Some time ago, I wrote about George R. R. Martin’s epic fantasy books “A Game Of Thrones” in these terms:
In my old age, I’m getting a bit tired of epic fantasy. I was recently recommended A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin (what is it about these R.R. initials, anyway?). It wasn’t bad, but halfway through the second book I came down with fantasy fatigue. Endless pages of characters discussing their lineage, forsooth, doth not a gripping yarn make. Still, I battled on, and yes, there were places where my interest quickened. But what came as a really cold shower was the realisation that the author was churning out these books like there was no tomorrow (What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?). There are at least six books in the projected series, and I’m exhausted after three.
I see that HBO has now brought the series to the small screen with much blood and gore and the resolutely anti-metrosexual Sean Bean. While I’m sure it has been lovingly done, I think I’ll wait until the DVDs reach the bargain bin before I might invest. Ask me again in about five years whether I thought it was worth it.