I've spent most of the week now trying to determine which planet she's from. I'm still not sure. It hasn't got the same color sky as mine, and the fact that she seems to think rape, incest and other varieties of less-than-romantic sex are thrown in to Martin's harrowingly gritty books just to give the ladies something to love frankly concerns me. I have to question the psychological health of a woman who thinks that's the sort of erotica women go for en masse. But never mind that. What's even more ridiculous than her bass-ackwards ideas of why GOT will have sex scenes is her insistence that Martin's epic is somehow about global warming.
Yes. Really. Here, for those who don't want to give her the satisfaction of another page view, is her take on the whole thing:
I have to wonder why Blogger doesn't offer Comic Sans as an option, because any passages quoted from Ms. Bellafonte's review deserve to be in said font. Who here has read Martin's series and thought it was about global fucking warming? She obviously hasn't. Read the series, I mean. And after that bizarre last sentence, which upon fourth reading still makes no sense, she drops the global warming question all together and instead asks why the show's even on HBO.Here the term green carries double meaning as both visual descriptive and allegory. Embedded in the narrative is a vague global-warming horror story. Rival dynasties vie for control over the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros — a territory where summers are measured in years, not months, and where winters can extend for decades.
How did this come to pass? We are in the universe of dwarfs, armor, wenches, braids, loincloth. The strange temperatures clearly are not the fault of a reliance on inefficient HVAC systems. Given the bizarre climate of the landmass at the center of the bloody disputes — and the series rejects no opportunity to showcase a beheading or to offer a slashed throat close-up — you have to wonder what all the fuss is about. We are not talking about Palm Beach.
Because, Ms. Bellafonte. It is an epic series conducive to adaptation, popular with huge swathes of male, female and otherwise-gendered people. It's such a gripping story that even those of us who hated it - literally hated reading it - had to keep reading, and are ready to beat George R.R. Martin bloody (sparing his hands and skull) if he once again delays the release of the next book. Some people at HBO, David Benioff chief among them, believed in its potential and saw the project through. And HBO stands to rake in the cold hard cash, because, and this is important, not everyone is a sneering, fantasy-hating, too-avante-gard-to-live genius-in-her-own-mind lackwit with culturally piss-poor female friends such as yourself, Ms. Bellafonte.
I mean, seriously. Not one of your female friends could clue you in? You have never met one single, solitary woman who would prefer The Hobbit over the latest navel-gazing based-on-the-author's-pathetic-excuse-for-a-life schlock offered up by book clubs that only seem to exist in order to make people who like good books cry? Not even one? Do you even leave your house? Do you even talk to other women? I have to wonder.
You apparently belong to that pathetic subset of the human population who think it makes them unbearably hip to bash fantasy at every possible opportunity. You see armor and dwarves, and you're in instant sneer mode, too busy looking down your nose to look beneath, at questions of what it means to be human and what morality is and how twisted society can be that would make your hair curl. Fantasy can be brutal. Fantasy can be uncompromising. And it can make us think in ways we never would have been able to think if the issues had been presented through any other medium. Unfortunately, it can't get through to the likes of you, Ms. Bellafonte, because you seem to be operating under the assumption that this isn't something good girls should like. Your fucking loss. And believe me, it is a loss.
Upon rumination, I can only come to the conclusion that your review is the result of a pathological hatred of fantasy combined with a serious lack of insight into the vast majority of your fellow females. It seems to me to be a cry for help. You should meet some new people. People like me and my lady friends, who think nothing of spending an evening geeking out over shows like Buffy, Angel, Firefly, Doctor Who, Battlestar Galactica, and (oh, yes) Game of Thrones. Speak to women who would move to Middle Earth in one second flat if given half the chance. Listen to women whose bookshelves groan under the weight of more fantasy tomes than can be listed in one small blog post. Your sample size has been skewed by the fact your head has been firmly lodged up your posterior. There are legions of female fans of fantasy and science fiction. And two things you should have realized before penning something so incredibly stupid from start-to-finish:
1. We don't appreciate being told we don't exist. And
2. Trying to review a genre you're clueless about leads only to humiliation.
Keep this in mind the next time you plan to heap scorn upon a show you're reviewing. Especially if HBO decides to do a Thursday Next series. Because, while Martin's fans can be brutal, Fford ffans are just downright terrifying.
P.S. I get the impression from your article that you must have obtained a college education of some description. Were I you, I'd be asking for my money back.
For further entertaining dissections of one of the dumbest reviews in the history of television reviews, see:
George R.R. Martin's brilliant response (and delightful shout-out to his fangirls).
Annalee Newitz explains why the show's actually targeted at women only.
Geek With Curves demonstrates why you should not piss off someone whose next tattoo is inspired by Joss Whedon.
Margaret Hartmann demonstrates the art of the short, sharp smackdown.
And our own Stephanie Szvan digs in, plus bonus story!
I'm sure I've missed about five gajillion. Pop your faves into the comments, and/or any ranting you feel moved to. Epic length comments welcome. We are talking about fantasy here.