters could appear onscreen together is a series-long point of anticipation. That’s a special and unique dynamic, and it’s easily, without question, the best thing about Thrones as a whole.

Of course, Game of Thrones’ no-one-is-safe foundation deserves some credit, too (give it to author George R.R. Martin though, not the show’s writers), because it’s something that has rippled dramatically through the rest of the television landscape. Some of my favorite moments in shows I love—Hannibal, The Leftovers—owe their jaw-dropping puppetry to the ruthlessness Thrones popularized. TV is more daring and unpredictable with its character decisions now, and that can be traced back to Westeros.

It’s at the opposite end of this dynamic where I begin to pull away from Game of Thrones. For years now, the hype of the show has revolved around the question of “who will die next?” and that, in my opinion, should not be the greatest priority both for a show’s audience and a show’s production staff. I think it’s become both in this case. After the Red Wedding, Thrones’ audience internalized the notion that anyone could be offed at any moment, and as a result, the death toll began to dominate the conversation around the show. In response to that conversation, the show itself began to use death less as a narrative tactic and more as a tool to manipulate and toy with viewers. It’s a harsh attribution to throw out there, so here’s an example. (Obviously, spoilers of the show are to follow.)

A great example of a valuable Thrones death is Ned Stark. In one of the most important, influential scenes in the history of modern TV, the protagonist of HBO’s next big thing iced without warning, redemption, or intervention. On a pure narrative level, Ned’s beheading had tremendous impact on show’s world. Joffrey and the Lannisters were established as legitimate, impactful threats (putting them in position to become more to viewers than incestuous, elitist killers), Arya fled the Red Keep (and then grew and evolved into her own agency-doused badass), a more explicit conflict was sparked between the Starks and the Lannisters, and possession of the Iron Throne began to feel precarious and bulls-eyed. Ned Stark’s death was greater than shock value. The focus for the writers was clearly on how this would impact the universe they had built, and that cause-and-effect took pole position before anything else.

Adversely, Jon Snow’s death had the opposite focus. Killed at the end of season five, Jon appeared the latest name on a growing (and growing fast) list of the show’s causalities, but then, the show began to tease his return. After months of fan speculation and an absence from the season six premiere, Jon indeed came back to life, revived by dark magic. Here was the context around that: Jon was killed by his fellows on the Night’s Watch for some perceived legalistic treachery. When he comes back to life, he wins them back onto his side over the course of a single episode. He is also freed from his watch due to the technicality that when you die, “your watch has ended.” This frees Jon up to leave the Wall and take an army to Hardhome, where he first encounters the Night King. Some ripples, sure, but here’s the difference: Those results didn’t necessarily require Jon to die. The conversation in the wake of Jon’s death wasn’t “what does this mean for everyone else?” It was “are they going to bring him back?” The first is about the show, and is smarter, and the second is about the writers, and is much, much dumber. Jon Snow’s death and resurrection functioned primarily (not solely, just primarily) as a cliffhanger between seasons five and six, and in a culture landscape marked by greater depth and devotion than ever, the death of a beloved character should be given more reverence and meaning than something so self-congratulatory and cheap.

That’s my biggest personal conflict with Game of Thrones—the show seems to care more about playing with its fans than it does realizing its characters, and that’s warped. It means that death scenes become egregious, lingering, exploitative moments of carnage, where people we’re supposed to spend emotions on have their heads caved in, knives shoved through their stomachs, and their heads rolled down the steps of a palace. With every throat slash, Thrones pushes me farther and farther away, until I sit on my couch as cold and distant as the Night King himself. I want to find someone to love on this show, but the people I’d consider are killed too unceremoniously for my investment to be rewarded. Instead, I’m left with a bunch of power-hungry figures who at this point feel irredeemable (except maybe Jaime—you won me over, man). I don’t want those people to win in the end, but that doesn’t compel me to stick around and watch them die, either. That just makes me feel like a sicko.

The point is, I wish Game of Thrones treated its characters with some bit of warmth. If someone has to die, fine, but the semantics of said killings should be more wrought with emotion than what we’re being given. I’m tired of people dying in huge explosions while a new queen is garbed. I’m tired of little kids jumping out of windows. I’m tired of wolves being gutted. It’s wearying, and at this late stage, I can’t imagine an ending that would make all the despair feel justified. At its core, Game of Thrones is a soap opera. Is it worth all the suffering just to see Jon and Dany defeat the White Walkers? For me, I’m not sure it is. I’ve seen Dany commit more atrocities than the Night King, after all.

Game of Thrones is so smart, so exceptional, so solid in its mechanics. It is definitely the most epic soap opera that’s ever been. I just wish it gave you room to love its characters. I don’t want to watch something if I feel like it’s all for nothing, and when I turn to HBO on Sunday nights, that’s exactly how I feel. All this show will have taught me is that integrity isn’t rewarded, you should never trust TV writers, and I should limit my attachments to onscreen characters. TV is special because its form allows us to build years-long relationships with what we see. Game of Thrones denies me that. It’s too pessimistic and cold-blooded.

But that’s also the paradox: I’m not quitting this show. There’s two more seasons of sweeping, sensational action to come, and I want to be there. It’s hypocritical, but these days I think there’s importance in taking the opportunity to be a part of something huge, especially when we’re past the age of appointment-viewing TV. There’s something romantic about it. I don’t want to eat from the hand that strikes me, but regardless, my mouth is already full. I'm choking.