A Black Knight on the Iron Throne

I’m a little late to the party on the discussion of race in Game of Thrones, but it took me a little while to figure out why I found the claims of racism disingenuous.

There seems to be some concern over the problematic depiction of race on the show, which is of course missing the point entirely. That a Euro-Medieval Fantasy would have so few people of color at all seems to be a point of concern. But what really has people’s knickers in a twist is how the few people of color present are depicted, which is not exactly enlightened or positive. Again, the point, you have missed it.

None of the characters in Game of Thrones are depicted as enlightened or wholly positive people. Even the heroes are bastards, sons of bitches, and roaring cunts. That’s because Westeros, unlike Middle Earth, the fantasy world it gets compared to most often, is not a civilized place.

The argument, as near as I can tell, is that because it’s a fantasy world, you can have any and all races and nationalities on your cast. But would it be more or less problematic if some of the great houses of Westeros were racially diverse? If the Lanisters were Asian, and the Baratheons Black, then critics would just say it was racist for suggesting that Asians are scheming, incestuous weirdos and blacks are lecherous and slothful.

So it’s a loose-loose position no matter where you stand defending this show. Which gets us closer to the real point of the criticism.

The critics of Game of Thrones don’t really care about the racial make up of the cast. None of them gave a shit that The West Wing was lily white, but for a few token minority roles, or that it took Mad Men 5 seasons to have an even marginal character of color. What they’re really griping about isn’t that this Euro-Medieval fantasy series is far too Euro, but that it’s far too Medieval. Too morally complex. Also, there are too many boobs on display. They heard “medieval fantasy” and were thinking a nice chaste retelling of Camelot, but instead got a softcore version of The Lion in Winter.

When critics bitch about racism in Game of Thrones, they’re using it as a proxy to complain about a fantasy story that is deconstructing the Golden Age Fallacy.

The Golden Age Fallacy states that the past was a nobler age, when chivalry and manly heroics were the order of the day. Women were chaste and beautiful and noble and all that other Ivanhoe bullshit. Because Game of Thrones is rooted in the Eurocentric High Fantasy tradition, critics naturally want to compare it to The Lord of the Rings. It’s easier to compare Game of Thrones to The Lord of the Rings because it’s familiar and comes prepackaged with Tolkien’s racial issues already set up as easy straw men to knock down.

But Scott’s romantic novels are no longer fashionable, and it would take someone literate, or at least capable of doing a Google search to write about how Martin deconstructs Scott’s well-worn chivalric tropes.

I’m by no means a Scott scholar. I tried to read Ivanhoe but it’s tedious, written in stilted 19th century prose, and full of the sort of overly wrought sentimentalism that would make the Knight of Flowers blush. So here’s Wikipedia’s summary of the plot:

Ivanhoe is the story of one of the remaining Saxon noble families at a time when the English nobility was overwhelmingly Norman. It follows the Saxon protagonist, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, who is out of favour with his father for his allegiance to the Norman king, Richard  I of England. The story is set in 1194, after the failure of the Third Crusade, when many of the Crusaders were still returning to Europe. King Richard, who had been captured by the Duke of Austria on his way back, was believed to still be in the arms of his captors. The legendary Robin Hood, initially under the name of Locksley, is also a character in the story, as are his “merry men.” The character that Scott gave to Robin Hood in Ivanhoe helped shape the modern notion of this figure as a cheery noble outlaw.

Other major characters include Ivanhoe’s intractable father, Cedric, one of the few remaining Saxon lords; various Knights Templar and churchmen; the loyal serfs Gurth the swineherd and the jester Wamba, whose observations punctuate much of the action; and the Jewish moneylender, Isaac of York, who is equally passionate about money and his daughter, Rebecca. The book was written and published during a period of increasing struggle for emancipation of the Jews in England, and there are frequent references to injustice against them.

That sounds a lot closer to one of the volumes of A Song of Ice and Fire than anything out of Tolkien.

Ivanhoe is credited with inspiring an entirely new genre of novel, the Medieval romance. And while a 200 year old novel may not have as much pull today as it once did, it’s clear that Ivanhoe shaped the popular imagination of what a medieval story should be in the 19th and early 20th centuries. We see it’s influence in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and the early depictions of Robin Hood and King Arthur. it lives on in Renaissance Fairs all over the world: the clean Dark Ages, where “modern” ( that is, Georgian and later Victorian) sensibilities were transposed backwards in time and overwrote the barbaric, filthy, lecherous, conniving plots of hard men and women in situations beyond their control.

Martin has stripped away that stifling romanticism. It’s still referred to, when the characters talk about their own pop culture, the ballads and stories that are sung at feasts. Those songs are definitely in the style of Scott, a lingering ironic finger pointing at the larger themes at play in the world of Westeros. And while there are plenty of socially relevant topics at work in Game of Thrones, a modern conception of race and race relations is not necessarily one of them. Complaining about the racial makeup of the cast is like complaining that the throne is too pointy or perhaps Joffrey should have longer hair. It’s an aesthetic complaint, not a critical one.

Game of Thrones doesn’t shy away from the brutality or sexuality of it’s characters. It uses it as a dark mirror to reflect the lingering influences that primitive barbarism still has on our own enlightened era. Women and minorities in Westeros, just as in America and Europe, are still finding themselves in horrible circumstances beyond their control, doing what they can and what they must to carve a place for themselves in a brutal world. And like the best fantasy stories, there is enough room for interpretation of the mysteries and politics at play. But to mistake the depiction of brutality for the promotion of it is a fool’s game.

The Shape We’re In

Charlie Stross nails down some thoughts on Transhumanism/Singularity, and in the process builds a near perfect summation of all that’s wrong with it:

There is a rottenness at the heart of the transhuman project, and the biggest symptom of it is blindness to its own origins: a mixture of warmed-over Christian apocalyptic eschatology (which Cory Doctorow and I poke with a stick in “The Rapture of the Nerds”) and the Just-So creation mythology of the smugly self-satisfied hypercapitalists who have unintentionally done so much to destroy so many of the moral and interpersonal values of post-Englightenment civilization.

I’m half tempted to add a sort of thematic epigraph to my novel-in-progress, in the style of Moby Dick, full of quotes that point to the themes of the story. And you can be sure this one would be right smack dab in the middle of it.

Because you see, the major problem facing the world today is not war or greed or racism. Those are horrible of course, but they are symptoms of a much larger social problem created by our cultural adherence to a fundamentally anti-human idea: that this world is broken and corrupt and we have to escape it.

The biggest problem is that there is nowhere to escape to. Religion promises some otherworldly dimension where you get to live in harmony and never have to poop. But it’s a fairy tale designed to mollify intellectual children. It’s not a real, attainable place. All paths leading toward it pass through the door of death. And there’s nothing after that but a long and empty dark corridor.

Science Fiction is supposed to be the literature of ideas. But for the last decade or so, it’s chief idea is reheated Augustinian pablum. Or as Greg Egan put it, “Uberdorks battling to turn the moon into computronium… Throwing Grey Goo around like monkeys throwing turds while they draw up their plans for Matrioshka brains.”

Some time ago we stopped believing that we could make a human future and reverted back to primitive day dreams of escaping to fairy land. But it’s the same old fear of death, just dressed up in LEDs and chrome.

As long as escape (i.e. Death) is the only promoted goal of our civilization, then we will never seriously address the concerns that make life here on Earth hard. We could spend our considerable imagination and creative power on solving the problems that vex us, and build a semi-paradise on Earth (no promises that it’ll be perfect) or we could just sit around day dreaming of a fantasy world where we don’t have to poop, while we drown in toxic shit of our own making.

Those are our only two options for our future: hard work or death. I choose hard work. What shape that work takes, now that’s the question I plan to spend the next thirty years or so trying to answer.

Defending the Pirate Code

Over at io9, Charlie Jane has a list of the best and worst movie threequels.  Normally I’d let this pass as link bait, but I had to step in to defend Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End, which was placed in the worst category.

I’m not sure why people are so befuddled by the second two Pirates of the Caribbean movies. Yes, the story is unusually complex for a family-friendly adventure, but that’s half the fun. The trilogy does a wonderful job of creating a mythology and world and following it through without it ever becoming a series of hand waves without resorting to ass-pulls and hand waves. That’s good story telling. Gore Verbinski has proven himself a master at managing humor, drama, pathos, silliness, and existential horror and fitting them altogether in a way that is unusual and fun. In short, the Pirates Trilogy does everything we regularly bitch and moan about movies not doing with character and story.

It’s easy to pick apart the flaws of a movie but much harder to conceive of what they should look like if they were good. PotC trilogy is what Star Wars tried to be and missed, by adding teddy bears and excess plot roundabouts just to show off stuff that could be made into toys.

It was pointed out to me that the fish men are just as much toy fodder as the ewoks, which I will concede, with the caveat that the fih men still work as both cool monsters in that world, and serve the story far better than killer teddy bears form outer space.


I also had to step in and defend Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, which is not only not as bad as Charlie Jane makes it out be, but also on the grounds that it is in fact not a threequel at all. Despite having a III in the title, The Search For Spock is the second film in a trilogy that starts (with a bang) with The Wrath of Khan and ends with The Voyage Home. As both a movie that stands on it’s own, and as the middle part of a trilogy,The Search For Spock holds it’s own. Even if you don’t go in for the admittedly maudlin friendship story, The Search For Spock solidifies the revamped Klingons as the heartless badasses we’ve come to know and love, due in large part to Christopher Lloyd’s performance as Kruge.

Portrait of the Author at 35

Your AuthorToday is my 111th 35th birthday.

It’s not one of the big ones, but not exactly  small one either. I guess I’m officially middle-aged now (whatever that means) even though most of the time I still feel like I’m 19, pretending to be older than I am, and any minute someone is going to find out I’m not really an adult, just faking it to get by.

I’m not going to lie, this last year’s been a little rough.  I’ve been unemployed for most of it, which does not do anything positive for one’s self worth, especially when half of our ruling class considers my misfortune not just a character flaw, but a personal insult, and wishes I would just quietly die in a gutter somewhere rather than commit the mortal sin of drawing unemployment benefits.And while you shouldn’t let a bunch of jackasses define how you feel about yourself, there are moments when you wonder if all the hard work of the last decade was really worth it when you’re pretty much in the same place you were when you were 25.

But this year will be different. I’m working on becoming self-employed through my writing, which means that if we do end up living in the street in a box, It’ll at least be a spacious, ranch-style box with a nice view of the underpass.

Honestly, though, I’ve sold a dozen copies of the new edition of my first novel, all without doing any promotion other than occasionally shouting at people on Twitter. Imagine what I could do if, say, I sold a novel and had some real marketing weight to push my name out there?

I’m working on that, among other things. So 35 will be a better year. And secretly, despite the crippling bouts of self-doubt, 34 wasn’t exactly horrible. I had a roof over my head, a wife who loves me and two cats who think I’m a dashing wit, at least when I feed them on time.

So, Happy Birthday to Me!

Want to Save the World? Raise Taxes

Stephen King wants to pay more taxes:

If you want to pay more, pay more, they said.

Tired of hearing about it, they said.

Tough shit for you guys, because I’m not tired of talking about it. I’ve known rich people, and why not, since I’m one of them? The majority would rather douse their dicks with lighter fluid, strike a match, and dance around singing “Disco Inferno” than pay one more cent in taxes to Uncle Sugar. It’s true that some rich folks put at least some of their tax savings into charitable contributions. My wife and I give away roughly $4 million a year to libraries, local fire departments that need updated lifesaving equipment (Jaws of Life tools are always a popular request), schools, and a scattering of organizations that underwrite the arts. Warren Buffett does the same; so does Bill Gates; so does Steven Spielberg; so do the Koch brothers; so did the late Steve Jobs. All fine as far as it goes, but it doesn’t go far enough.

What charitable 1 percenters can’t do is assume responsibility—America’s national responsibilities: the care of its sick and its poor, the education of its young, the repair of its failing infrastructure, the repayment of its staggering war debts. Charity from the rich can’t fix global warming or lower the price of gasoline by one single red penny. That kind of salvation does not come from Mark Zuckerberg or Steve Ballmer saying, “OK, I’ll write a $2 million bonus check to the IRS.” That annoying responsibility stuff comes from three words that are anathema to the Tea Partiers: United American citizenry.

This message is going to be a hard sell tot he American populace, who have been told by heard the GOP for the last 40 years that raising taxes is evil, a sin not unlike kicking puppies and raping grandma. They claim a marginal increase on the 1% is tantamount to class warfare. Except that class warfare doesn’t involve taxes, it involves guillotines and nooses, pitchforks and torches. You know, actual warfare.

Look, rich people, it’s simple: Taxes are the dues you pay for living in civilized society. You’re lucky to have the opportunity. So shut up and pay your taxes.

Do your patriotic duty. You claim that America is the home of the free and land of opportunity.  Well, just like a venture capitalist, America invested in you. This country fostered your creativity, gave you the opportunity for education and the elbow room to try that risky buisiness. Now that it’s paid off, it’s time for you to pay back that seed money. Pay your taxes.

You like to claim this is a Christian nation, so do the Christian thing and help your neighbor. Charity doesn’t cut it, so pay your taxes.

Or else.

Happy Punch A Capitalist in The Face Day!

Today is May Day, and while I offer a laurel and hardy handshake to all my Anarchist, Socialist and Pagan friends today,* this year I’d like to also say something to all you Capitalist swine out there who nearly broke the world: Fuck You sideways with your autographed copy of Atlas Shrugged, you no good, corpse-buggering shits. I hope you all die in a fire caused by shoddy maintance and blocked exits.

*offer void wherever Hot Topic Wiccans, Starbuck Anarchists and the phantom bogeymen “Socialists” of the Right Wing imagination dwell. That would be a mall somewhere in South Carolina probably.