It's easy to reduce "The Door" down to its big reveal. For all of the mysteries and unanswered questions floating around Game of Thrones, sometimes the most interesting, and most moving discoveries are the ones that fill in the gaps you didn't even realize you wanted to know about in surprising and unexpected ways.
But Hodor's tragic origin story, which is far closer and more connected to the events of the present than we ever might have imagined, is part and parcel with a larger theme that weaves through every story told in "The Door." As Mrs. Bloom pointed out, the episode is chiefly concerned with the idea of being a faithful servant, of whether it's right to question, right to advise, right to disobey, and right to expect sacrifice. Hodor is simply the most extreme example of these ideas, that fealty can come with a cost, and like many power structures in Westeros, the price paid by those on the weaker side of things becomes questionable when brought into the light.
It comes through in Arya's story, where she is slowly but surely realizing that the Faceless Men may not be the noble devotees of the right path that she thought, but instead, that they're assassins for hire, who kill people for the simple fact that they're required to do so. Or so it would seem. It's hard to know whether, like anything with the doublespeak that comes from the House of Black and White, this is just another test for Arya to pass. Yet, it seems like Jaqen H'ghar does not simply want Arya to forget who she was; he wants her to forget what she believes in, in the idea that she make wreak vengeance, but it's vengeance with a purpose, to people who deserve it, not just for bad actresses who want meatier parts.
And at the same time, the play itself shows the Game of Thrones audience what being a good servant gets you. Both Ned Stark and Tyrion Lannister served as hand to the king, and while they pushed their respective kings in directions that the ruler didn't always like, they tried to be good servants, to do what was in their king's best interests, even if it meant making some difficult choices. Where did it lead them? Ned is dead; it's implied that Joffrey plotted to have Tyrion killed during the Battle of Blackwater Bay. And they don't even have a legacy. History is written by the victors, and with the Lannisters in power, their rival Stark is potrayed as a dim-witted, power-hungry swine and Tyrion is depicted as a sniveling lecherous villain. Good servants are not necessarily rewarded.
But sometimes they get away scott free. One of the most striking scenes in "The Door" apart from the fireworks of the finale is when Sansa confronts Littlefinger about his pretensions to being her humble servant, while at the same time knowingly leading her to harm. It's a blunt, appropriately accusatory exchange, where she makes Littlefinger own up to his actions. But Sansa has a good advisor, the noble Brienne, who serves by her side and seeks to genuinely protect the lady she serves, rather than pretends to for her own ends. This is an incredibly harsh version of "goofus and gallant" where Littlefinger knowingly permitted unspeakable acts of horror to be visited upon the woman he pretended to be looking out for, while Brienne helped rescue her from those horrors. In the harsh world of Westeros, a true servant, a true protector, can help drive away the terrors of the false prophets.
Dany has a moment with her own loyal servant. Ser Jorah admits his love to her, that his devotion is not simply the professional devotion worthy of a queen, but that he has a true depth of feeling for her in her heart. There is a sense that Dany remains stoic at this news, that she initially gives no indication of returning his cares or affections. Even as she enjoys a dalliance with Daario, there has always been a sense that Dany is above romance after the death of Khal Drogo, that her mission is to rule, and that any flirtations are mere blowing off steam or means to an end.
But when Jorah reveals his affliction, her true feelings betray her. I don't mean to suggest that Dany returns Jorah's romantic love. There's multiple ways to read their scenes together, but I don't take her to feel the same way about him as he does for her. And yet, she cares deeply for Jorah, and the news that he is doomed to die from the greyscale shows her struggling to maintain her regal composure. One of the signs that Dany is meant to rule, meant to become the leader Westeros needs, is that she uses the power she has over Jorah for good. She orders him to find a cure. She is clearly gobsmacked by his revelation, and wants and needs her friend to be well. He has proven his devotion time and time again, and she uses it for his benefit rather than for hers.
That same idea is present in the other brief but still momentous revelation in the episode -- that the Children of the Forest, the same ones who seek to help Bran defeat the White Walkers, are the ones who created the very monsters that he and Jon and the rest of the rightly-worried people of Westeros are trying to fight against. The Children meant to create the White Walkers as servants, as someone meant to protect them from the men who were cutting down their trees and driving them to extinction, but clearly these snow demons lost their will to obey, whether because they were mistreated or simply chose their own path, and it led to a problem that grew and grew and threatens to consume the world.
That culminates in Hodor's last stand. The sequences leading up to it are some of the most vivid and visually impressive in the show. The eerie stillness as Bran wanders through a horde of Wights before being grabbed by the Night's King is unsettling and scary. The unnerving, stop-motion like movements of the Wights, the servants of the Night King and his horsemen, has a Jason and the Argonauts-like disquieting quality given the herky jerky way they surround the tree, descend through the ceiling, and swarm like spiders around the tunnels beneath.
And then there's poor Hodor. I've often been hesitant about unbounded magic and time travel in stories, because it can often lead to a game-breaking arms race, where the good guys can only use their overpowering spells or change the past when it suits the narrative, not when it would make sense. But this is different. When Bran, who is in in the process of absorbing the Three-Eyed Ravens' last bits of wisdom, wargs into Hodor in the past, in order to save himself in the future, he causes his companion to break into a horrific seizure in the past. Hodor's single-worded simplicity is not the product of some unfortunate accident or genetic inevitability. It is the result of a choice made by the man he serves, that turned him into a living sacrifice, without any say in the matter.
There is a price to Bran's choice, to his inexperience, to how he uses these abilities that give him the power to change the shape of events to come. He is not simply a wizard with the talents to cast the right spell at the right time. He is a conduit of forces he cannot control, and which did not only lead sweet Hodor to his death as he stood letting Meera and Bran escape from the horde of Wights who threatened to end their effort before it began, but it took Hodor's life away in the interim. Maybe Hodor was not destined for greatness as a cheerful stable boy in Winterfell. Maybe he's even a happier and more useful as an erstwhile caretaker, someone who can look after Bran and Rickon and be a force for good.
But Bran has a responsibility to him. Hodor was as good and loyal a servant as there could be, he gave his life--twice--to protect Bran, and he's tirelessly protected and ferried his young ward hither and yon in the interim. But Hodor didn't choose this. Bran turned him into a tool, into a means to an end, into another life sacrificed at the feet of a nobleman, albeit one with the potential to save the whole world. And that, I hope, is a bulwark to Bran's new magic, that he recognizes what he extracts from others when he uses these abilities, and that it mediates his ability to simply shape the past or the future.
Much of Game of Thrones is a deconstruction, and "The Door" shows the darker side of blind devotion. Many people have died in the show. Many people have died thoughtlessly, cruelly, or tragically. But few carried the pathos of Hodor, a piece of collateral damage in war in which he was a bystander. The reason that Hodor was a simple and loyal as he was is that Bran, intentionally or not, violated him, and left him as something lesser than he was or might have been.
That feels necessary when there was Wights at the door and White Walkers at The Wall. Someone has to hold the door. But there's something that feels wrong, or at least tragic about it being this stable boy who never had the chance to decide if that's what he wanted, what he believed in. He had his entire being stolen from him and then had what was left of his life given over to a ravenous fleet of demons. That is a sad, uncomfortable fate for a quiet, happy stable boy, impressed into service to the very nobleman who made him into the diminished creature he became . Sometimes sacrifices must be made. Sometimes people have to give their lives for the greater good. But when those people don't have any autonomy in those choices, when they don't even understand that the choices that are being made for them, the ways in which a master uses a servant seem all the more troubling, all the more questionable, and all the more concerning in a world where those in power extract their price from those without it, be they slaves, assassins, or simple, sweet giants.
Review by Andrew BloomVIP 9BlockedParentSpoilers2016-05-29T20:28:48Z
It's easy to reduce "The Door" down to its big reveal. For all of the mysteries and unanswered questions floating around Game of Thrones, sometimes the most interesting, and most moving discoveries are the ones that fill in the gaps you didn't even realize you wanted to know about in surprising and unexpected ways.
But Hodor's tragic origin story, which is far closer and more connected to the events of the present than we ever might have imagined, is part and parcel with a larger theme that weaves through every story told in "The Door." As Mrs. Bloom pointed out, the episode is chiefly concerned with the idea of being a faithful servant, of whether it's right to question, right to advise, right to disobey, and right to expect sacrifice. Hodor is simply the most extreme example of these ideas, that fealty can come with a cost, and like many power structures in Westeros, the price paid by those on the weaker side of things becomes questionable when brought into the light.
It comes through in Arya's story, where she is slowly but surely realizing that the Faceless Men may not be the noble devotees of the right path that she thought, but instead, that they're assassins for hire, who kill people for the simple fact that they're required to do so. Or so it would seem. It's hard to know whether, like anything with the doublespeak that comes from the House of Black and White, this is just another test for Arya to pass. Yet, it seems like Jaqen H'ghar does not simply want Arya to forget who she was; he wants her to forget what she believes in, in the idea that she make wreak vengeance, but it's vengeance with a purpose, to people who deserve it, not just for bad actresses who want meatier parts.
And at the same time, the play itself shows the Game of Thrones audience what being a good servant gets you. Both Ned Stark and Tyrion Lannister served as hand to the king, and while they pushed their respective kings in directions that the ruler didn't always like, they tried to be good servants, to do what was in their king's best interests, even if it meant making some difficult choices. Where did it lead them? Ned is dead; it's implied that Joffrey plotted to have Tyrion killed during the Battle of Blackwater Bay. And they don't even have a legacy. History is written by the victors, and with the Lannisters in power, their rival Stark is potrayed as a dim-witted, power-hungry swine and Tyrion is depicted as a sniveling lecherous villain. Good servants are not necessarily rewarded.
But sometimes they get away scott free. One of the most striking scenes in "The Door" apart from the fireworks of the finale is when Sansa confronts Littlefinger about his pretensions to being her humble servant, while at the same time knowingly leading her to harm. It's a blunt, appropriately accusatory exchange, where she makes Littlefinger own up to his actions. But Sansa has a good advisor, the noble Brienne, who serves by her side and seeks to genuinely protect the lady she serves, rather than pretends to for her own ends. This is an incredibly harsh version of "goofus and gallant" where Littlefinger knowingly permitted unspeakable acts of horror to be visited upon the woman he pretended to be looking out for, while Brienne helped rescue her from those horrors. In the harsh world of Westeros, a true servant, a true protector, can help drive away the terrors of the false prophets.
Dany has a moment with her own loyal servant. Ser Jorah admits his love to her, that his devotion is not simply the professional devotion worthy of a queen, but that he has a true depth of feeling for her in her heart. There is a sense that Dany remains stoic at this news, that she initially gives no indication of returning his cares or affections. Even as she enjoys a dalliance with Daario, there has always been a sense that Dany is above romance after the death of Khal Drogo, that her mission is to rule, and that any flirtations are mere blowing off steam or means to an end.
But when Jorah reveals his affliction, her true feelings betray her. I don't mean to suggest that Dany returns Jorah's romantic love. There's multiple ways to read their scenes together, but I don't take her to feel the same way about him as he does for her. And yet, she cares deeply for Jorah, and the news that he is doomed to die from the greyscale shows her struggling to maintain her regal composure. One of the signs that Dany is meant to rule, meant to become the leader Westeros needs, is that she uses the power she has over Jorah for good. She orders him to find a cure. She is clearly gobsmacked by his revelation, and wants and needs her friend to be well. He has proven his devotion time and time again, and she uses it for his benefit rather than for hers.
That same idea is present in the other brief but still momentous revelation in the episode -- that the Children of the Forest, the same ones who seek to help Bran defeat the White Walkers, are the ones who created the very monsters that he and Jon and the rest of the rightly-worried people of Westeros are trying to fight against. The Children meant to create the White Walkers as servants, as someone meant to protect them from the men who were cutting down their trees and driving them to extinction, but clearly these snow demons lost their will to obey, whether because they were mistreated or simply chose their own path, and it led to a problem that grew and grew and threatens to consume the world.
That culminates in Hodor's last stand. The sequences leading up to it are some of the most vivid and visually impressive in the show. The eerie stillness as Bran wanders through a horde of Wights before being grabbed by the Night's King is unsettling and scary. The unnerving, stop-motion like movements of the Wights, the servants of the Night King and his horsemen, has a Jason and the Argonauts-like disquieting quality given the herky jerky way they surround the tree, descend through the ceiling, and swarm like spiders around the tunnels beneath.
And then there's poor Hodor. I've often been hesitant about unbounded magic and time travel in stories, because it can often lead to a game-breaking arms race, where the good guys can only use their overpowering spells or change the past when it suits the narrative, not when it would make sense. But this is different. When Bran, who is in in the process of absorbing the Three-Eyed Ravens' last bits of wisdom, wargs into Hodor in the past, in order to save himself in the future, he causes his companion to break into a horrific seizure in the past. Hodor's single-worded simplicity is not the product of some unfortunate accident or genetic inevitability. It is the result of a choice made by the man he serves, that turned him into a living sacrifice, without any say in the matter.
There is a price to Bran's choice, to his inexperience, to how he uses these abilities that give him the power to change the shape of events to come. He is not simply a wizard with the talents to cast the right spell at the right time. He is a conduit of forces he cannot control, and which did not only lead sweet Hodor to his death as he stood letting Meera and Bran escape from the horde of Wights who threatened to end their effort before it began, but it took Hodor's life away in the interim. Maybe Hodor was not destined for greatness as a cheerful stable boy in Winterfell. Maybe he's even a happier and more useful as an erstwhile caretaker, someone who can look after Bran and Rickon and be a force for good.
But Bran has a responsibility to him. Hodor was as good and loyal a servant as there could be, he gave his life--twice--to protect Bran, and he's tirelessly protected and ferried his young ward hither and yon in the interim. But Hodor didn't choose this. Bran turned him into a tool, into a means to an end, into another life sacrificed at the feet of a nobleman, albeit one with the potential to save the whole world. And that, I hope, is a bulwark to Bran's new magic, that he recognizes what he extracts from others when he uses these abilities, and that it mediates his ability to simply shape the past or the future.
Much of Game of Thrones is a deconstruction, and "The Door" shows the darker side of blind devotion. Many people have died in the show. Many people have died thoughtlessly, cruelly, or tragically. But few carried the pathos of Hodor, a piece of collateral damage in war in which he was a bystander. The reason that Hodor was a simple and loyal as he was is that Bran, intentionally or not, violated him, and left him as something lesser than he was or might have been.
That feels necessary when there was Wights at the door and White Walkers at The Wall. Someone has to hold the door. But there's something that feels wrong, or at least tragic about it being this stable boy who never had the chance to decide if that's what he wanted, what he believed in. He had his entire being stolen from him and then had what was left of his life given over to a ravenous fleet of demons. That is a sad, uncomfortable fate for a quiet, happy stable boy, impressed into service to the very nobleman who made him into the diminished creature he became . Sometimes sacrifices must be made. Sometimes people have to give their lives for the greater good. But when those people don't have any autonomy in those choices, when they don't even understand that the choices that are being made for them, the ways in which a master uses a servant seem all the more troubling, all the more questionable, and all the more concerning in a world where those in power extract their price from those without it, be they slaves, assassins, or simple, sweet giants.