AGOT Commentary: Bran I

Bran I

Character: First chapter of the book…and it centers on a seven-year-old boy. That raised some flags at first. I’m not the biggest fan of children in literature or any other medium for that matter, which is why it surprised me how quickly I hit it off with this character.

It must be because the chapter starts with a rite of passage that introduces young Bran to death in all its prosaic bloodiness, and sets it off against his hearth tales of ghouls, giants, and the Others. As a kid I was always interested in adult stuff, because even at seven I could tell that the stuff we kids were allowed to see, read, etc. wasn’t the whole tale. There was a wealth of mystery screened off by the curtain of childhood, and I always wanted to get a peek behind it. Makes sense why Bran grew on me so quickly. At his age, I also would’ve loved to be there for the execution, not out of morbidity, but from the “nervous excitement” of being deemed old enough to partake in an adult activity.  

After the deed, Bran and his father, Ned Stark, have what I call a morally exciting conversation. Any such conversation involves questions and answers that tax our moral compass and makes us reconsider our beliefs with emotional or logical arguments, or both. The whole situation, the execution of a man whom the reader knows has a good reason to be insane, is consequential enough that it touches every character one way or the other. Let’s look at them one by one.

Martin does an excellent job contrasting Jon Snow and Robb Stark, both physically and mentally, and he does it through dialogue and action. Jon understands pressure and the need to please others, so he counsels Bran how to act in order to please their father. There’s the ostensible message of Jon caring about his younger brother, and his underlying need to spare others unnecessary discomfort. He may come off as cynical when he and Robb argue over how Gared faced death (scared out of his wits or with courage respectively), but we soon learn this is simply Jon’s acute observation skills at work. No one who goes out of his way to counsel his younger brother and willingly separates himself from the trueborn Stark children to save the pups can be considered cynical.

By contrast, Robb is a more starry-eyed, carefree character, which is nothing to sneer at, but does make him less astute and caring than Jon. Robb is not mean; he’s just too comfortable in his enviable station as Heir of Winterfell to have a need for Jon’s well-developed empathy. That’s a trait Robb shares with Sansa, his sister.

Ned Stark gets a spotlight shined on his psyche, as well. He wishes to make all his sons understand what it means to take the life of another man, to make sure they don’t become too far removed from the act of murder and its implications, even when it becomes necessary. Later in the series, we get to see his teaching wasn’t in vain.

After all, Ned is very well acquainted with the consequences of powerful men killing for the pettiest of reasons. His father and older brother were murdered by the Mad King Aerys II, a man who hid behind executioners and took obvious pleasure in the suffering of his victims. Remember that Bran said King Robert had a paid executioner? Ned immediately links the position with the Targaryen kings, a blatant condemnation. Not something you may appreciate on a first read, but it’s the kind of tidbit that makes these characters feel real.

It’d be wrong not to say a few words about Theon Greyjoy. If there’s a true cynic in this party, it has to be him. He kicks Gared’s chopped-off head away like a football and laughs about it, he’s quick to draw his sword to kill the direwolves, and mocks Jon’s albino pup. Considering he’s a very secondary character in Book I, his characterization is still vividly drawn, and proof that Martin’s work in the prologue wasn’t a fluke.

The only downside is that Bran is given a short shrift after the dead direwolf is found. From that point on, Bran is relegated to witness status, there mainly to convey what everybody feels and does, with little indication of how the events are affecting him emotionally, except for his reaction to Jon’s selfless (and ultimately subverted) sacrifice.

Plot: As to the larger picture, the showpiece of this chapter is the discovery of the dead direwolf and her pups. If you’re into omens, prophecies, and what have you, it’d be worth mentioning the stag’s antler that killed the direwolf as prefiguring the Stark’s grim future. But I’m not into omens or symbolic foreshadowing. If I wanted that I’d read religious texts, thank you very much. Maybe in future books we’ll get confirmation of whether someone (Bloodraven, I presume) sent the direwolf to the Starks and why. I can’t say that I’m dying to find out, but I do appreciate how this discovery brings out certain traits from the characters: Ned’s severity, Robb’s gung-ho approach to everything, Jon’s solidarity and proneness to self-sacrifice, and Theon’s irreverence.

Setting: Kudos to Martin for accomplishing so much in so few pages. In the first paragraph there’s mention of the lengthy nature of seasons in Westeros, later there’s the direwolf banner of the Starks. Almost in the same breath there’s our introduction to Valyrian steel in the context of the upcoming execution. All of which is deftly handled, but my favorite is Ned’s pronouncing the sentence of death, when he lists not only his formal title and King Robert’s, but the three ethnic groups that make up Westerosi culture. This knowledge doesn’t come into play right away, but it’s another subtle and effective method of injecting life into a fictitious world. And again, it doesn’t mess with the rhythm of the story.

Conclusion: Bear in mind this chapter started with Bran undergoing a rite of passage, an initiation into adulthood. That’s the first half of the chapter. The second half sets that aside in favor of the direwolf and its pups. One approach is about venturing into the uncertainty of life; the other is about retreating to the safety of fantasy. Here’s the first indication of Bran’s arc branching off in a completely different direction from the main storyline, embracing a more fantastical avenue after an attempt at something different. As we’ll see in future chapters, Bran’s arc vacillates between the fantastical and the down-to-earth, but these pages make it clear which one is going to win in the long run.

         

AGOT Commentary: Prologue

Warning: I’m about to try something incredibly hard. There’s even a chance I’ll end up diving headlong into an empty pool. So at least if I screw up, you’ll get a good laugh out of it. No need to thank me.

I’ve been kicking around the idea of doing a chapter-by-chapter commentary of A Song of Ice and Fire for a long time now. The inspirations behind this project are Goose-Goose’s Half-Life 2 commentaries, and MrBtongue’s hitherto unfulfilled project of doing the same for the Mass Effect series. If you don’t know who these YouTubers are, I suggest you stop reading and go check out their work right now. (Note to myself: delete last line before posting).

So how am I going to stand out from the dozen other people who are doing something similar? This would be the part where I waste everybody’s time with a self-important tirade, but that’s not going to happen. Instead, I’ll skip the talk and go straight for the walk. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my A Song of Ice and Fire commentary. Hope you know how to swim, because we’re jumping in choppy waters. God help me; I’m really doing this.

Prologue

Character: In future installments I’m going to dedicate this space to sharing my impressions on character development for the people featured in the chapter. Since all characters in the prologue die less than twenty pages into the book, I can’t do that now. (By the by, did I mention there’d be spoilers in these commentaries?) 

What I can do is tip my hat to George R.R. Martin. All the prologue POV characters (with maybe the exception of infodump Varamyr) are as interesting as any of the full-time characters, which is no small feat.

Having said that, Will in the prologue is somewhat overshadowed by Waymar Royce and Gared. Will does little more than watch for most of the sequence, letting Royce and Gared create most of the conflict.

The argument between Royce and Gared--greenhorn and veteran, lord and commoner--is impeccably constructed. Enough that it’s a bit hard to take sides. Gared fears the weather is worsening and that they might get caught in an ice storm, so he urges his commander to ride back. Royce is determined to fulfill his mission for reasons of pride, but arrogant and bullying as he is, he’s not stupid. He puts paid to Gared’s theory of the wildlings dying from exposure by pointing out it hasn’t been cold enough for that. He takes Will’s observations with a grain of salt because his tale of dead wildlings doesn’t add up, but he does ask for a full account before making a decision when he could’ve just flown blind.

He’s also right when he warns Gared not to build a fire that might give away their location to the enemy. Gared’s idea of making a fire is not without merit, however, since temperatures are guaranteed to be really low at night. I’m guessing the previous nights they survived by making Dakota fire holes (or firepits, as Will calls them in his rundown of the wildling camp). Gared’s intention was to make a larger, more visible fire to ward off animals, though, which would be a bad idea on enemy turf.

On the other hand, Royce makes his points by ridiculing his subordinates (mocking Gared for losing his ears to frostbite, for instance), he brings the wrong kind of horse to the expedition, wears clothing that’s liable to catch on branches or bushes, and wields a sword in an environment where there isn’t enough room to swing it.   

The key for creating first-rate conflict is to give both sides of the discussion sensible arguments, and I believe Martin hit the nail on the head with these two.

Despite his foibles, Royce does get his moment in the sun when, rather than be cowed by an enemy who is clearly supernatural, he gives battle. There are several ways to read this. For one Royce is courageous and seems to truly believe in his vows, enough that he is willing to die for them and country (remember his “For Robert!” warcry). On the other hand, the wisest course of action in the face of something utterly unknown might be to flee to fight another day. You fight only when they back you into a corner, but Royce had a chance to escape before he was surrounded.

Did he stay because he was a fool for glory? Did he sincerely believe that a knight should put his duty above fear? Or did he simply fail to realize he was way out of his league until it was too late? There are many ways to approach these questions, which is one hallmark of a tridimensional character. Their intentions aren’t always clear-cut, and thus are applicable to our own distinct worldviews.

If there’s one thing I’m sad about is that Martin killed Royce off so early in the story; he could’ve made a remarkable foil for Jon Snow at the Wall. But if nothing else at least he and Gared served as good indicators of Martin’s gift for writing strong characters.    

Plot: Not the most original piece of work, but gripping by a long mile. It’s apparent that the Others will play the role of “long-forgotten evil that rises after millennia of slumber.” That’s not bad when the villains are intriguing, and the Others are certainly that. Their voices like the cracking of ice, color-shifting armor, inhuman patience, and magical swords give the Others a distinct identity and aura, promising much excitement for later in the story.

That they have yet to be the focus of the series as this prologue suggests is another issue. By itself, the prologue is the promise of a terrific if not particularly original story. After five books, though, I can’t help but also think of it as a forgotten footnote in a story that’s gone in an entirely different direction.

Also, I’m having a hard time understanding the exact nature of the three rangers’ mission. Why are they tracking down this band of wildlings? And what are they supposed to do after they find the raiders? Three rangers can’t be a match for eight well-armed wildlings, even less when you consider the Haunted Forest is wildling territory and the odds are stacked in the raiders’ favor. Maybe Royce is reckless enough to go through with this, but I find it hard to believe Jeor Mormont would dispatch anyone on a goose chase.

One chapter in A Clash of Kings may hold the answer. Remember when the Night’s Watch expedition finds the abandoned wildling village? I don’t believe the village was that far from the Wall, yet the empty dwellings surprise them. Perhaps the Watch’s knowledge of the Haunted Forest isn’t as up-to-date as it should be, and Royce’s mission is an attempt to rectify that. It’s an idea, at least.

Setting: Worldbuilding is essential to any fantasy novel, and I’m happy to say Martin has a talent for it that can only be measured in tons. He brings the Haunted Forest to life with simple but evocative language that would make a turtle race sound epic. Much of the Haunted Forest is described in ways that convey its eeriness and the difficulties of traversing it, but don’t disrupt the flow of the story. Setting must blend in with the action; it should never stick out like a sore thumb. Martin has definitely mastered this.    

Speaking of killing two birds with one stone, keep in mind a setting is only as effective as its culture is extensive. Notice Will referring to Waymar Royce as a “southron.” This stacks a cultural divide on top of their class conflict, and inserts the first hint that North and South in Westeros are two different cultures. Will’s past as a poacher insinuates that the Night’s Watch acts as a penal colony of sorts, and it reveals Westeros’ feudal culture in a passage that ties character development with world building. The submission of two seasoned rangers to a rookie by dint of his station is another marker of feudalism, and it’s all brought up in service of the story, not as filler.  

Conclusion: Was the prologue immersive, thrilling, and unforgettable? Absolutely. Was it necessary? I don’t think so. I started thinking this way ever since I read Elmore Leonard’s ten rules for good writing, one of which is to omit prologues on the grounds that they’re backstory.

I can see his point. There’s nothing in these opening pages that is not touched upon later in the book: the decadence of the Night’s Watch, the wildling threat, the cultural divisions, and the Others’ undead minions.

True, the Others themselves don’t show up again until A Storm of Swords, but I’ll argue that it would’ve been more constructive to reveal the Others in Book III. Think about it, without the prologue we’re introduced to the idea of something dangerous lurking beyond the Wall first by the disappearance of Benjen Stark, then by Tyrion and Jon looking over the dark forest from high atop the Wall, by the zombie attacking Mormont, by Craster’s sacrifices, by the attack on the Fist of the First Men, and finally by Sam killing an Other. There’s a sense of natural progression this way.

Remember the Monster from Lost? Regardless of what you think of it, there’s no denying that the writers paced the reveal of its true nature masterfully, taking their time but giving the viewers enough tantalizing pieces to keep the puzzle fresh and exciting. Revealing the truth in the first five minutes would’ve ruined it right there at the start (instead of six years down the line like it happened).    

There’d still be the disproportion of pages given to the War of the Five Kings storyline and the Others’ plotline, but that’s another problem altogether. As it stands, this prologue is a teaser in all the wrong ways, setting up a conflict that, five books into the series, has yet to move into high gear. Maybe when the saga was in its embryonic stages it was a good idea to insert this prologue. Now, I wonder if the story wouldn’t be better served with its omission.         

Addendum: I’m beginning to realize that the whole purpose of this commentary is not to praise A Song of Ice and Fire or take it to task depending on the situation, though I’ll be doing that. I simply want to share my thoughts on what I think makes a story work. This exercise in pinpointing will hopefully make readers more demanding for quality material and prospective writers more invested in meeting those demands. I hope you’ll tag along on my journey to find out how to raise the bar of storytelling. It’ll be a surprise as much for me as it’ll be for you. 

Thank you, and God save the Queen.    

Dancing in a Minefield: A Brief Look at A Song of Ice and Fire

WARNING, SPOILERS FOR BOOKS I-IV OF ASOIAF AHEAD!

Hey, it’s me again. I am that guy who started a blog making you think it was about something incredibly important and it ended up being about Epic Fantasy.

I know you’ve been waiting with bated breath for me to elaborate on my points, and now that my cable provider has finally cut me off for not paying my bills, I have plenty of time to write.

I want to touch off the discussion by talking about A Song of Ice and Fire, but that’s not an easy task.

Not when you consider ASOIAF is one of the hottest topics on the Internet. It might be the one subject matter that can rival porn in terms of Internet traffic.

 

And now it’s closing in on porn, too!

Everybody has their pet peeves with this series. I thought mine was a simple one that would have no big consequences in the long run. But, man, I haven’t been this wrong since the time I thought Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull would be a good movie.

I’m still waiting for my refund to arrive in the mail.

Part I: Misbalance of Terror

What better way to start than to discuss the clumsy employment of magic in ASOIAF? In general terms, there’s this broad divide between the people who love the realistic aspects of the story (the quasi-historical power struggle between dynasties, court intrigue, the emotional impact of war), and those who enjoy the fantastic elements (Dany’s dragons, the Others, prophecies, dreams, wargs, visions, etc.) as much as the mainstream elements.

But like much of the whining on the Internet, this discussion has only scratched the surface. It’s not an issue of whether you prefer dragons over the down-to-earth feud between Lannisters and Starks. It’s an issue of balance, and ASOIAF has tipped the scales too much to one side, creating a situation for potential disaster.

Like me walking past a Burger King.

Nobody will dispute that magic was there from the start. It is right there in the prologue of the first book when the Others attack the Night’s Watch rangers, it is there in the abnormal length of the seasons, it is an important part of Jon’s storyline, and it alters Dany’s fate dramatically at the end of the book. The issue is that these elements make but a fraction of the plot.

The core of A Game of Thrones is a detective/political story. That’s what the majority of the audience responded to, and because it constituted the bulk of the plot it was only natural for readers to imagine it was setting the template for the saga.

And for the most part, the template was exactly that. This approach did relegate the fantasy elements to the fringes, but they were still there. The problem was that, being on the outskirts, these elements didn’t have time to develop properly, namely with a set of rules that ensured the characters didn’t become too powerful and that magic couldn’t be used as a crutch.

The most deftly executed magic element in the books is skin changing. It happens gradually and doesn’t have an undue impact on the plot. Bran Stark has dreams where he sees the world through the eyes of his direwolf. As the story progresses, he learns how to control this ability and, by this process, the reader gets a feel of how the magic works. Arya and Jon go through similar processes, but they are not as relevant to their respective arcs (at least not yet).

(There’s an opinion on the Internet that Jon’s discovery of the immense wildling camp through the eyes of Ghost is an example of deus ex machina, but given that the ultimate outcome of his arc for A Clash of Kings would have probably been the same if he hadn’t had that vision, I’m going to disagree with this guy. Moreover, technically speaking, Jon doesn’t really save his party thanks to that vision.)

One last point: the wildlings have skin changers themselves, so one doesn’t see the imbalance that deus ex machinae tend to bring out. This last point is very important. I have nothing against dragons, shapeshifters, sorcerers, or any other fantastical creature in this or any other book per se. I only get peeved when magical elements give one set of characters an easy advantage over their adversaries. 

This gives me the perfect opening to talk about Melisandre, who stands on the other end of the magic spectrum. Here we have a character that is anything but; it’d be more accurate to call her a plot tool. For most of the books she plays the part of evil sorceress moving from victory to victory with an arsenal of spells nobody else in the world seems to possess.

Except for the whole baring-your-tits-to-get-your-way thing.

Her introduction in the prologue of ACOK was the first clue I had that Martin would start relying on magical gimmicks to resolve certain plot elements. Her use of prescience and “shadow-birthing” makes for a very jarring note in the symphony that is ASOIAF. At this stage of the story, it feels as unnatural as the idea of Iron Maiden releasing a cover of “Love Hurts.”

Then again it couldn’t be any worse than their cover of “My Generation.”  

What’s more irritating about Melisandre is that her very presence snuffed out what could have been an excellent storyline. As the story stands, her spells enable Stannis Baratheon to become a serious contender for the Iron Throne. Without her, he would have had to consider some drastic changes to his personality in order to gain allies. And if he’d still wanted to be a stubborn wanker, it could have given poor Davos something to do besides being a fly on the wall 90% of the time he’s in the book.

It would have been nice to see Davos play the part of reluctant diplomat, for instance. Either story or a combo would have made for a terrific and very human arc, but because we had Melisandre waving her magic wand and forklifting Stannis to relevance, we got a cheap fantasy sub-tale instead. Sloppy execution will affect content every time. If Martin was willing to do this for a major player once, who was to say he wouldn’t do it again?

Of course, that’s exactly what happened.

Again in ACOK, Dany spends her second-to-last chapter in a bad acid dream having one prophetic vision after another…this in a book series that had proved in its first installment that it could deliver the goods without overworked tropes. In a Storm of Swords, the Ghost of High Heart spouts her share of prophecies, as well. That some of these visions have so far turned out to be true is beyond the point. The point is there was never a dramatic necessity to introduce these elements in the first place.

Take out the dragons and you have a great poster for BDSM lovers everywhere.

In A Storm of Swords, that bane of dramatic impact, the resurrection of dead characters, reared its ugly head in the cases of Beric Dondarrion and Catelyn Stark. Now even death was losing its meaning. This from a writer who once criticized Tolkien for resurrecting Gandalf.

In A Feast for Crows, Euron Greyjoy wins the kingsmoot with the aid of a magic horn that scares the bejesus out of his future subjects. It’s only the arbitrary introduction of this instrument that gives him victory. In that same book, Martin revises history by subjugating Cersei to a prophecy to justify her hatred of Tyrion and Margaery. Everything that had been established about her superiority complex explained her motivations adequately enough. Supplanting that with a prophecy (“complementing” would be too generous a word) is beyond superfluous; it’s a diminishment of her humanity and the artistry of characterization.

That’s what clichés and tropes can do to a story: they damage the integrity of the fictional world in service of arbitrary events that hurt verisimilitude.

Huh?

It means anything can happen.

But if anything can happen, if there are no rules to adhere to, then how do I get invested in the characters? Why should I care about their actions when all kinds of contrivances can wash out what they do and give an unfair advantage to other characters (i.e., Melisandre, Euron’s horn)?

And how can we tell when something is unfair? By observing the implicit and explicit laws of the universe. But there are few rules like that in ASOIAF, because magic has been underdeveloped. Magic comes to the fore whenever it suits the plot or to give fans something to write dissertations about during the 5-year-long waits between books.

You know what my favorite part of ASOIAF is? The Red Wedding. Yes, it is the most shocking event of the saga bar none, and it is the greatest highpoint of ASOS, a book that delivers more highpoints than any other fantasy novel in living memory. But the real reason I liked it is that Martin went through with the natural development of that storyline without resorting to a deus ex machina to save Robb’s life.

Typically, a hero can afford to pull off outrageous stunts or go on suicide missions because, unless this is the very last time we’ll see him in action, it’s a sure bet that he’ll survive whatever the story throws at him. This is not the case with Robb. He committed one fatal political error after another (a chip off the old block, indeed) and instead of giving him a pass, Martin finished off his story on a natural note.

Ultimately, that’s what bothers me most about Martin. He’s immensely talented. He has a rare gift for storytelling and an occasional willingness to stray off the beaten path. Why does he need to resort to clichés then? How many people would have regarded A Game of Thrones so admiringly if he’d played it safe from the start? It’s because I know the man has it in him that I’m waiting for the best despite the massive disappointment that Book IV and V were. I live with the hope that AFFC and ADWD will be remembered as necessary evils that ensured that the last two books would be the masterpieces this saga deserves.

But I have more doubts than hopes, and not only because Martin has proven himself susceptible to the temptations of tropes. My doubts stem from concerns that I have about the genre itself. I wonder if too much escapism pervades it.

Part II: Escaping Escapism.

Let’s get one thing straight. All stories, no matter how realistic, are escapist in nature. They draw us into a world different from our own, sometimes for soothing, life-affirming purposes (as in most genre literature), other times to confront us with a harsh reality using aesthetic alterations to make it more palatable (Schindler’s List and The Pianist to name a few). To put it in a different light, while I love The Beatles as much as the next guy, I wouldn’t like them as much if I didn’t have The Rolling Stones, The Doors, Black Sabbath, or The Clash to turn to when I’m in the mood for something less comforting.   

But there are degrees of escapism, and fantasy tends to go for the more comforting route. In that case, it stands to reason clichés and tropes would be so prevalent. After all, they form the backbone of cheap escapism. And if cheap escapism really is the core of fantasy, then maybe the scorn that is sometimes heaped on the genre is well-deserved.

Hey, I did say “sometimes.”

The more realistic and human storylines of ASOIAF (Jaime’s redemptive arc, Tyrion’s dawning realization that he’ll be despised for his appearance no matter what he does, Arya’s fight for survival in the Riverlands, and Jon subsuming his true loyalties to infiltrate an enemy force) raise more important questions than the fantastic and quasi-mythological ones (the prophecy of Azhor Ahai reborn, the Children of the Forest, the Others’ long-delayed invasion, The Prince That Was Promised, Jojen Reed’s visions, etc.). Humanity already has more mythologies than it needs, but there is never a shortage of deep and engaging human stories.

In my previous post I said that I didn’t think Epic Fantasy was bad, irrelevant, or silly. Maybe by now you’re thinking that was a lie, but it isn’t. I still think the more standard tales of Epic Fantasy (and any subgenre of fantasy, really) have a place in the literary canon. I’m not what you would call a religious man, but I still have the deepest respect for religion and all the good it can bring out in people. But just like religion needs secular counterweights, so does typical fantasy need more realistic and morally challenging counterparts. And as long as authors keep resorting to tired tropes and crutches, things will stay the same.            

ASOIAF came close to breaking the mold. I like to think there’s still hope for the saga. If it doesn’t make it, it will fall to another generation of fantasy writers to pick up where it left off. The world needs intelligent and confrontational stories now more than ever.