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Game of Thrones (scrap string)
Like, Love, Hate
Not too many minutes into it I thought, I’ve seen this before: oh, groan, what dreck. The real shock came when I realized that I’d seen it only a few months ago: and, that I wrote on it! Old farts lose their licence to drive: we should also lose our license to blog: but not if our writing has been sabotaged, censored, not if we’ve been jailed and folks still don’t know what for, the society being incapable of honesty on any issue, especially freedom from coercion.
Now I further see that I rated Game of Thrones three starts this past January. No: if I really hated it, I would have marked it one star, or not marked it at all: zero stars.
Never mind what I wrote then, I’ll repeat important points here, in time. And what triggers this rant now is something I failed to comment on then:
Warriors come upon a young man raving. He says he just encountered some Ghost “Zombies”. (I don’t remember what he called them, and I’m not going back to find out! So I make up a name, a symbol.)
He’s dragged before a king as a deserter: the king has to kill him, but is uneasy about the zombies.
(Side admission: the movie is full of beef, and bosom, and ass. Up to a point that’s a virtue.)
The Vikings say, “There are no Ghost Zombies south of the wall.” Again, I don’t remember the phrase, but the flick is full of pregnant sounding terms: and feudal lords ready to commit suicide by ignoring warnings. So: what we’ve got here is a good horror movie disguized as a Viking movie.
Now, think with me for a minute:
What if we’re NYC cops, patrolling Fifth Avenue. Somebody runs up, says “I just saw a grizzly bear two blocks north of here”. Do you correct this testimony by reciting bear demographics? Do you refute the report with a faith that grizzlies don’t come as far east as NYC? Or do you immediately radio the zoo and see if any bear cages have been left open? Or maybe you should first question whether this clown can tell a brown bear from a black bear from a grizzly. No, you’re first worry should be whether there are bears on the loose, even if it’s claimed as a panda.
Experience doesn’t stand a chance where authority is enthroned. The Catholic will always see the Virgin’s miracle; the Protestant never.
Well, another minute doesn’t pass before King and company happen on the ripped open corpse of a “dire-wolf” There’s the corpse, on the ground, identified as a dire-wolf dam by the Vikings present: and there are surviving pups: half a dozen infant dire-wolves. But what does some lieutenant say? “There are no dire-wolves south of the wall”!!!
Instantly the dumbest twelve year old in the audience recognizes this society as exactly like our “real” society. we’d rather correct and execute a news bringer than listen to and then test the news! Cops could radio the zoo, cops could walk to the zoo, looking for carnage, listening for screams … But real cops will mock the witness, keep their eyes glued firmly shut.
What I commented on in January primarily had to do with gender roles in this imaginary feudal society: imagined with a full complement of violence and a full complement of tush, and, quite refreshing a total absence of Christianity: these dudes do not turn any cheeks let alone the “other cheek”.
2016 07 20 Thrones has some batting average for pissing me off. The latest offense has to do with the literacy of these preposterous cultures. The Romans used written messages. So did King Alfred; but not the Danes and not the Celts and not the Saxons, not much anyway. Jeez, they consult each other about war in castle/churches that to date only the RC church had been able to afford. (Actually, I don’t think the RC could afford such extravagance either.
It’s fiction, not history: commercial fodder, not myth. It’s formula writing, of course. So why do I bother to be offended.
The boy’s archery is being tested. There should be some introduction to how physcally difficul archery is: at least for the long bow. You have to practice daily from childhood to maturity before cyou can hope to draw the bow let along hold it steady, know where to aim. So the boy is being tested and the little girl, ten years old of so, hits the bulls eye while the boy fumbles. What would the Yankees do to me if during a game, Ruth steps to the plate, even a boy Ruth, and I jump in and poach the pitch?
OK, it’s written to flatter girls that their absence from much of warfare is purely culural, not physical. But it goes on: the males are all lying faggots. Kings whine, they don’t lead. The bleach blond pushe her brother around: why wasn’t the brother simply assassinated a decade earlier?
My Cornwell novel pissed me similarly the other evening: the Last Kingdom. Our hero defeatts the awesome Dane. Some weasel takes the credit. King Alrady grants the credit, and keeps the credit applied when it’s apparent that it’s fraud.
Listen, those chieftan could make mistakes, but they weren’t idly stupid. No people will follow fraud to their own destruction: before modern times that is: Germans following Hitler, Americans following Nixon ….
What a mess. If I ever have a clear head I may trash this and start over.
2017 07 07 I tried to “introduce” Jan to Game of Thrones. Specifically I wanted to comment to her on the dishonesty of cultural congregations, ie, audience: liberal memories of liberal behavior: specifically: a plot which introduces a tomboy as tolerated in a warrior society: the warlord’s skinny daughter shows up the creepy prince with bow, with broad sward: all without consequence.
I ordered episodes I & II last week, timing it to coincide with Jan’s absence for Mothers Day. Maybe she’d like it, but I was taking no chances. But then I was stuck with it. [2016 07 20 I showed her a bit of episode 3 the other evening, she bailed out after five minutes or so.] [2017 07 07 Deja vu: I went through all this with Jan again: neither of us apparently had any memory of duplicate experience, duplicate comments: she cooperated for five minutes, then insisted I let her out.]
Refuse to Learn
2017 12 22 Jeez, we just went through the same thing again! I wanted Jan to see Emelia Clarke: face, wig, tits, ass, all in beautiful deadpan. She bolted as soon as I would let her bolt.
In the twenty-teens I’m watching TV entertinments without any memory of having already suffered the identical trash: I’m cast back to the 1960s when it was detective fiction that I’d read a page or two of or a chapter or two of before saying, Oh, I’ve read this one.
But then relatives with PhDs did the same. Professional journals they’d know correctly whether they’d perused; Ross MacDonald was a different category: a time waster not a time filler.
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