My first encounter with
the Game of Thrones series was an episode in which women
seemed to take their clothes off in every other scene, which was more
than a little off-putting. I have since been enticed into the series
by a fan, and halfway into the first season find it a worthy
popcorn-munching epic soap, full of intrigue, entanglements, and fun
characters with gripping trajectories. I also acknowledge the
plethora of strong, interesting female characters, although – as the New York Post's comparison with “the supposed
second-class citizens” of Mad Men suggests – I wonder what
it means that it's so much easier to portray progressive women in a
macho retro setting, whether “historical” or fantasy. Having
supposedly won most of the battles of feminism makes it that
much harder to portray women of remarkable agency, the staple of not
only The Faerie Queene (Game of Thrones's ultimate
ancestor) but all of those great 19th century novel
heroines, from Elizabeth Bennet to Jane Eyre to Dorothea Brooke.
Popular fiction seems to have always known this secret: although one
could hardly call the battles of feminism won in 1936, Margaret
Mitchell produced one of the strongest and most unorthodox heroines
of all-time by writing an historical epic in which a spoiled Southern
belle has to learn how to survive in a war-torn society. It's as if
we can't recognize an interesting female character if she's neither
the victim of a patriarchal society nor fighting to make her way in
it.
More disturbing from a
feminist standpoint than this need to set strong female characters
against the relief of a retro backdrop, however, is the series'
notorious reliance on female nudity. The female geek audience has
risen in visibility thanks to the internet even as fantasy has found
a general audience at the movies, and GoT's eagerness to court a
female audience is evident not only in its spotlighting of female
characters (which may also speak to the series' ultimate grounding in
the values of soap opera, like Mad Men's) but also in its
clever, post-Orlando Bloom casting of more pretty male actors than
you've probably ever seen in one show before (and for the most part with bodies that have evidently been worked on much more than the women's have). But why, then, does the
series assume the male gaze when it comes to the depiction of nudity?
For some feminist
viewers, such as the pseudonymous “Louis Skye” at Week Woman,
this has been a deal-breaker. Skye's analysis of the use of nudity in
GoT, however, is even less subtle than the series itself. Early in
the first season, Daenerys Targaryen is essentially sold to the
pseudo-Mongolian Dothraki warrior Khal Drogo by her creepy, rapey
brother, who spells out for her that she is a pawn in his game of
getting back his throne as he strips off her robe to assert his power
over her – and offer her for the assumed male viewer's delectation.
Drogo proves equally rapey, taking his wife without regard for her
consent or pleasure. The effect is to make Daenerys an object of
pathos and, consequently, strong dramatic interest, and while the
series may achieve this by creakily Victorian means, we should pause
to consider that four of the other most important characters in the
series at this point are also “disempowered”: the bastard Jon
Snow; the dwarf (and obvious Author Avatar) Tyrion Lannister; the
tomboy child Arya Stark; and her brother, the paraplegic child Bran
Stark. Clearly Martin has a soft spot for misfits, outcasts, and
underdogs and prefers to generate dramatic interest with maximum
efficiency by putting his characters at severe disadvantages.
The pathos of
Daenerys's situation is in direct conflict with her exploitation as a
sex object on the show, which weirdly repeats her exploitation within
the show. To be fair, this conjunction of porn and sympathy in
relation to female characters has a pedigree in fantasy that goes all
the way back to The Faerie Queene,
while also being
reminiscent of the attitude to women in Jacobean tragedy, which the
series resembles in its swirling sexual/political intrigues;
the difference is that the 21st century feminist viewer at
least expects the men to get the same treatment. (Although for all I
know, so did the 16th century feminist reader of The
Faerie Queene.) And there is one scene in the first half of the
first season that shows what such equally distributed exploitation
might look like.
I was initially
incensed that Daenerys barely even has any dialogue in the first
couple of episodes, as if to emphasize her passivity and
objectification. In my feminist fume I initially failed to notice
that her husband, a hunky silent type who doesn't speak “the common
language,” is not given any subjectivity in these early episodes
whatsoever. Drogo, with his own shapely breasts hanging over the top
of his girdle, and with more eye makeup and better cheekbones than
any woman on the show, gets the brunt of Martin's/the series' writers' hilariously unreformed
Orientalism: the “exotic” warrior is an Other who is at once more
masculine, brutal, and potent than the other men on the show and more
perversely feminine. And this is perhaps why – as Skye fails to
note – in the scene where Daenerys starts to gain agency by
teaching her husband how to make love to her properly, the golden
globes of Drogo's comely bottom are displayed for the viewer. The big
lug has to learn to be vulnerable if he is ever to pleasure his wife
and fall in love with her, and in the series' language of nudity,
nudity – and objectification – mean vulnerability.
Doubtless the main
reason why the men of GoT are not objectified as drastically as the
women is the American media's Phalliban, to use Mark Simpson's term.
The erect penis, after all, is what makes the difference between
softcore and hardcore, while the flaccid penis is not erotic at all.
GoT may seem porny, but, like The Faerie Queene (as analyzed
by Leslie Fielder in Love and Death in the American Novel),
it's at least equally puritan, with a seriously messed-up
relationship to nudity. Nudity could signify female power, except that it is explicitly used, at least early on, to
signify vulnerability. Does this bring a note of shame into the
assumed male viewer's enjoyment of all this flesh? Even in the early
21st century, it seems that the pornification of
entertainment isn't accomplished as easily as saying “Let's let
adults look at naked adults for pleasure, like adults.” The culture
has far too many hang-ups concerning sex and gender for nudity to
ever signify pleasure as a single meaning.
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