Jane Eyre Adaptations: The Top Seven

I probably would have gone to the grave without reading Jane Eyre if my favorite Ellen Page hadn't been slated to star in the recent adaptation (the role was usurped by Mia Wasikowska), but in retrospect I'm surprised I avoided it so long. High school reading required Wuthering Heights, which I enjoyed, and Charlotte Bronte is renowned for being as dark as sister Emily. It turns out that Jane Eyre has become one of my favorite novels of all time, which has led me to catch up on the film adaptations, of which there are zillions. I'm sticking to the seven most acclaimed versions in what follows.

Not surprisingly, the best of the seven are the most creative (the Hammer horror approach of '44, the Harlequin-gothic approach of '06), while those which slavishly follow Bronte's text leave much to be desired (the two early BBC productions, in '73 and '83). One thing Peter Jackson taught me is that books like The Lord of the Rings are so complexly mighty that literal adaptations are bound to fail. Jane Eyre is of the same breed, crying out for reinterpretation over and over again. To the purists who resist such creativity, the wisdom of Rachel Lloyd bears repeating:

"The most criminal film adaptations are those which avoid interpretation in an ironic attempt to remain faithful to the original text. The literal adaptation does its best to stay true to the text by hanging upon its every word, but as a result usually fails to become a film in its own right."

And yet purists abound who believe that the text of Charlotte Bronte is holy writ and should be altered with fear and trembling. Frankly, I have already read Jane Eyre and invested it with my own interpretation. The last thing I need is for it to be spat back at me verbatim, devoid of vision, like a stage play; I want to see someone else's interpretation of this great work. In comparing the following seven versions, we will see Lloyd's wisdom vindicated.


Joan Fontaine and Orson Welles (1944). If this classic shouts '40s American mores, the baggage happens to work surprisingly well in context, and on whole Stevenson's film remains one of the best adaptations to date, personally my second favorite. Fontaine is obviously too old and Welles too young (Jane is supposed to be 18 and Rochester around 40, but both actors were in their late 20s), perhaps catering to sensibilities at a time when couples in love were expected to match in age. And performance-wise, Fontaine lacks some of Jane's fire, even coming off as a damsel in distress, while Welles is more creepy than Byronic, with his trademark voice, hypnotic stare, and undead demeanor. But all of this happens to mesh perfectly with the film's intended atmosphere.

That atmosphere is so saturated with gothic menace that it plays like a Hammer horror film, and comparisons to I Walked with a Zombie have been noted by various critics. Thornfield castle is suffocatingly dark, with distorted towers and slanting shadows, and one almost expects vampires to jump out at any moment. This is why Fontaine and Welles work well despite themselves, especially the former whose shy vulnerability repeats her passive role as Rebecca a few years before. The proposal scene is sheer genius, with Rochester almost seeming to mutter evil incantations, over and over again demanding that Jane consent to marry him. The black-and-white medium makes everything work, and as with films like Hitchcock's Notorious, a color version would ruin it entirely.

Completely omitted is Jane's self-imposed exile with the Rivers, but given the one-and-a-half hour time constraint this turns out better than trying to rush over Moor House in ten minutes. The omission also allows Stevenson to flesh out the other end of the story arc, Jane's childhood at Lowood, a horror story in itself, which is given more screen time than most theatrical adaptations: it's a full twenty minutes. And while Jane and Rochester bond a bit too quickly in the central drama, this is hardly noticed in a film whose strengths lie elsewhere. This is an excellent film by a director who took his source material by the horn and made it his, without betraying Bronte in the process.

Rating: 4 ½ stars out of 5


Sorcha Cusack and Michael Jayston (1973). This four-hour BBC production is scrupulously faithful to the novel, or at least to the letter of it; how much spirit it retains is a bone of contention, and my contention is virtually none. The production values are bad, much of the acting phony. Indeed, this is essentially a staged play with actors dressed up in costume, parroting lines from Bronte's text. Jayston delivers his without seeming to feel or believe them, and while Cusack provides a passable Jane, she's overly theatrical, with constantly raised eyebrows that betray an amateur. Her voice-overs bring down the drama in a major way, as if the production were being made for audiobook. It's the most literal adaptation of Jane Eyre to date, and while it certainly has its followers, I'm not one of them.

Remarkably, Rachel Lloyd's critique of the BBC's Emma may as well have been written for this version of Jane Eyre.

"Literal adaptations of prose texts tend to eliminate the narrative voice by simply presenting the dialogue and actions described by the narrator. Some aspects of the narrator’s point of view may be supplied by either first or third person voice-over, but this techniques remains verbal -- not visual, and therefore not filmic. Admittedly, these dramatizations of prose narratives do provide the addition of actors and spaces through which to tell the story. But they also inevitably remain filmed dramas, not films. For example, the 1972 BBC version of Jane Austen's Emma is approximately four hours long... thoroughly covering every conversation and scene of action from the novel. But it is also thoroughly dull."

As dull to my trifling taste as Rasselas was to the young Jane; I found myself marveling at how lines taken verbatim from Bronte's rich prose can fall so flat, but there you have it.

It's worth commenting more about the first-person narrative strategy. Voice-overs are a tricky business and seldom used properly, becoming lazy devices of telling rather than showing, which defeats the purpose of cinema. When done right they can work wonders, to be sure. The voice-overs of Dexter are a good example of this, reinforcing the bond between the audience and a heroic serial-killer: they're brilliantly written, twisted and humorous, and have the jarring effect of making us proud to be complicit in Dexter's crimes. But Craft's voice-overs in Jane Eyre are completely sophomoric, shat onto an awkward script with no interpretive payoff. They serve no benefit that couldn't be conveyed through more subtle and artistic acting, something this adaptation sorely lacks.

Lloyd's critique of Emma targets exactly how I feel about Craft's Jane Eyre, and it doesn't help that the same kinds of errors would be repeated by the BBC a decade later...

Rating: 2 ½ stars out of 5


Zelah Clarke and Timothy Dalton (1983). Another four-hour BBC production zealously faithful to the text, and the worst thing about this one is Jane herself. Zelah Clarke is way too old -- older than even Joan Fontaine. And Fontaine at least fit a particular context; here, in a drama that follows Bronte's text so closely, Clarke's matronly demeanor is just plain wrong. (She would have been better cast, frankly, as Grace Poole.) Even worse, she's meek and whiny, unable to emote worth a damn, and turns out the most disappointing version of Jane on this list. Timothy Dalton, on the other hand, is a mixed bag, showing a breadth of acting ability, and quite intense when he needs to be, but then much too handsome for Rochester. (It also doesn't help that we know him in hindsight as James Bond, but even if you didn't know that, the dashing appearance screams wrong.) Dramatic scenes end up having a schizophrenic feel to them, notably Rochester's proposal and Jane's "I must leave you", both of which swell with Dalton but are killed by Clarke.

To top things off, Sian Pattenden is the least compelling version of the young Jane on this list, which is too bad since we're treated to over fifty minutes of the Gateshead/Lowood storyline, by far the lengthiest treatment ever given to Jane's childhood. And yet despite this, the most crucial scene is absent: Jane getting into bed with Helen and comforting her the night she dies. The omission is criminal -- all other adaptations have it, even the ones which pay Jane's childhood short shrift.

There is a fascinating history of debate over the two BBC productions, with advocates on both sides unwilling to grant the other much leeway. In my view, the merits and demerits cancel each other. As lengthy productions they do considerable justice (indeed too much) to the written word, though the '70s version has a better portrayal of Jane. In favor of the '80s version, the relationship between Jane and Rochester is intense, and with more gothic underpinnings, though the emotional intensity is carried primarily on the back of Dalton. As soon as I get comfortable bashing Zelah Clarke, however, I have to remind myself that the '70s version is marred by Sorcha Cusack's voice-overs and a rather lame representation of Rochester. Despite my unreserved loathing for Clarke, I would say that on whole, the '80s version is slightly better than the '70s one, though of course I'm damning with faint praise. Neither is particularly inspiring. Both are too faithful for their own good. Their comprehensive treatments are rewarding on an esoteric level only; as cinematic treatments they fall flat.

Rating: 2 ½ stars out of 5


Charlotte Gainsbourg and William Hurt (1996). Excellent casting goes entirely to waste in this film, which is more an homage to Emily Bronte than an adaptation of Charlotte. While there is plenty of potential in an approach which attempts Wuthering Heights overtones to Jane Eyre, it collapses when the latter's heart is cut out. For there is no fire between Jane and Rochester here, really no chemistry to speak of at all. Their conversations are short, lacking any sign of passion, that when we get to the proposal scene it feels like a non-sequitur.

On top of this, William Hurt, generally a superb actor, seems to walk through his performance half-asleep, and he conveys none of the moody turmoil that should come through any interpretation of Rochester. He looks fine enough for the role, but doesn't take it seriously, though given the script I can't say I blame him. Charlotte Gainsburg also looks suitable for her role, but has nothing decent to work with.

Then there are the sloppy narrative compressions. The "I must leave you, Mr. Rochester" scene is trimmed to the point of non-existence, and as Jane flees Thornfield, Bertha sets the manor on fire at that very moment, thus prompting Rochester to break off from chasing after Jane on horseback; a cheesy plot contrivance. The part with the Rivers is rushed over in seven minutes and takes place at Gateshead instead of Moor House. I have never understood why Charlotte Bronte wrote the ludicrous coincidence of Jane appearing on doorstep of her cousins, but it hardly requires bringing the mountain to Muhammad to solve the problem. The Yorkshire moors are a great part of Jane's story and can easily be included without her necessarily being related to the Rivers or inheriting her uncle's wealth (the approach wisely taken in the '97 version). But Zefferelli's solution retains the relationship by having the Rivers seek her out at Gateshead, thus ruining the whole point: Jane's exile is supposed to involve years of isolated soul-searching, not a few months vacation to conveniently inherit a fortune.

Amongst all this rubbish, is there anything positive to say about Zefferelli's film? The best part is actually Jane's childhood, which like the '44 version, is heavily fleshed out over twenty minutes and boasting the creepiest performance of Mr. Brocklehurst to date. And as I said at the start, the film has a creepy overcast in general that puts one in mind of a book like Wuthering Heights. That could have worked wonders in more competent hands.

Rating: 2 stars out of 5


Samantha Morton and Ciarán Hinds (1997). By far the most controversial adaptation, this A&E production is overly maligned, though certain faults can't be denied. On the one hand, it's a breath of fresh air after two stale BBC productions and an even worse theatrical display. But it also stands as a sober reminder that novelty itself isn't a mark of merit: just because something is creative doesn't mean it's good; as it turns out, there's plenty of good and bad in Young's approach, which makes it rather hard to assess on whole.

What often goes unmentioned by detractors is that this adaptation is the only one whose Jane and Rochester are both represented by actors of almost exactly the right age. Samantha Morton was 19 when shooting this, and Ciarán Hinds 43, and appearance-wise they fit their characters to a tee. Performance-wise, Morton delivers as good as she looks, and is in fact my second favorite Jane on this list after Ruth Wilson. And while Hinds arguably slaughters Rochester, he is absolutely riveting (unlike the sleep-inducing Hurt) and his overkill of anger and nastiness ironically provides Morton more opportunity to flesh out Jane's stronger and more independent side, as she resists his brutish will.

The sets and design leave something to be desired, especially the interior of Thornfield which seems too modern. And while I applaud creativity and invention, I'm nonplussed by many of Young's choices, most notably Jane and Rochester bumping into Blanche Ingram when shopping for a wedding dress. Jane's childhood at Lowood and exile at Moor House are both rushed over (less than ten minutes each), and it would have been better to scrap one altogether to allow more fleshing out of the other. In some ways I regard this adaptation as the inverse of the '44 version, which got the characters wrong in favor of pacing, setting and atmosphere. This one fails miserably in pacing and atmosphere, and butchers some of Bronte's best scenes while inventing bad ones, but delivers great characters with ragingly innovative performances.

Which returns me to Ciarán Hinds. It must be acknowledged that his Rochester departs sharply from Bronte: a snarling beast almost completely devoid of tenderness. This overspills outrageously in the "I must leave you, Mr. Rochester" scene, in which he bellows obnoxious tirades, throws Jane's baggage over the stairwell, accuses her of never wanting anything other than his wealth, and forcefully drags her out the front door to harangue her some more. This is a Rochester fueled by temper tantrums, but it is precisely because of this that I rather adore Hinds' performance. His adolescent fits not only heighten the drama, they entertain and gratify (on an admittedly base level), but also draw out some of Jane's steel, and force sharper questions about what an independent woman finds so attractive about an emotional abuser -- which after all, is what devotees of Bronte have been discussing for ages.

Rating: 3 ½ stars out of 5


Ruth Wilson and Toby Stephens (2006). After the go-nowhere BBC productions of '73 and '83, Masterpiece Theater hit a home run. This is how you do a four-hour adaptation, by covering all the ground cherished by Bronte fans, but funneling it through a strong vision with plenty of soul. White's mini-series is indeed flawless in almost every way, with beautiful sets, patient plotting, and stellar acting from everyone involved. Most of us have a version of Jane Eyre we like to think of as our own, and this one's mine. Ruth Wilson is as close to Jane incarnate as I imagine her from the book, though admittedly more proto-feminist than Bronte's character. And while Toby Stephens looks a bit too attractive for Rochester, you soon forget that around his perfect deliveries of imperiousness, caged vulnerability, shiftiness, and inner torment.

To be sure, this adaptation is not without its detractors. Some complain that it ratchets up the romance like a gothic Harlequin. That's a curious criticism, given that stories like Jane Eyre are precursors to our modern romances. What are they, really, other than Harlequins with class, substance, and character depth? More to the point, the liberties taken by White are no way near extreme enough as to betray Bronte's characters. The scene most loudly criticized is "I must leave you, Mr. Rochester", which has Jane half-succumbing to Rochester's passion on the bed, but it's hard to take this complaint seriously. She doesn't end up fucking him (the shrill prosecutors practically give that impression); she leaves him as Jane Eyre must, and this makes her departure all the more poignant. It plays authentically, not to mention more dramatically, which is exactly the sort of thing screen adaptations cry out for.

Two small things, however, do rub me the wrong way: the rushed beginning and the hallmark ending. For a drama almost as long as the earlier BBC productions, the decision to cover Jane's childhood in the space of fifteen minutes is peculiar; two theatrical adaptions on this list ('44, '96) covered more ground in less room. As for the epilogue, the less said the better; the decision to line up the smiling Thornfield residents for a portrait is painful to watch and makes me wonder if White collaborated with George Lucas (think the ending of the ridiculous Phantom Menace). But these are quibbles and don't diminish the overall perfection of White's masterpiece.

Rating: 5 stars out of 5


Mia Wasikowska and Michael Fassbender (2011). More than any other adaptation, this one assigns central importance to Jane's exile at Moor House, to the extent that the story is framed around it. It begins with her wandering in the Yorkshire moors until she collapses at the doorstep of the Rivers, and then returns to this setting repeatedly as her childhood and Thornfield employment are presented in flashbacks. While this approach has the alarming effect of reducing Jane and Rochester to a middle term, that might very well be the point. In all other adaptations, about 80% of the drama takes place at Thornfield, but here it's only 70%, which in itself shows how much weight is attached to Moor House.

Moreover, this is the only version I know of that refuses to supply the happy ending of Jane and Edward strolling in the fields years after marriage, with Jane's voice-over commenting on Rochester's healing eye and how he could see his own likeness in their first child. Every single adaptation uses that blissful epilogue except this one. Fukunaga clearly wants to leave us on more uncertain ground: at the point of Jane's return, Rochester feverishly clings to her, claiming she's a "a dream" (which comes from the book), and to which our heroine replies, right before the credits roll, "awaken then" (not from the book). "Awaken then" is a loaded command. On the obvious level, Jane is saying something like, "Yes, it's me, I'm really here," but I can't help but wonder if Fukunaga is being deliberately ambiguous, implying on another level that Jane and Rochester should both stop dreaming. Maybe Rochester is just as bad for her as St. John.

In this sense, the film represents a curious thought experiment. Traditionally, Moor House tests Jane in a manner parallel to Thornfield: she must fend off St. John's advances on grounds that their marriage would be loveless (whereas in the case of Rochester a marriage would be full of passion but illegal). In this film, it seems that Moor House isn't so much a testing ground, but rather a mundane base from which Jane can reflect on her past -- both her cruel upbringing and impulsive love for a brash employer. And while I don't believe for a moment that Fukunaga wants us to think Jane should have married St. John, he could very well be suggesting that Rochester is no more suitable, which turns Jane Eyre -- especially in view of the abrupt ending -- into a tragedy.

An quite an effective one, when you factor in the grand visual style and gothic set pieces. There are camera shots from behind Jane's head to show the world as she sees it, and this modern technique meshes nicely with the period feel. Mia Wasikowska is splendid as Jane (my third favorite after Ruth Wilson and Samantha Morton), of near perfect age, conveying all the appropriate dimensions to the character we know from Bronte's text. And even though Michael Fassbender is seven or eight years too young, his performance is grand, one of the better Rochester's on this list.

Rating: 4 stars out of 5

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Conan the Barbarian: Then and Now

Conan the Barbarian (1982) is a special film for me. It was my first R-rated experience and did a wonder on my pre-teen sensibilities. Between scenes of graphic sex -- especially Conan's coupling with a vampire who goes rabid on him at the moment of orgasm -- and a deluge of blood and gore, I was utterly stupefied, and if not for the subject material which interested me, would have probably taken days to recover. Come to think of it, it did take a while to recover. Conan threw me into a world of lust and brutality I was so unprepared for at age 12, but it also felt like a real-life Dungeons and Dragons game. This was high adventure in which thieves robbed the temples of evil priests, rescued their victims, battled giant snakes, and stumbled on forgotten swords held in the clutches of cobwebbed skeletons -- the kind of scenarios I fantasized about daily when throwing the 20-sided die.

Today it holds up rather well. Astoundingly well, in fact, when compared to inferior PG cousins like Willow, Krull, Legend, and of course the abysmal sequel Conan the Destroyer. The '80s gave fantasy such a bad name that I came to view Conan the Barbarian as a one-time exception in a genre flooded by cliche and hollow characters, and not until Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings would I be forced to revise my opinion. The first fifteen minutes alone make clear that Milius is about serious business and refuses to pull punches, as the young Conan witnesses his entire people slaughtered in a village raid, and his mother decapitated as he clings to her. Battles are so violent that the film feels like an historical epic instead of fantasy, as if Hyboria were exactly as Robert Howard intended: a mythic version of the ancient world, like Middle-Earth.

The film in fact anticipates Lord of the Rings in some interesting ways, but most fundamentally with the score. It is no exaggeration to say that Basil Poledouris' compositions are amongst the most powerful ever written for any film, and this is agreed on by even critics who aren't terribly wild about Conan. Thundering brass and Latin chants roll over grim battle sequences, while variations of the main theme play at just the right moments, and a gothic choir creeps in almost unnoticeably on the slow melodies. Then there is the waltz, one of my favorite pieces, for the orgy scene: the redundant movements fit perfectly over the sex, cannibalism, and Thulsa Doom polymorphing into a snake, and oddly puts me in mind of Ravel's Bolero. I still listen to this soundtrack as much as I do Howard Shore's Lord of the Rings, and am floored by how much talent Poledouris was able to poor into such an obscure project.

The acting performances are the film's only liability, but not in a major way, and in Schwarzenegger's case his poor talents actually work for him. His barbaric role demands little more than grunting out one-liners, swinging a sword, maiming foes, punching camels, and fucking women, and his Austrian accent somehow, amusingly, fits just right in this context. Dialogue is used frugally throughout the film in any case, so Conan's companions (cast more for their athletic than acting talents) don't come off terribly bad either. But James Earl Jones is genius, and he completely steals the show as Thulsa Doom, the high priest of Set based on Thoth-Amon from Howard's books. Jones oozes malevolence with all the trappings of a hippy cult leader, hypnotizing with a stare, and commanding loyal followers to jump to their deaths on a whim. The snake theme is milked for all its worth, and considering production values of the early '80s it's a wonder how convincing the giant serpents are. Doom even shoots snakes from his longbow, and one of them of course kills Valeria, pushing Conan completely over the edge in his hunger for revenge.

In terms of its treatment of source material, Conan has been a bone of contention, pleasing and displeasing fans of the Howard classics in equal measure. Most everything is pastiche (Valeria is an acrobatic thief more like Belit instead of Howard's pirate; the high priest of Set is named after a sorcerer who never even met Conan), distortion (the god Crom invites prayer-challenges and has a jovial side reminiscent of our viking gods, unlike Howard's Crom who disdains all prayer as weak and is completely cheerless), or invention (Conan's early years on the Wheel of Pain). As one who never got around to reading Howard's books until much later, none of this could bother me, but my best friend knew Howard inside and out and loved the film as much I did. I've always believed that strict adaptations are too stifling (and again Lord of the Rings is instructive), and anyone with a good ear knows that the name of Thulsa Doom cuts deeper than Thoth-Amon.

Milius' film is precious enough to me that I expect this Friday's remake will make my piles fester, and the trailer certainly doesn't inspire confidence. Special effects notwithstanding, it looks like a bombardment of visual chaos, and the dialogue sounds cheesy. Even Milius' occasional cheese was endearing, not least Conan's infamous answer to the question, "What is best in life?" You have to imagine Schwarzenegger's Austrian accent for the full effect: "Crush the enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of the women!" My friend and I got more mileage out of that ridiculous saying than it deserves, and it pretty much sums up Conan better than anything I can think of.

Rating: 4 ½ stars out of 5.

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A Song of Ice and Fire

From the first pages, A Song of Ice and Fire has the feel of unorthodox fantasy, especially given the constraints of the genre back in the '90s when the early volumes were published. Unpredictable plotting, understated magic, and heroes near indistinguishable from villains are a rare enough combination, but when you sit on top of this a sprawling epic in a world with enough history and geography as detailed as our own, you've got the makings of a landmark. At heart, it's a story about power, and what happens when nobles pursue ruthless ambitions, the resulting devastations, and ultimately, what it takes to make people see beyond local politics if they can at all.

A Game of Thrones (1996) kicks off with rock solid promise. We're introduced to eight characters who include men, women, and children, and completely immersed in their heads so that thought rules the narrative. This approach is critical, because the characters are so compelling: their inner turmoils as engaging as their actions. Most of them are Starks, including Ned's bastard Jon Snow, and it's easy to identify with this decent family. Tyrion Lannister is also point-of-view, a hideously deformed midget, and secret hero of sorts (Martin says a reflection of himself in many ways), half loyal to his ruthless family, though considerably more kind, and entirely unmatched in shrewdness and wit. Finally there is Daenerys, and it's impossible not to fall in love with her, even if the Targaryens are genetically mad and fancy themselves above the gods.

The gritty realism of A Game of Thrones adds to its success. Unexpected tragedies rub our noses in the fact that we're light-years away from Jordan-fantasy, not least the horrors which befall the Starks. Bran gets pushed off the castle wall and is crippled for life. Sansa's wolf is slain as a scapegoat through no fault of her own. Most stunningly, Ned -- the novel's central character and only lead political figure who can truly be called a "good guy" -- is publicly executed after being promised mercy, and we're left as pulverized as his daughters. By the end of the first novel, it's clear that happy endings will be foreign to A Song of Ice and Fire. Robb's acclamation as King of the North, while uplifting, is precarious in the extreme. Despite his defeating the Lannisters at Whispering Wood, he's a fifteen-year old struggling desperately to fill his father's shoes, pitted now against not only the Lannisters in the West, but the southern forces under Renly, who is also contending for the Iron Throne.

The cutthroat politics are thrilling and add a layer of mystery to A Song of Ice and Fire, as we mull over who's pulling whose strings. Obviously someone has been fomenting war between the Starks and Lannisters. At the start of the story, Catelyn is told by her sister Lysa that Cersei killed Jon Arryn, and when she comes to King's Landing she's informed by Petyr that Tyrion tried to murder Bran. We know, of course, that it was Jaime who pushed Bran, but only to protect his incestuous secret. It's not clear that the Lannisters are behind Jon Arryn's murder, and Tyrion is clean of foul play in any case. Based on Arya's encounter under the Red Keep, it would appear that Illyrio and Varys are plotting to restore the Targaryens and thus want the realm in chaos. Petyr is evidently involved with the plot, but also may be be playing his own murky game. It's hard to portray tangled motives and hidden agendas in a way that respects readers without jerking them around, but Martin is as good as Stephen Donaldson in this regard, especially in the way he makes allies more lethal than enemies.

Plotting is used superbly to reveal geography. Winterfell and King's Landing are opposite in every way, and not just climate-wise. The northern fortress is a bastion of honor and stability, while the southern capital seethes with treachery and constant danger. Noble personalities mirror locale to a tee, with the Starks being simple as their rustic domain, the Lannisters as subterranean as Maegor's Holdfast. Meanwhile, between them in the east, the secluded and near impregnable Eyrie perches high on a cliff, a cluster of seven towers reachable only by a mule trail or dumbwaiter -- a perfect seat, as it turns out, for the paranoid Lysa Arryn, as well as the sickly heir who still, alarmingly, suckles her breast at the age of six.

Speaking of the Eyrie, Tyrion's captivity is arguably the most memorable piece of drama in A Game of Thrones. Catelyn is convinced that he tried to kill her son, which of course plays right into her sister's claims that Lannisters murdered her husband. They waste no time getting Tyrion thrown into the Eyrie's infamous sky cells: dungeons which end in walls of open air overlooking a 600-foot drop. His imprisonment, his shrewd manipulation of Lysa and Bronn, and the way he ultimately wins his freedom from the mountain stronghold are some of the most engaging sequences written in fantasy literature, and the first things that come to mind when I think of this novel. On top of this, his later recruitment of the unsavory mountain clans is most fitting and results in endless entertainment: Shagga's repeated threat to "cut off people's cocks and feed them to the goats" is classic, but I laugh uproariously at the part where this barbaric runt crashes the war tent of Tywin Lannister (of all people), snaps a guard's sword over his knee, and bellows obnoxious demands.

The focus on backbiting court intrigue only accentuates the supernatural trouble brewing in the north, where of course the real threat is coming from. As Osha the wildling remarks to Bran, "it's north that Robb should be taking his swords, not south". Political ambition and hot-headed vengeance seem rather trivial next to the cold, undead menace about to be unleashed after an 8000-year silence, and the fact that the Others haven't made an actual appearance yet (save in the prologue) only makes the threat more palpable; this is a patient series, not one that rushes into cheap thrills. As for Daenerys in the east, she at first appears to be just another contender for the Iron Throne (albeit an obscure one), until we realize she is able to tap into and resurrect an ancient magic that once devastated islands and continents. When Ned protests King Robert's decision to send an assassin after her, we applaud his integrity even knowing that he's being drastically unwise. It's nothing short of brilliant the way Martin can make the continental game of thrones so dominating and compelling while also trivializing it under the over-arching "ice and fire" plots of the north and east.

And on the subject of the east, the lack of a map for this region is frustrating though admittedly heightens the mystery of exotic places like Vaes Dothrak and the Free Cities, and that was apparently Martin's intent. There is a well-known guesswork attempt drawn up by a fan, though Lhazar is glaringly misplaced. We know this based on Drogo's turning point, when he decides to overcome his Dothraki-bred fear of the ocean and go to war on Westeros on Daenerys' behalf. (His vow to her after she narrowly escapes the assassination attempt is grand: "I will take my khalasar west across the black salt water as no khal has done before, kill the men in the iron suits, rape their women, take their children as slaves, and bring their broken gods back to Vaes Dothrak to bow down beneath the Mother of Mountains.") He leaves Vaes Dothrak, "striking south and west across the plains", but arriving in the next chapter at Lhazar, which on the map is east. So something isn't right, and hopefully a real map will be forthcoming.

For a story we know will span seven volumes, A Game of Thrones closes perfectly: Robb and Renly are proclaimed kings in the north and south, in opposition to Joffrey; the Night's Watch is about to go beyond the Wall to find out what Mance Rayder and his wildlings are up to; Daenerys loses her husband and unborn child to treachery, but gives "birth" to her dragons. A perfect stage is set for the second book, which could take us almost anywhere.

If A Game of Thrones laid the bedrock for a promising epic, A Clash of Kings (1998) shows how to surpass it: raise the stakes, twist in the hopelessness, and put your characters through sheer hell. With their father dead and mother negotiating with Renly in the south, the younger Stark children are left to fend for themselves, and it's hard to say whose plight is worst: Sansa's at King's Landing, Arya's at Harrenhal, or Bran's at Winterfell when it falls terribly to Theon's treachery. This book is about kids having to grow up in the worst ways when everything is taken from them, surrounded by as much hostility as Dany in the far east, and forced to come of age before their time. It's a story of grim journeys and brutal introspection, which allows the novel to breathe organically, almost like a Dickens classic crossed with a war novel.

But A Clash of Kings is ultimately Tyrion's story, as the dwarf assumes the mantle of the King's Hand (barely with his sister's blessing), and takes lead over the realm. Like Ned Stark before him, he gets the most chapters; unlike his predecessor, he proves mighty effective in getting what he wants. Some of my favorite sections involve his rude japes and schemes against various members of Joffrey's court. His banishment of Janos Slynt is priceless; his manipulations of Pycelle, Petyr, and Varys to find out who is Cersei's pawn is deftly orchestrated; his poisoning of his sister as he goes behind her back and robs her of her protective guard grandly amusing; and his engineering of the city's defense (with wildfire and chain) against Stannis brilliant. If Ned's honor was his downfall, Tyrion's cunning is his salvation: he knows exactly how to play Cersei's game and undercuts her every move. It's in this book I think we really see what Martin means when he says that Tyrion is much a reflection of himself. His internal thoughts and dialogue are so believable that he almost has to be a real character.

The chaos left in the wake of Robert's death is felt on every page. At the end of A Game of Thrones it looked like there were three contenders for the crown (Joffrey, Renly, Robb), plus an obscure fourth (Daenerys), but we quickly learn that there are two more (Stannis, Balon), and if the "King Beyond the Wall" (Mance) is included as a viable threat, that brings the count to seven. If this is the kind of civil war Illyrio and Varys were aiming for, they sure got it, but it isn't clear how it's supposed to help Daenerys, who is having a hard enough time coming up with an army of her own. Things are out of control, especially in the central riverlands; battles are ugly, unglamorous affairs, and there is plenty of rape and torture. Arya's chapters in particular show the casual effects of war on countryside commoners, and with Sansa we're treated to a brutally convincing portrait of starving, riotous mobs inside the capital. Even more so than A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings feels like a medieval history lesson rather than a fantasy, with lines between good and evil blurred to near invisibility, and certainly no hope for last-minute rescues by wizards and heroes.

Ironically, at the same time, we do get more hints of sorcery. Daenerys has her dragons now, and they draw obsequious devotion from dangerous people, most notably the blue-lipped warlock Pyat Pree. The novel's most dramatic chapter occurs in the House of the Undying, where she receives her prophecy as the Child of Three, and barely escapes with her life. Here we learn the key identity of her nephew Prince Aegon ("his is the song of ice and fire"), who was supposedly murdered in infancy, forcing interesting questions about the identity of the "dragon with three heads". There is also Melisandre, the eastern priestess who serves Stannis, proclaiming him the messianic Azor Ahai come again. Despite the less than impressive sword he pulls from the wreckage of the blasphemously burned statues of the Seven Gods, Melisandre does not appear to be a fraud. Her shadowbinding skills are undeniable, and Renly's death quite disturbing. It's intriguing that the only effective religionist so far in A Song of Ice and Fire follows neither the Seven Gods nor the old ones of the north, either of whom seem more benevolent than this fire deity who lets loose shadow creatures to murder on a whim. Real power comes from the east, whether in the form of dragons or gods, and one suspects that some form of this "fire" magic is ultimately what will be needed to combat the icy menace of the north.

Speaking of which, that threat remains hidden yet palpably real as Mormont's expedition moves beyond the Wall. Abandoned villages and Craster's news of a wildling assembly hint at an impending invasion, as if the supernatural threat of the Others weren't bad enough. Craster is bad news himself, more than just a pig who keeps women as chattel and uses his daughters as sex slaves. He apparently sacrifices his infant sons to keep the Others at bay -- according to Mormont, "the boys are his offerings, or prayers if you will" -- but it's not clear whether the babies are offered for appeasement or transformation (do they evolve into Others or wights, or are they just devoured?). We still haven't actually seen an Other since the prologue of the first book, and while this backstage approach has built excellent tension, we're about due for a pay-off in the next volume. Amidst all this, Jon holds his own in a brotherhood of scumbags, and I should say that I've become a complete fan of the Night's Watch. I like that this noble order is comprised of ignoble people; I enjoy the furies and frustrations of mean characters, and am delighted to see more of them.

Which brings me to Theon Greyjoy. Making him a point-of-view character was a good move, since it allows us not only a window onto the grim culture of the Ironborn, but an inside look at someone less admirable than a Stark. Tyrion and Dany, for all their Lannister and Targaryen baggage, are likable characters. Theon isn't likable at all. He's petty, small, cruel, and an incredible turncoat. He's also the butt of endless ridicule from his sister Asha, and this breaks out in hilarious indignities such as her grabbing his cock, slamming a battle-axe into the table in front of him (to the laughter of onlooking warriors), and putting a fine line on his "valor" in killing Bran and Rickon ("Tell me true, who gave you the fiercest fight, the cripple or the babe?"). I hope the miserable shit returns in future volumes, assuming Bolton's bastard hasn't left him dead.

Davos, on the other hand, has almost zero interest value, and is really just a pair of eyes to show us Stannis. His best chapter is at Storm's End, where he ferries Melisandre under the stronghold and witnesses her hideous birthing of the shadow creature which kills Cortnay Penrose (a replay of Renly's fate). Davos' perspective leaves little doubt that the shadow is an offspring of Stannis and the priestess, and for all his grace's pretensions to righteous justice, he has evidently sold his soul to something as vile as the Others.

Like the first book, the second closes suitably while pointing forward: the Battle of the Blackwater sees the ignominious defeat of Stannis, with the Tyrells going over to the Lannisters; Jon is ordered to become a double agent and goes over to the wildlings; Daenerys flees a city whose rulers want her dead, and prepares to go overseas. Gods only know where the poor Stark kids are going. Martin has served up twice the dread of A Game of Thrones and left us with a fifth of the hope, and if that sounds suffocating, be sure it's a wave of fresh air in a moribund genre. And a storm is coming...

That A Storm of Swords (2000) was published only two years after A Clash of Kings convinces me that Martin is at his best under pressure. Not only is this book a giant (200 pages more than either of the first two books), its quality matches the quantity, opposite the fourth volume which would be published after a five-year interval and leave a bit to be desired. The man must have been possessed when he wrote it. Nothing else accounts for the Olympian narrative and quick roll-out. Make no mistake, A Storm of Swords is a page-turning monster, a roller coaster of shocking twists and brutal climaxes that leave us wondering what hit us. It's the most gratifying and satisfying novel I've read since Shogun.

The cast has grown tremendously by this point, and it's a wonder Martin can juggle all his characters and keep them so interesting, even the non-point-of-view ones. Tywin Lannister steals the show at King's Landing, as he picks up where Tyrion left off, while undoing all of his son's accomplishments in a stroke. He runs over Cersie as effortlessly as breathing air, something no other human being can boast, most notably with her forced marriage to a Tyrell cripple. Tyrion, of course, does his best to keep a straight face and not laugh his ass off at his sister's fury -- until his father turns around and shafts him with the hand of Sansa Stark.

But by far my favorite non-point-of-view character is Lady Olenna, the tiny old shrew known as The Queen of Thorns. It's almost as if James Clavell wrote the chapter in which she and the Tyrell ladies question Sansa about Joffrey; the hennish preliminaries are a riot. Olenna holds forth on the oafishness of men, slamming her ladies with dismissive rejoinders, and I even felt like I was in the shoes of the servant who unwisely said, "The cheese will be served after the cakes, my lady," as if the obvious retort wouldn't follow, "The cheese will be served when I want it served, and I want it served now." She only gets one full chapter, but a very memorable one, and I marvel at the way Martin can breathe this kind of mundane lady-talk and make it so engaging.

There is also the growing twist in perspective, as we learn that the more loathsome characters aren't as bad as we thought. Jaime, now point-of-view, is wonderfully complex. That a murderer of kings and children can be made sympathetic shows the strength of writing on display, and it helps that Martin enjoys the Lannisters to no end. Underneath Jaime's obnoxious arrogance lurks a conscience, but it's his incestuous sex drive which rules him, at least until the fall out with Cersie. I'm certainly not going to pretend to like him as much as his brother -- and I'd be lying through my teeth if I opined that he didn't deserve getting his hand chopped off -- but when he's not in thrall to his sister's cunt, he can show integrity, and let's be frank, someone saddled with a father like Tywin Lannister deserves some leeway.

It's often asserted that Martin boxed himself in a corner with this book, because "everyone dies". In fact, not a single point-of-view character is killed. (Catelyn is the partial exception, strangled to death at the Red Wedding; in the final pages we see that she's a half-resurrected creature out for blood.) But the illusion that everyone dies is real, since supporting characters are as compelling as major ones. I was stunned by the murder of Robb Stark; I seriously thought he would win back the north. Tywin Lannister's demise is equally memorable, though for different reasons, and perhaps the novel's most priceless scene: a furious Tyrion confronts his father, who treats him with customary arrogance; the dwarf shoots him with a crossbow, his bowels unload, and the sight and smell of this spectacle puts to bed a hilariously comical myth -- that Tywin Lannister shat gold. As for Joffrey, his death was long overdue, and a final good riddance. I'm not crying over Lysa Arryn either, though Petyr's sudden treachery caught me off guard. I am saddened by Ygritte, and I miss Lord Commander Mormont; I was hoping to see more of Balon Greyjoy; and I really liked Oberyn Martell, and really thought he was going to succeed in killing Gregor.

The deaths of Robb and Joffrey are especially brutal. As upsetting as the Red Wedding is, it's the novel's best chapter, and could serve as a template for "what fantasy authors should do more often with their protagonists". I really didn't see it coming, though there were enough cues: Grey Wind's feral snarling, the frenetic atmosphere of booming music and torrential rainfall, and general sense of impending doom. The narrative escalates and pounds like the drums in Walder's keep, until the heads finally roll, and that Arya comes so close to reuniting with Robb and her mother before they're killed twists in the knife mercilessly, as if Martin needs to prove beyond a doubt that he's at home with nihilism. The King's Wedding, meanwhile, runs brilliantly parallel to the Red, and again the narrative crescendo takes us over the edge. Joffrey's choking spasms are as violent as the outrageous abuse he has heaped on Tyrion, and while on one level we applaud the fates, on another we're left aghast. As loathsome as Joffrey has been throughout the course of three long novels, his death disturbs for originating at the same source as Robb's. Melisandre is, to me, the most hideous and terrifying individual so far in A Song of Ice and Fire, and it's an added brilliance that she's the true assassin, working her regicides through supernatural forces across the sea at Dragonstone. Walder Frey and Lady Olenna would appear to be proxy killers in the grander scheme of things, which forces interesting questions about the nature of free will and fate in Westeros.

These horrors, however, have nothing on the events in the north, where after patient development over the previous books, everything suddenly explodes. The Others assault the Fist of the First Men, the wildlings assault the Wall, and Jon finds himself going from renegade to lord commander, nearly losing his life on both sides to get there. Jon, in fact, is arguably the central character of A Storm of Swords (if the book can be said to have one: there's so damn much going on that it's hard to pinpoint someone like Ned in the first and Tyrion in the second), and the battle for the Wall is the payoff we've been waiting for. The early chapters are excellent too, as we meet Mance Rayder and are immersed in the wildling culture. The wildlings are essentially primitive libertarians, deciding how they live, which battle squads they join, and while men marry women by stealing them, they'd best treat them decently if they don't want to get knifed in bed; we even learn that men have no say in women's abortions. Mance is known as the "King Beyond the Wall", but he's an anti-king (no one kneels to him), a war leader who holds the respect of the clans by constantly earning it. Aligned with this theme of anti-kingship runs Jon's struggle with Stannis' offer of the north, which he ultimately refuses, electing to remain in the Night's Watch instead of becoming the new Stark of Winterfell and have his bastard status wiped clean.

Speaking of which, there has been no end of debate as to Jon's parentage. (Good overviews of candidates can be found at The Citadel and The Tower of the Hand.) Most favor Rhaegar and Lyanna, and it's an admittedly compelling theory. Enough hints have been dropped that these two were in love before Robert's Rebellion, and that Rhaegar, unlike his father, was a decent character and perhaps hard to envision as a rapist. Ned's internal thoughts from the first book are marshaled as the strongest evidence: he remembers Lyanna dying in "her bed of blood", which could refer to childbirth instead of being slain; he recalls his promise to her (Promise me, Ned) at strange times, for instance when Sansa begs for Lady's life, the comparison makes sense if Lyanna had also been pleading for a life (Jon's) rather than a northern burial; on top of this, there is the touching scene between Ned and Arya where he affirms the necessity of honorable lies.

Having confessed my fondness for this theory, I don't trust it, because I'm just not sure. There's enough made of Wylla and Ashara in A Storm of Swords to give enough pause, but the real reason for my skepticism it is that it's too bloody obvious. One thing we've learned to expect in A Song of Ice and Fire is the unexpected (the revelation that Petyr, and not the Lannisters, killed Jon Arryn a glaring case in point), and clues seemingly applicable to Rhaegar and Lyanna may be intended to throw us off the scent. Don't mistake me, I don't buy for a moment that Wylla is Jon's mother. Ned's obsession with honorable lies means he was being deceptive about something (someone), and if Lord Eddard was going to taint his precious honor I'd imagine it would be on someone other than a wet-nurse. Indeed, I'm almost inclined to go with Ashara Dayne just because she seems least likely on the face of it, though in truth I suspect that all three "strong" theories -- Ned & Wylla, Ned & Ashara, Rhaegar & Lyanna -- are empty.

Whether or not Jon has dragon blood remains to be seen, but meanwhile, the dragon in the east is growing teeth like her newborn. If the Red Wedding is the best (though most upsetting) chapter, and the battle for the Wall the most apocalyptic, Dany's blazing ride down the ranks of the Unsullied in Astapor is the most powerful. I was convinced she was about to lose Drogon, but even though that's a feint, Martin doesn't cheat: her victory over the slavers is shrewdly earned, and I get chills at the point where she cracks the whip and thunderously cries out, and her dragons roast everyone in sight. Her subsequent takeover of Mereen is epic, and whilst her decision to abide in the city has irked those who can't wait to see the Targaryen move on Westeros, it's the right move. True to form, Martin refuses to rush things with his characters; Dany, like her dragons, still has growing to do.

As with the dragons, so too the wargs, who are also three in number. Martin does an especially good job developing Bran, whose frustrations as a cripple make him want to lose himself in Summer completely. Jon is a rather interesting case, because if he is Targaryen, that makes him a dragon-warg, which could have endless implications. As we've long suspected, Nymeria is still at large in the riverlands (where Arya was forced to abandon her in the first book), and though we only glimpse her through hazy visions, her savaging of the Bloody Mummers is a fine comeback for the she-wolf. As far as I'm concerned, Arya's journey has been the most arduous of the three wargs: she may not be a cripple or battling undead armies, but she's been out of enough frying pans and into as many fires just trying to survive. The only reprieve has been amongst Beric Dondarrion's outlaws, a band of Robin Hoods who persist in following Ned Stark's command to bring Gregor Clegane to justice. Thoros of Myr is as benign as Melisandre is malignant, a red priest who can resurrect people from the dead if imperfectly, and again we see that real power comes from the east. Even Arya's magic coin is foreign, and I somehow suspect she's destined to be reunited in the Free Cities with the Braavosi assassin.

Tyrion is also sailing east, and he requires special attention. His mummer trial, "confession" before the royal court, and demand for a combat champion harks back to the Eyrie, of course, but the drama is more stirring. When Shae testifies against him with the astounding lie that he raped her while making her call him "my giant of Lannister", his reaction to the crowd's laughter is spot on: I saved you all, he thought, I saved this vile city and your worthless lives. What he says, then, is supremely dignified: "Of Joffrey's death I am innocent. I am guilty of a more monstrous crime -- of being a dwarf. I didn't kill Joffrey, but I wish I had. I wish I had enough poison for you all. You make me sorry I am not the monster you would have me be." This scene is pivotal for Tyrion's character, completely cements my adoration for him, and will surely mold what is to follow in the east. He's completely had it, and even given up on Jaime whose revelation about Tysha is the last straw. Justice is finally delivered in A Song of Ice and Fire when he disowns his brother and kills his father.

I can't conclude without mentioning Samwell, who is sort of a secret hero of mine. What he does for Ghilly is precious, and his manipulation of Cotter Pyke and Denys Mallister brilliant, but before those his confrontation with the Other -- the first white walker seen since the prologue of the first book -- is superb, and puts me in mind of the other fat Sam who faced off Shelob. I don't think it's an accident that the Other rides an undead spider, and while I would certainly not accuse Martin of riffing Tolkien, the cues are hardly subtle. It's a great homage.

It's painful turning the last page of A Storm of Swords; the story's momentum feels like it could carry a thousand more. But it does end opportunely, with Bran going over the Wall, Arya and Tyrion fleeing overseas, and practically everyone else on the main continent dead, half-dead, or isolated. It's the kind of novel that suggests the author had me in mind as his sole audience, as every part of it is saturated with exactly the things I look for in fiction. Truth be told, heights like this are almost never attained by fantasy authors -- and they're quite difficult to maintain, as the next volume in the series would prove.

Much vitriol has been heaped on A Feast for Crows (2005), even by hardcore Martin fans, as a glance through enough blogs and amazon reviews will make plain. "Much ado about little", "inconsequential", and "dull" are some of the most frequent charges leveled, but frankly this fourth volume is nowhere near as bad as many claim, though I'm somewhat damning with faint praise. The fact remains that it isn't as good as the previous books.

There are two reasons for this, one of which is forgivable, the other inexcusable. The forgivable one involves the gargantuan size of what was supposed to be the fourth book, A Dance with Dragons, and Martin's reluctant decision to split it in two. The end result is a bonus novel, A Feast for Crows, which lays the foundation for new developments in Westeros after the devastations of the third book, with story arcs in the north (Jon, Bran) and east (Daenerys, Tyrion) getting postponed. With the "ice and fire" plots held in abeyance, A Feast for Crows feels incomplete, but that's fairly an illusion, since it's an extra leg. We're not actually being short-changed, just left frustrated by having to wait so long to see what happens with our favorite characters.

And it turns out to be a wiser move than Martin perhaps thought, because after A Storm of Swords, it doesn't hurt to step back and breathe. To go from those searing narrative crescendos into more of the same could ironically fatigue the series. The fourth book effectively serves as an interlude, showing the grasps for power in the aftermath of the war of the kings. In this light, I'm not overly resentful of not seeing my favorite characters in a novel that was never supposed to have been.

What I do resent is the inexcusable crime of making Brienne a point-of-view character, and a significant one, at the expense of important people who needed more fleshing out. Brienne is less interesting than Davos and a chore to read in every sentence. Even worse, and unlike Davos, her story itself is empty, a pointless quest to find Sansa, spanning eight whole chapters and doing nothing whatsoever to advance the plot. Martin clearly had no direction here, and his struggle to fill pages is transparent. These wanderings should have been scrapped and more space given to critical areas: the upheaval in the Iron Islands, the goings-on down in Dorne, and, most obviously, the Eyrie. If you're going to suspend your key characters for an entire book, you'd best make the others worth reading about, and Brienne is anything but.

Cersie, on the other hand, is a treat. I was hoping Martin would get inside her head at some point in the series, and I got my wish tenfold. A Feast for Crows is clearly her story, as she not only gets the most chapters (ten), but many of the best, and from which we learn she's more a narcissist and less the cold bitch everyone thinks. This complements the "real Jaime" we've been exposed to since A Storm of Swords, though unlike her brother, Cersie isn't any more likable for knowing her better. She positively seethes with paranoia (seeing a devilish Tyrion under every rock), sexual frustration (I love her cheerless lesbo fling with Lady Taena), raging insecurity (stacking the royal council with blindly loyal dimwits), manipulative cruelty (framing Margaery for treason, consigning innocent people to torture), and even a madness worthy of Aerys (burning down the Tower of the Hand and getting her rocks off it). Jamie understands her all too well by now, knowing that crows will feast if his sister continues on her self-destructive paths. When she's finally imprisoned by the high septon, it feels like a justice rarely seen in Martin's world, and even more so when Jaime throws her plea for help into the fire.

Contrary to the impressions given by Martin's hate mail, his skills as a writer haven't diminished in A Feast for Crows,; he still breathes engaging narrative. (There's not much fiction I can tolerate these days, but Martin at his allegedly worst still has me turning pages.) Yet this is precisely why I'm nonplussed by the cliffhangers he evidently saw the need for to compensate for a less dramatically paced novel. Brienne shouting an unclear word that stays her execution at the last moment is an outrageous way to end her story arc, as is Arya waking up blind, as is Samwell encountering the prologue's villain in the book's final sentence. The George Martin of the first three volumes didn't need to go out so desperately; his narrative arcs were strong enough without the added supplements of sophomoric suspense-teasers. Even if this interlude novel doesn't carry the dramatic intensity of the previous books, it's for the most part decent on its own right, and would have fared better with organic closure.

The best chapters in fact belong to the Ironborn, and it's here the crows really come out to feast, at the kingsmoot on Old Wyk, as the Greyjoy rivals lay aggressive claims to the Seastone Chair. Victarion promises to finish Balon's campaign in the north, Asha offers peace with minor territories along the western shore, and whilst each is persuasive, it's the cruel and ungodly Euron who wins people over with the dragonhorn acquired during exile, promising conquest of all Westeros. However the "dance with dragons" plays out in the next novel, he will surely plague Dany, and it's difficult to predict who is in for the ruder awakening as he sends Victarion off to Slaver's Bay to "retrieve" her as his wife. My favorite Greyjoy is the priest Aeron, whose homiletical stings tickle me to no end, and who clearly has no intention of letting Euron keep his kingship, insisting that "captains raised Euron up, but the common folk will tear him down". But I somehow suspect it will be a certain Targaryen who brings him down, unless that dragonhorn can do what he says it can without killing the poor fool who blows it.

If A Feast for Crows has been overly maligned, it does leave us hungering for the return of critical characters and things only hinted at. The sorceries being worked on Gregor Clegane point to an unspeakable monster, but this thread is woefully underdeveloped. Catelyn is another undead horror -- and she's evidently turned Beric's outlaws from Robin Hoods into Dirty Harrys -- but Brienne's wasted excursions were not the best way to get us back to her. Other tasty treats fill the vacuum, however, not least the regenesis of the Faith Militant: readers of this blog will know that I'm delighted to see aspects of the crusades coming to life in A Song of Ice and Fire. Let's hope the fifth book makes as resounding a comeback as the fervent soldiers of the Swords and Stars.

A Dance with Dragons (2011) turns out an embarrassment of riches, compensating for the sometimes questionable purpose of its counterpart A Feast for Crows, and the prose dances off the pages to prove itself. Old characters feel like long lost friends (even the insane one now horribly tortured), new ones are just as juicy, and hardly a single chapter is wasted. That's saying something considering the book's size: it's longer than A Storm of Swords. Is it as good as Storm? No, but close; it's the second best entry in the series to date, and by far the most epic.

There's ice and fire like never before, and half the book is the fire, set in Essos, giving Dany the unflattering spotlight. Jon may have the most individual chapters, but there are so many roads to Dany (Tyrion, Connington, Quentyn, Victarion, Barristan) that she effectively rules the narrative. Jon and Bran's ice chapters constitute a quarter of the book, leaving the remaining quarter distributed heavily across the north (Theon, Asha, Davos), lightly in the south (Jamie, Cersie, Areo), and briefly on Braavos (Arya). It never feels unwieldy for being all over the place, though, just the opposite. This is in fact the real feast, whereas the previous book danced around center stage.

And if the previous was about opportunity in aftermath, this one is about being captive of one's own command. No sooner have emancipations been inaugurated than they are cancelled by cutthroat tactics and betrayals. Jon's decision to make common cause with the wildlings and join them to the Night's Watch is nothing less than treason (as he is rightly accused of), not to mention naive. Like Ned he's a rare goodness making a questionable leader. But even he doesn't hold a candle to Dany, whose crusade in Slaver's Bay is collapsing around her ears. Astapor's "liberation" has resulted in a simple inversion of power, and she sits powerless at a distance as the city is sacked and burned. She can't even rule her own capital, assailed from within and without, and hit with maddening contradictions: liberated slaves find their lot worse than before; the closing of the fighting pits kills Mereen's economy -- and even the "freedom" of pit fighters who miss their glory. When Dany advises them to join her army or become sellswords, one scores a zinger by retorting that he should fight neither for her nor anyone else, but for himself, as a slave, as he damn well pleases.

It doesn't help that her dragons are out of control, requiring the imprisonment of Viserion and Rhaegal, and that Drogon goes missing in action after he roasts some poor Meerenese child. Drogon has become a favorite "character" of mine, and that's saying something for a rather unspeakable beast. His dance in Daznak's Pit is everything I hoped for, the novel's best chapter, outdoing even the Astapor roasting in A Storm of Swords. My heart skipped a beat as I thought he was about to flame Dany point-blank, but he knows his mother in the end. And the final chapter is simply transcendent, as Dany, all fevered, ascends on Drogon's back, sweeps down on a Dothraki rider, and with her dragon eats her kill on the grass sea.

And a further word about Dany. Her lousy leadership has pissed off many readers but gratifies me hugely. Martin continues to make the make the right moves and refuses to supply superheroes. I love the sexual power Daario has over her, and the bedroom scenes of slutty adolescence; I respect the way her passions against slavery leave her paralyzed and unable to make good choices for Mereen. Ironically, her only responsible decision ends up being the worst: marrying a Meerenese nobleman who can influence the Harpy's Sons and stop them murdering freedman, when in fact Hizdahr is the one pulling the strings if he's not the Harpy himself. It seems clear, at least, that he's the one who tried poisoning Dany in Daznak's Pit; Barristan's agonizing decision to arrest his new king is well played, as is his implementation of a council to rule in Mereen until Dany's return.

Tyrion too winds up a prisoner of his situation, and literally a slave. Humiliated beyond end, he's forced to ride the back of a sow, but is amazingly able to accept ambiguous truths about slavery, which is more than can be said for Dany. As a highborn Lannister he can't share Penny's desire to remain owned, yet sees her point of view: Slaves were chattels, yes. They could be bought and sold, whipped and branded, in a sense no more than dogs or horses. But most lords treated their dogs and horses well enough. Proud men might shout that they would sooner die free than live as slaves, but pride was cheap; when the steel struck the flint, such men were rare as dragon's teeth; elsewise the world would not be so full of slaves. Penny just wants someone to care for her and tell her what to do, as has always been her station, and that pretty much sums up the desires of many slaves. I suspect Martin did a good deal of research on the subject when writing this volume. The chapters set in Volantis and the Slaver's Bay area exude reality to the extent they feel like a history lesson funneled through entertaining fiction.

Some of the best writing is delivered with Bran, whose frequent warging of Hodor would no doubt give Stephen Donaldson a conniption. (The worst sin in the Thomas Covenant Chronicles is possessing someone, even for good purposes.) It's quite possible that Bran has become the most powerful character of the series, an immobile tree granted, but immersed in a virtual reality that holds potential for near omniscience. I'm a sucker for forest-type heroes, and his new greenseer identity as a weir-warg makes him my third favorite after Caerroil Wildwood and Treebeard. His sister meanwhile undergoes her own metamorphosis into a faceless assassin, and the writing on display is again strong. Arya's preparations to take out her first victim involve a bizarre transmutation into a distorted ugly girl, accompanied by sensations of choking, bone crunching, and even a near heart attack.

Identity conflict is in fact such a major theme in this book that it intrudes on the basest possible level. And this brings me to Theon Greyjoy. As we've long suspected, he's been kept alive since the takeover of Winterfell, starved, flayed, and dismembered at the Dreadfort until completely insane. His Reek identity has been pounded into him that he chants it like a mantra, as if to ward himself in advance against consequences from fancying himself a lord. And as Reek he becomes a curiously pathetic hero. Drawn into rescuing the fake Arya, he's the last line of defense against Ramsay's attackers as the wildling spearwives die around him. Once again, Martin shows redemptive possibilities in even the most despicable people, in Theon's case made possible only by extreme degradation. (On a lighter note: his sister Asha gets in a good rape fantasy with Qarl, showing how degradations can be enjoyed.)

But if A Dance with Dragons takes much to the nth level, it isn't perfect. Frustratingly, it repeats the cliffhanger strategy of Feast, ending narrative arcs on aggravating abruptions worthy of the latter day Guy Gavriel Kay. As if to underscore his incompetence in handling Brienne, Martin leaves us with her sudden appearance at the end of Jamie's only chapter, meaning we're still clueless about Stoneheart. The last we see of Davos is learning from Lord Manderly where Rickon is hiding, though we are left to guess. These and others betray an insecure purpose to wake the reader up in last moments, as if we could have been dozing to begin with. The saving grace is that none of this really matters in a book that's otherwise so damn good. And there's an exception proving the rule. Jon's cliffhanger is quite good, and more reminiscent of Stephen Donaldson (the master of cliffhangers) than Kay. His sickening murder at the hands of his sworn brothers follows logically and after plenty of pay-off in his story arc -- not least the revelation that he is the real Azor Azai.

And speaking of prophecies, it's worth discussing the dragon with three heads. For reasons that escape me, fans are crying foul over Aegon. It was clearly established in A Clash of Kings that the series title refers to him, and since the House of the Undying I'd been assuming that he was indeed in hiding somewhere. His return "out of nowhere" isn't a cheat, and I'm astounded more fans didn't see this coming, though perhaps there's been willful blindness: we've wanted Dany to inherit the Iron Throne for so long now and resent her upstart nephew who hasn't proven himself a fraction as much as she has. That's Martin's world. On the other hand, just because Aegon's role "is the song of ice and fire" doesn't mean he must be a dragon head. The jury's still out on Jon: if he is a Targaryen, he could be destined to show down the Others on dragonback, though I confess I'm losing faith in this scenario. Azor Azhai has enough to fulfil without taking on dragon prophecies. I think it will be Aegon who supplements Dany and Tyrion, though I can envision Tyrion ultimately working with Jon, or even trading his role, on account of the friendship established in A Game of Thrones. There would be a Martinesque poetry in two bastard sons (one of Aerys, one of Rhaegar) sharing a dragon like this.

My opinion of Melisandre has undergone something of a revision now that we get a special chapter from her viewpoint. In A Clash of Kings and A Storm of Swords she came across genuinely terrifying, indeed the most frightening character of the series -- with the ability to see threats to her person well in advance, killing kings at a distance through sorcery, and birthing hideous shadow assassins that seem impervious to any sort of attack. Even if it was never likely that Stannis was Azor Azai, and her dualistic worldview suspect, she has been an imposing sorceress with lethal skills. Now inside her mind, we see how fallible she is. Her confusing Alys Karstarck for Arya, not to mention her astounding inability to recognize Jon's messianic identity when served on a silver platter, hints at prophetic incompetence, though this isn't exactly a complaint. It's just true to the world of A Song of Ice and Fire in which people aren't so daunting once you get to know them. Ironically, this fallibility casts her utilitarianism in a more benign light, as the willingness to offer blood sacrifice is more misguided and less coldly calculating.

Though it's painful leaving Essos and the north, I'm grateful that Martin revisited King's Landing and left us there, as it points nicely forward. Cersie is in a hard way, and amusingly so: the charges leveled against her by the faith, including deicide, are irrefutable, and it's entirely fitting that she atones for her sins by being shorn and paraded naked through the streets. The cap-off is good too, as Kevan Lannister gets the same rude surprise his brother did -- shot by a crossbow at the announcement of winter's arrival.

And speaking of surprises...

Feigning labor on A Dance with Dragons whilst slugging away on the next volume was a shrewd move on Martin's part, if not especially kind to his fans. When I heard about his stunning confession that he'd completed it back in 2008 but wanted to hold off and release it with the sixth, I could only imagine the discipline it takes to sit on work like that -- or perhaps it was just stubborn retaliation for all the bullying he got after A Feast for Crows. But if the latter is the case, then this is the year of the bullies' payback. The Winds of Winter (2011) is nearly as good as Dance, almost as long, and the best part is that we don't have to wait for it.

It lives up to its title with a vengeance, as winter's effects are felt on every page. Blizzards hit the north, famine threatens the south, and nights are made longer in both places, but especially at the Wall. Worst are the poison winds released by the Others. With ancient magics jump-started and polluting the air, fire can't even burn (unless it's enchanted), speech is corrupted (people barely understand each other), and frostbite an actual disease (a bizarre cross between what we call meningitis and polio). This last is utterly horrific, infecting rangers with huge blisters and a spinal paralysis that kills in a matter of days. I was frankly more disturbed by the wasting of Grenn and Ulmer than what happens later at the Black Massacre, though took a mighty satisfaction in seeing the screws put to Selyse when she realizes her blunder. More than any volume to date, The Winds of Winter reads like George Martin under the influence of two great Stephens, Donaldson and King, a genuine horror-fantasy to which the political game of thrones is now entirely subordinate. This is what Martin has been building towards, and the pay-off is enormous, as Jon, now resurrected, is more demon than savior, spiritually corrupted by the price of Shireen's greyscale blood.

With my three favorite characters showcased in heavy doses, I have good cause to rejoice, and Martin milks them for all they're worth. Arya has become a stone cold killer, and the Winterfell assignment she embarks on hints at long overdue payback. Tyrion is delivered effortlessly as always and comes into his seminal moment with Viserion. But it's Aeron Damphair who steals the show with holier-than-thou tirades and pious stings; I could almost be convinced the Drowned God exists on the strength of his fervor, not to mention the alarming accuracy of his prophecies. The sack of Highgarden fulfills his screed about "the rivers of roseblood", and it turns out he was right all along about peasants bringing down Euron. I only wish that Aeron had been able to face off his brother before the mobs got to him; he practically murders with words, and no matter the ridicule hurled at him, he can always slam back with something twice as brutal yet righteous.

Then there is Sam, who having traded warfare at the Wall for a new sort at the Citadel, invites discussion. The philosophical upheaval in Oldtown pits "primitive sorcery" against "enlightened science", and this was trenchantly predicted years ago at The Tower of the Hand. That there is no easy place to lay our allegiance is part of Martin's genius, and it doesn't hurt that the antiquated school has endearing and colorful characters like Dany, Barristan, and Jaqen carrying the flag, nor that progressive maesters do little more than sit around and pass gas. It also doesn't hurt that magic is real in Martin's world, making it hard to disdain as inferior. But it's not even that simple, as Sam eventually sees; he's the key player for a Targaryen comeback until shafted by Sand Snake Sarella, and this shocking twist pays dividends as he ultimately throws in his lot with the maesters. The rise and fall of the Citadel conspiracy is deftly executed, brilliantly complex, and tips the scales perilously against Jon and Melisandre; with the fire artifacts now destroyed, they're effectively naked against the power of the ice talismans.

Which brings me back to the Wall, the fall of which is obviously the most pulverizing event of the series. The Black Massacre makes the Red Wedding look like a tea party, and strangely calls to mind the ninja assault on Osaka's castle in Shogun. Indeed, Martin's characters are almost stand-ins for Clavell's: Borroq the new Yabu, allowing the horde of wights through the Wall to overtake Castle Black and Oakenshield; Val sacrificing herself like Lady Mariko (though not before viciously murdering Selyse). Unlike Mariko, she fails miserably to save the day, which compounds the tragedy of Jon, who is literally left with no pieces to pick up, and is now completely deaf thanks to (the real) Joramun's Horn; unlike his Shogun analog, Captain John, whose ears quickly recovered, Lord Commander Jon's are forever wasted. With the Wall disintegrated, Westeros faces its true threat at the worst possible time, when everyone in the Seven Kingdoms is bent on killing his neighbor, especially in the north where it matters most.

And on that subject, Winterfell demands attention. Torture scenes have reached the point where shock value is substituting for story, but this actually doesn't bother me, as it feeds directly into the book's dark theme. Flaying is standard fair for Ramsay, of course, but vaginal choke pears seem gratuitous, not to mention other instruments straight out of a Hostel film. Again, I'm personally not complaining, but other readers will be seriously taken aback by the misanthropy on display, which is excessive by even Martin's standards. Ramsay continues to be a major high point, having nabbed Asha and putting her through twice the hell her brother ever suffered.

Dany's plotline is unpredictable as ever, but if one thing is clear it's that she'll never see the shores of Westeros. No one will want her sitting the Iron Throne anyway after her behavior in this book. Her use of Jhoqo is frankly despicable, and her war excursion an outrageous waste now that she and Drogon are off to Asshai. This is an appropriate evolution of character, to be sure: her neurotic, blackhearted resolve the byproduct of bonding with Drogon. Victarion, on the other hand, is almost guaranteed to descend in familiar territory now that he has Rhaegal. I suspect King's Landing is in for nine shades of hell unless Tyrion can tame Viserion fast without the benefit of a dragon horn.

Paralleling the three dragons are of course the wargs. The theme of metamorphosis begun in Dance comes to significant fruition in this volume, as the Stark children are completely subsumed in their new identities: Bran the mystical weir-warg; Arya the faceless assassin; and Jon the demonic messiah. The power of each is released in shocking ways, with Jon slaying his friend Tormund, Arya spit-poisoning the kindly man, and Bran absorbing the spirit of the Walker Lord. Each has deviated from his or her purpose with horrendous results, especially Bran, who buys the Night's Watch a reprieve only to become Othered and victim of his own mystical powers, enabling white walkers to suddenly appear in godswoods across the continent.

With a novel that delivers a bang on so many points, it might seem beyond censure, but that's not quite true; A Storm of Swords this isn't. Some chapters are disappointingly bland, the most obvious ones set in the Vale. Petyr's rape of Sansa should have been upsetting, but because I'm so irritated with her I was cheering the son of a bitch on. More upsetting is his humiliation of Harry, but even beyond this the story isn't terribly engaging; Petyr's ambitions turn out to be surprisingly banal for someone who has all along seemed more dangerous than Varys and Illyrio combined. Then there is the Skagos sideshow, which treats us to plenty of graphic cannibalism but nothing much advancing Rickon's story. As for Brienne, she is somewhat a mixed bag: after the horrendous go-nowheres of A Feast for Crows, her chapters draw me in almost against my will, and I confess that Martin has redeemed himself somewhat. She remains boring as a character, but at least her story has revved up. The Stoneheart outlaws are terrific, utter savages by this point, while Sandor has evolved oppositely, and these reversals are handled splendidly; I'm again disappointed, however, that Martin saw the need to end on a cheap cliffhanger with Sandor suddenly confronted by his near-invincible brother.

As the poison winds move south towards The Gift and beyond, we're left catching our breath, but also wondering if A Dream of Spring can pay off its debts without resorting to wave-of-hand sorceries and forced reunions. One volume doesn't leave much wrap-up room, though perhaps that's the point. A Song of Ice and Fire was never slated for a happy ending, and that's of course good, but I could hope for at least some organic closure; considering the series' pacing, Martin has a challenge ahead of him. In the end we might just be left with the title's suggestion: a dream, or dim hope, for a better Westeros.


A Game of Thrones -- 5
A Clash of Kings -- 5
A Storm of Swords -- 5+
A Feast for Crows -- 3
A Dance with Dragons -- 5
The Winds of Winter -- 4 ½

A Dream of Spring -- ?

Overall rating so far --> 4 ½

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Was Paul an Apostate?

Scot McKnight asks the question, and points to Jimmy Dunn's new book for a possible answer:

"It was as an Israelite that Paul was an apostle to the Gentiles, and as an apostle to the Gentiles Paul was fully an Israelite. Paul was no apostate; he was an apostle of Christ and for Israel. Dunn also develops the eschatological perspective on Paul, namely that the curtain of history was coming down and he was playing a role in that drama. He appeals to 1 Corinthians 4:9, Romans 11:13-15..."

This is true enough as stated but only gets at part of the issue, and perhaps not the more significant one. Whenever scholars ask, "Was Paul an apostate?", or "Was Paul a convert?", or "Was Paul sectarian?", seldom enough emphasis falls on the reception of Paul's gospel, which is what really matters. Apostates naturally think they're faithful, and often show themselves brilliantly capable of using tradition to justify whatever they need. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, or in the reception, and Paul went against enough opposition and hostility to convince other scholars, contra Dunn, that it's perfectly reasonable to speak of Paul's conversion more than calling, sectarianism instead of renewal, and apostasy trumping apostolateship.

In my view, candid texts like Philip 3:4b-11 and II Cor 3:4-11 carry far more weight in answering the question than texts like I Cor 4:9 and Rom 11:13-15 (in which Paul simply calls himself an apostle), or Jer 1:5 and Isa 49:1-6 (where Paul claims continuity with prophetic tradition, naturally begging the question as to what it means to be an appropriate "light to the nations"). Of course, I'll have to read Dunn's book; he may allow for more nuances than I'm granting him here. According to McKnight, Dunn reflects on the way the deutero-Pauline letters had to mollify or sanitize Paul's image, though seems to dodge the implications by throwing the spotlight on modern believers, and claiming that the problem resides with them or anyone else who can't appreciate Paul's continuity by "listening to the spirit".

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