Aesthetics of “The Long Night” (and a note on "The Bells")

This was supposed to be illustrative of the impressive visuals and clever use of light and darkness in “The Long Night.” Now it feels like a symbol for my reaction to “The Bells.”

Before we begin

God. Damn. It.

I’m still processing (i.e., repressing the nausea induced by) the penultimate installment of Game of Thrones, “The Bells.” If I hadn’t already begun this piece weeks ago and announced my plan to write multiple essays on GoT, I probably would’ve abandoned the post to draft limbo, as much of my enthusiasm for the visual choices on display in “The Long Night” (s8 e3) has faded in the wake of the storytelling choices in “The Bells” (s8 e5).

Still, the ridiculous and irresponsible don’t erase the smart and beautiful, and the things that made “The Long Night” worth talking about still deserve to be discussed. However, I will be doing so in a more limited way than I had originally intended.

The newly awakened Little Bear. Still from HBO’s Game of Thrones, s8 e3.

Let’s get to it

Despite my aversion to war and zombies, the Miguel Sapochnik-directed Game of Thrones episode “The Long Night” is now my favorite 80 minutes of television—ever. This is largely due to the visuals, which were so impressive yet so anxiety-producing that, on first pass, watching them was like being tortured while having someone press on the pleasure center of my brain.

The episode has been on my mind so much, in fact, that I had intended to dedicate two posts to it: one, here, to talk about the imagery, and another on Notes from an Editor to discuss the implications of the internet’s (and my) complex reactions to the plot. Given the show’s recent turn, however, I’ve decided to wait until after the series concludes to complete the post for NfaE.

Anyway.

Within the maelstrom of battling undead, the use of a limited color palette, severely restricted light, repetition, and careful composition all work to not only draw the viewer’s attention to important plot, character, and thematic moments, but to hold the extremely complex episode together.

Color

The Night King approaches while Winterfell burns behind him. Still from HBO’s Game of Thrones, s8 e3.

Even given its overuse in recent movies, the contrasting teal-orange color palette of “The Long Night” avoids cliché because it feels natural within the specific context of the episode. That naturalness is largely a product of years of visual foregrounding, of separately establishing the equally contrasting forces of ice and fire with the respective color schemes of blue/white and red-orange/black. Their collision here is therefore not only dramatic, but a visual expression of the culmination of years of storytelling coming to a thematic head.

Darkness and Light

This scene is pretty on its own, but it’s breathtaking in the context of the episode’s otherwise overwhelming darkness.

Many viewers are (understandably) frustrated by the severity of the darkness used throughout the episode and the confusion it caused them. But that frustration is also the point. We don’t experience the battle purely through the characters, but rather with the characters; their confusion is our confusion. And that decision to directly involve the viewer is exactly what elevates this depiction of battle above its predecessors, including the Two Towers’ influential Battle of Helm’s Deep.

The darkness’s oppressive omnipresence also means that we work harder to see what we can, and that makes the moments of light all the more impactful, the things it illuminates impossible to miss.

We can barely see the wight rambling through the library, but his bloodied sword—and all that it represents—is perfectly clear.

A dragon’s dark silhouette emerges in a (relatively) light strip of the sky, its power and speed juxtaposed with the eerie calm of the white walker whose pale hair and skin break the darkness on the opposite side of the screen.

Like Jaime—who appears at the center of this still, peering up at the gathering light—we don’t know what’s coming but we do know exactly where to look. Our eyes are led by three converging aspects: the tonal contrast created by the small and sudden burst of light; the character’s choice to pause in battle to turn and focus on the light; and the roughly triangular form of Jamie’s body, which seems to physically point to that light.

Fire in the context of all this infuriating, chaotic darkness not only represents hope as an abstract symbol but actually inspires hope in both the characters and the audience when it appears in key dramatic moments, such as the lighting of the Dothraki weapons, the arrival of Dany and Drogon on the battlefield, and Melisandre’s tense and miraculous igniting of the fire pits. Likewise, scenes where we see the fire either go out or prove ineffectual cause our throats to clench and stomachs to drop.

During the Dothraki charge at the very beginning of the battle, their way and our optimism are lit by the flaming arakhs and the cannonballs that punctuate the sky like comets.

Then we watch on as, one by one, their lights are extinguished. And we know something truly terrible is coming.

Repetition and Mirroring

“The Long Night” utilized A LOT of repetition, focusing on the motifs of hands, doors, and, especially, eyes. Eyes and hands are of course both highly expressive body parts, able to communicate a great deal about a character’s psychological state or purpose without the use of dialogue. In this episode, eyes often took on additional significance as they reinforced the character’s role in the fight. We get long shots of the red priestess Melisandre’s eyes filled with the reflected flames of her god (see below), while Bran’s tie to the Night King is made clear through the eerie similarity between not only the pale warged eyes of the crows and those of the wights, but also Bran’s own warged eyes and the obscured gaze of the Night King.

In quick succession we see Bran warg…

…into crows…

…who fly to the Night King. Each plot beat comes to a head when the characters’ eyes either turn bluish-white or, in the case of the Night King, the bluish white eyes become visible in the darkness. The Night King also reaches out towards the crows—and Bran—in that last moment, his hand movement further reinforcing the fact that getting to Bran is indeed his ultimate goal in this battle.

The clouded-with-death versus living-with-fire motif is clearest in the dramatic mirroring of Melisandre's and a wight’s slightly upturned faces in two extended shots. First, we see Mel’s lovely, healthy visage bathed in light, facing inward from the right side of the frame, her irises reflecting the fire she has just lit through her faith (and magic). A few minutes later, a wight’s sallow, damaged death mask looks up from the left, his fully occluded eyes pale spots in the darkness. These two moments happen far enough apart over the course of the runtime that they probably never consciously register with most viewers. Even so, their presence helps to solidify the visual language around the oppositional elements of ice and fire, dark and light, death and life, and that language is “read” by viewers whether they are fully aware of it or not.

Melisandre gazing at her handiwork outside Winterfell. Still from HBO’s Game of Thrones, s8 e3.

Wight in Winterfell’s library. Still from HBO’s Game of Thrones, s8 e3.

Inside Winterfell, doors become their own visceral symbols of uncertainty. Each door or intersecting hallway offers a new possibility of the POV character encountering either help and safety or wights and death. The camera lingers on each entrance a little longer than is actually necessary for the plot alone, allowing the viewer to feel the tension experienced by the characters.

Still from HBO’s Game of Thrones, s8 e3.

Still from HBO’s Game of Thrones, s8 e3.

Still from HBO’s Game of Thrones, s8 e3.

Although most of the doors we see are closed or empty, roughly centered in the frame and taking up about a third of the screen, two dramatic exceptions occur during the scenes in the crypts. The first instance comes at the beginning of the battle and the second at the end. Together, these two moments represent another important instance of mirroring in the episode, with the flipped imagery and action of the second emphasizing the fulfillment of the tension in the first.

At the beginning of the battle, we see Tyrion’s small, still figure in the bottom right of the screen, silhouetted by firelight and facing pitch darkness. The doorway surrounds him like a mouth, as if he is about to be swallowed by the encompassing black. The image is a perfect distillation of the scenes set in the crypts—for the experience of those most helpless people clinging to a faint hope of safety while literally and metaphorically surrounded by death.

The image is flipped near the end of the battle, and we see a child, along with others, fleeing the darkness that has now invaded the crypts. The blackness is just as ominous here, but now represents the horrors that share the characters’ space rather than those that surround it.

Art History in the Crypt

The camera’s tendency to rest on dynamic collections of still, expressive, and starkly lit figures in the crypts clearly evokes the Golden Age of Dutch painting, the most famous examples of which are probably Rembrandt’s The Nightwatch (1642), which in name at least seems uniquely appropriate, and The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp (1632), the central corpse of which becomes repeated a dozen-fold in this new context.

Still from HBO’s Game of Thrones, s8 e3.

Rembrandt van Rijn, The Nightwatch, 1642. Image from Wikipedia.

Rembrandt van Rijn, The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, 1632. Image from Wikipedia.

Another apt comparison can be found in the work of Rembrandt’s contemporary Gerrit Dou, who often represented his figures in candlelight, surrounded by both darkness and rounded arches.

Gerrit Dou, Dentist by Candlelight, c. 1660–65. Image from the Kimbell Art Museum via Wikimedia Commons.

Within the show, the staid, crowded images perfectly communicate the uneasy tension and claustrophobia of those waiting in the crypts while the battle rages on everywhere else.

Still from HBO’s Game of Thrones, s8 e3.

Of course, GoT’s scenes do not attempt to directly recreate any particular painting. Rather, the show seems to be using the Golden Age as a visual and cultural touchstone to evoke feelings of claustrophobia, psychological tension, and historical realism within otherwise fantastical settings and events.

Final Notes

Although directors tend to get most of the credit (or blame) for a given episode, the final product is always the result of the decisions and work of many people. In this case, the episode’s Director of Photography, Fabian Wagner, probably deserves a large chunk of the credit for the visuals. I would also be remiss to not at least nod to the perfectly unnerving sound design, especially Ramin Djawadi’s haunting scores, without which the imagery would not have been nearly so impactful.

Finally, I have (slightly) tweaked the brightness and brilliance for most of the stills in this post to improve legibility and cropped out the black bars that bordered the top and bottom of my original screenshots. Otherwise, the images are as they appeared in the episode.

Still from HBO’s Game of Thrones, s8 e3.

Olenna was right: a rant on Game of Thrones, feminism, and contemporary politics

If you don’t know who these characters are and what this image is from, this post is probably not for you.

I’m assuming readers of this post have seen up to season 8, episode 4 of Game of Thrones. Spoilers and ranting ahead.

In her final conversation with Daenerys Targaryen, Olenna Tyrrel, Game of Thrones’ most cunning, long-lived, and sharp-tongued matriarch, explains the secret to her political success and survival has been to ignore the advice of clever men in favor of trusting her own mind.

“You’re a dragon,” she says to Dany. “Be a dragon.”

And, at first, the young queen takes Olenna’s words to heart. Shortly after this scene, Dany leads an ambush of Cersei’s forces and then rides off to save what remains of the northern expedition, both against her advisor Tyrion’s wishes. And, despite some losses, those decisions were the right ones.

But then most of Dany’s female allies die, leaving her surrounded by “clever men” and would-be enemies, all of whom want to control her actions and guide her decisions. And, despite herself, she has once again begun to let them.

While the male characters wring their hands over whether or not Dany listens to them enough, believing her willingness to do so is ultimately what determines whether she is a truly fit ruler, they conveniently ignore the fact that listening to them is what pushed her into her current, terrible corner.

I am so disappointed in you two.

Lest we forget, Dany could have taken King’s Landing when she arrived in Westeros. If she had acted when she wanted, the way she wanted, Cersei would not have had time to develop the weapons she now has, nor would she have been able to assemble the forces currently under her control. Dany could have defeated Cersei in a single day. The country would be under Dany’s control, and they wouldn’t have needed to waste the time and manpower it took to capture that stupid wight and bring it to Cersei. Rhaegal and Viserion would probably still be alive; Thoros, Beric, and Missandei, too. And, because they wouldn’t have wasted that time, they could have saved more people in the north from the Night King. Yes, innocent people in King’s Landing would have died. But so many people have already died, and the deaths of many more seem imminent.

Just look at all those human shields.

Dany’s greatest fault isn’t that she doesn’t listen to her advisers enough; it’s that she listens to them too much.

Contrast this with Jon, who never really listens to anyone, especially the women in his life, and who, as a result, consistently makes foolhardy decisions that put both him and those who follow him in spectacular danger. In season 6, for instance, Sansa insists they need more soldiers before confronting Ramsay on the field. He acknowledges she’s right but goes to battle anyway, knowing he is leading his men to die. They only avoid complete destruction when Sansa unexpectedly shows up with the knights of the Vale, a plan she kept secret because, again, she knew she couldn’t trust Jon to listen to her.

Likewise, Dany and her dragons are the main reasons anyone Jon led beyond the Wall survived the season 7 mission that cost Viserion, Thoros, and several redshirts. Jon himself lived because Benjen also rode in and sacrificed himself.

More recently, the plans for the Battle of Winterfell that everyone on the internet thinks are stupid and caused the near-complete extermination of the Dothraki were Jon’s plans. He only survived that battle because, first, Dany and Drogon came in to save him from wights and, then, Arya killed the Night King before undead Viserion could toast him.

Then there is the fact that Jon actually did die before, killed by the very people he was supposed to be leading, and is only around now because Melisandre brought him back.

Of course, every character on the show has needed saving every now and again. But since his resurrection, Jon specifically puts himself—and everyone who follows him—in danger in a way that is not simply brave, but speaks to underlying suicidal tendencies. Shortly before the Battle of the Bastards, he asks Mel not to bring him back if he falls during the fight. And then he does this:

Jon, ready to go down fighting in the Battle of the Bastards. Image from Den of Geek.

It’s a heroic image of bravery in the face of (almost) certain death, but it is also the image of someone who has given up on living.

Then, at the Battle of Winterfell, he does essentially the same thing when he stands up and yells at undead Viserion. There is no strategic reason for this—it won’t help him accomplish his mission of getting to Bran or save anyone else in the courtyard. And, despite what some corners of the internet insist, he was not telling Arya to “Go!” Instead, it’s another moment where Jon gives up in the face of overwhelming odds. He is asking to die.

Jon Snow’s suicidal intent isn’t even subtext here. It’s just text.

My point is not that Jon is terrible or that Dany is perfect. It’s that he is at least as flawed as she is.

Yet the assumptions of pretty much everyone, both on the show and in the audience, seems to be that Jon would make the better ruler and that Dany is in danger of going mad. In internet-world, this means Jon’s flaws are consistently blamed on bad writing and his failures frequently reimagined as successes. Dany’s flaws are blamed on her character and her character is reimagined to be far worse than it actually is.

There is a very obvious sexist undercurrent to all of this, one that brings me right back to the 2016 election, and I’m not sure yet whether the writers are trying to illustrate this sexism or are actively participating in it. If the show does have Dany “turn,” it will have two violent, cruel, power-hungry queens, a fact that would be even more disappointing given that Cersei and Dany are also the first queens of Westeros. (I won’t call them mad because I don’t believe Cersei is crazy. Cruel, yes. Crazy, no.) It would undo all of the (uneven) feminist work GoT has accomplished up to this point and make it yet another example of a recent show/movie/world that can’t quite imagine decent women standing at the top of a power pyramid. As a society, we have become more-or-less comfortable with the idea of the young rebel woman—as embodied by Arya and early Dany on the show and pretty much every young adult movie heroine of the last 10 years—and even competent lieutenant women. But not experienced, smart, ruling women. We, like the people of Westeros, are more comfortable putting a man who doesn’t want and isn’t particularly suited to the job in charge because, it seems, he scares us less. Even though he should really scare us so much more.

During the celebrations following the Battle of Winterfell, Tormund celebrates Jon for riding a dragon, calling him “king” for the feat, while Dany—who has done the same thing better and longer—watches on. Moments like this still give me hope the show is trying to comment on sexist double-standards rather than simply perpetuate them.

And yet, in the same episode, Varys and Tyrion—two of the series’s supposedly smartest characters—agree that Dany is too strong for a co-rulership with Jon to work.

Wut?

Aside from the misogynistic nature of claiming a female ruler is somehow too strong to lead (has anyone ever said this about a man?), their assertion just isn’t true. As I’ve already established, and as Dany herself says to Sansa in a previous season 8 episode, Dany has bent to Jon’s will far more than he has bent to hers, sacrificed far more for him than he has for her. But this time there is no one in the room to contradict their claims, making it difficult to tell whether the show runners actually share this view. What is clear, however, is that a significant portion of the viewing audience is taking the opinions of Varys and Tyrion as facts.

In this most recent episode (s8, e4), Dany pleads with Jon to keep his heritage a secret because, she correctly asserts, exposing his true parentage will ruin everything they both have been trying to build, putting Dany and her claim to the throne in real peril while forcing Jon into a position he doesn’t want. He ignores her (typical), and by the end of the episode all of Dany’s closest advisors are either actively working against her or seriously considering it.

Sigh.

Personally, I hope the show will end with the throne destroyed and a new system of government put in place, thematically and literally bringing an end to the game of thrones. After all, what would be the message of Jon or Dany (or Tyrion) bringing back the Targaryen dynasty? That only people with certain bloodlines are worthy of ruling? That magical abilities or magical alliances are necessary to lead? How would that story have any worthwhile meaning in our current moment? How would it honor the underlying themes of the show?

Even if the series ends the way I hope (and that is a big if), how it gets there also matters. Our stories reflect our present, but they also shape our future. Storytellers therefore have real power, especially when their tales reach and impact as many people as GoT clearly does. Let’s hope the storytellers behind Game of Thrones are taking that power seriously. Because sexism and misogyny are already exhausting, depressing realities we live with everyday, and if they are going to show up in fiction, they need to be there for the purpose of ultimately making our world a little bit better, not worse.

I have never begged for anything, but I am begging you. Don’t ruin Game of Thrones by ruining Dany. Please.