Added: Camron Masson - Date: 17.07.2021 18:21 - Views: 26176 - Clicks: 1580
Own goal! I made it through the first episode, where a sobbing Daenerys Targaryen is raped by Khal Drogo on their wedding night in front of a romantic orange sunset. I got through the part where Daenerys learns to get her rapist to be nicer to her by being more of an engaged participant in her own sexual assault, and the moment where she subsequently falls in love with him and he with her.
Game of Throneswhich debuted 10 years ago this spring, has the dubious honor of being the ne plus ultra of rape culture on television. The genre is fantasy, and the fantasy at hand is a world in which every woman, no matter her power or fortune, is likely to be violated in front of our eyes. Rape is like blood on Game of Thronesso commonplace that viewers become inured forced sex game it, necessitating ever more excess to grab our attention.
When Thrones was on the air, each season brought with it ample discussion of its wearying reliance on rape for dramatic fodder. Weiss, introduced in adapting the show; in response to widespread criticismWeiss and Benioff eventually toned down depictions of rape and assault and sacrificed neither viewership nor Holy shit watercooler moments in the process, proving the show never needed them in the first place.
A show treating sexual violence as casually now as Thrones did then is nearly unimaginable. And yet rape, on television, is as common as ever, sewn into crusading feminist tales and gritty crime series and quirky teenage dramedies and schlocky horror anthologies. Rape and sexual violence have been a part of every war ever fought. Some progress is visible. Many writers, mostly men, continue to rely on rape as a nuclear option for female characters, a tool with which to impassion viewers, precipitate drama, and stir up controversy. Others, mostly women, treat sexual assault and the culture surrounding it as their subject, the nucleus around which characters revolve and from which plotlines extend.
Rape as a trope, a joke—I could never encounter these devices again and sleep better for it. But in the hands of artists who want to deconstruct the idea of the rape plot altogether, we see a version of storytelling that serves forced sex game, and survivors, something more transformative. S till more common, though, is the series that mistakes graphically portraying rape for having something insightful to say about it. But the longer the show went on—fueled, paradoxically, by the critical success of that first season—the more it became simply a series about the abuse of women.
Nothing more, nothing less. The second season made clear that its only objective was to keep people watching. The violence the show inflicts upon its characters delivers no overarching message, no moment of transcendence.
Your tolerance for it depends on you. It feels peculiarly grotesque to me that both so viscerally imagine and stage a scene that neither of them could ever experience—the twofold torture of a woman whose own rape becomes almost incidental to her compared with the loss of her .
It does nothing but appall, its evil too unsubtle to nurture anything but shock. For all the criticism it garnered over the years, Game of Thrones was a ratings juggernaut, and many creators since have assumed that its willingness to dole out gratuitous sex and violence was the reason. But the era of peak TV has also mandated excess for new shows trying forced sex game break through: In a frantically crowded TV marketplace, the more shocking you can be, the more people pay attention. T he time has long since come, I think, to stop watching any show that treats sexual assault cheaply or as any kind of temporary narrative hot potato to be picked up and rapidly discarded.
The strange value of Game of Thrones is that it highlighted how tediously prestige television has come to rely on rape, both as titillation and as a catchall traumatic event that even the most lauded shows overuse to enable male heroism and character development. Critics have been divided over Promising Young Womanwhich won an Oscar last week for Best Original Screenplay, but the movie by Emerald Fennell breaks all kinds of traditions in using assault as a subject—it never shows violation on camera, it suggests that rapists are less-commonly evil serial abusers than banal office-types in button-downs, and it offers no redemptive arc for anyone.
The movie begins and ends in a world mired in rape culture. Watching HBO up to its premiere, you could have been forgiven for understanding rape as simply the violent sexual abuse of a woman. I May Destroy Youmore gratifyingly, reframed it as a series of realistic violations—the stealthy removal of a condom during sex, a con played to trick a woman into a threesome, a forced sex game encounter between two men that becomes assault when the word no is ignored. Above all, the question that writers should ask themselves, and that viewers should weigh, is why a rape is appearing onscreen or onstage in a work of art.
When it is, it should be written, or at the very least talked through, with women or those with lived experience on the subject, who have enough power to challenge it.
It should do more than simply exploit a real-life scourge for dramatic reasons. Popular Latest. The Atlantic Crossword. In Subscribe.Forced sex game
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