“What is dead may never die” and yet I’m ready to pull the plug on Game of Thrones. Better that than watch this sloppy, predictable, dementia-riddled death at the hands of writers who ultimately chose to serve themselves over the actual story.
As someone who loves television, I’ve always been fascinated by writer’s rooms and the creative process by which these complicated stories get made. And I imagined so many scenarios around the Game of Thrones writer’s room; how they potentially built on each other’s strengths and mapped out George R.R. Martin’s epic fantasy tale together. Was it an austere writer’s room, was it messy, was it thoughtful? I envisioned spirited debates over plot points, and late nights where crafting an incredible fantasy series was worth missing out on dinner with the kids or having a girlfriend. I imagined being part of something greater than yourself, writing your name in the annals of television history, and building worlds for people of all backgrounds to dive into, even if just for an hour. The responsibility seemed great, but so did the honor. “Those writers are so lucky,” I thought. “They must be at the top of their game.”
Now it’s clear that the process for writing this show is furiously masturbating onto a pile of old TV tropes, lighting the pile with misogynistic wildfire, feeding the ashes to a woman suffering in silence who wasn’t given any lines, watching her HORK the flaccid remains onto a typewriter from 1984, then naming her vomit “Game of Thrones, Season 8, Episode 5.”