It’s always been real.
As the final season begins, I’ve been thinking about why Game of Thrones caught on the way it did, when there has been such a wealth of fantastic content in the last few years.
Well, it’s fantastic. The story is dense and rich; the casting and directing is strong. And it’s just a beautiful show. The scenery, the score, the visual craftsmanship from the Red Keep down to the details of Sansa’s embroidery. Really, the worst it could be is okay.
But GOT isn’t just marketable, or even good, it’s a phenomenon. Why, around ten years ago, was that the moment when ASOIAF clicked for enough cultural decision-makers to become an HBO show? I suppose there’s an easy answer from a marketing perspective: if you grew up with Harry Potter, with a mental escape north to an ancient and magical castle, well, you’re old enough for a premium cable subscription now.
But a series can be successful, even excellent, but never quite break out and becoming a cultural thing. Part of that difference is about the context in which it’s consumed. The Sopranos was about a baby boomer’s mid-life crisis, airing when most baby boomers were feeling that crisp first chill of autumn. Battlestar Galactica and The Wire were intentionally in dialogue with the bleak politics of the early aughts – one about what happened when the systems we inherited were disrupted beyond repair and one where those systems worked exactly as intended. Not many early 2010s shows were able to retrofit themselves into the sociopolitical zeitgeist, with the notable exceptions of Homeland and Scandal – often criticized for being too gonzo (or perhaps, actually, for provoking discomfort by having complex female leads).
The Potter generation is also the Millennial generation. Millennials are the children of autumn; our generational mile markers have been one fall after another. The fall of the Berlin wall, the collapse of the Twin Towers, the 2008 financial crash. Off in the background, the melting of the glaciers, and the decline of democracy around the world.
That sense of confusion and urgency, of the gyre ever widening, defines Game of Thrones and ASOIAF from the first couple of scenes/chapters: three hapless guys find the nerve to face something that is totally outside their frame of reference, and the only one who lives to tell the tale gets killed by the apparent protagonist. The most terrifying thing about this world is that most people don’t know how frightening it is. The most dangerous thing about this world may well be the our own human reluctance to dig in and believe a strange and awful truth. Game of Thrones is about life in the shadow of something about to go incalculably wrong.
If you hadn’t read ADWD, then you were surprised in the season 5 finale in 2015. You were probably shocked at the sheer profane misogyny on display during Cersei’s walk of shame. You almost certainly weren’t expecting Jon Snow’s leadership of the Watch – where he, in good faith, practically pleaded with his compatriots to back-burner comfortable xenophobia to face up to an existential threat, some forgotten enemy sweeping down from a distant frozen tundra to rot their brains and turn them against each other – to end because of a criminal conspiracy against him. It feels naive now, to have blinked at all that.
The world has changed radically during our lives, and it shows no sign of stopping. Maybe one of the great shows of this moment would have to be a narrative where nobody fills the role you expect them to fill. Damn right this show’ll kill Tony Soprano, and Prince Charming, and Big Bad after Big Bad. So will real life. Valar morghulis – some too soon; others not soon enough.
The show’s signature phrase, which seems to have penetrated the culture at large, are the Stark words: winter is coming. This truth is amoral, inexorable, even perversely reassuring in its consistency. Winter must come because the world has not ended. Unless Macumber weeps, unless the heavens fall, winter is always coming.