Tag Archives: Eric Robert Nolan

Was “X-Men: Dark Phoenix” (2019) really so bad?

I rather liked it.

Yes, there were obvious script problems. This movie isn’t high art. And I’m generally a lot happier following adult super-powered characters than a bunch of saccharine, earnest teen do-gooders.

But Fox’s “X-Men” universe has always been edgier, weirder, meaner and less predictable than the more mainstream Marvel Cinematic Universe. I think of it as the MCU’s rebellious punk rocker cousin. That difference raises the tension and consequently holds my interest better. I’m one of those rare people who DOESN’T want this universe folded into Disney’s more family-friendly, relentlessly optimistic blockbusters. I don’t want Blade to be part of the MCU either, and I think Deadpool is fine right where he is. (If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.)

James McAvoy was awesome. Portraying Charles Xavier as fallible was a hell of a lot more interesting for me than yet another iteration of Sir Perfect Stewart. And I’ll always love seeing Michael Fassbender in the role of Magneto. He commands the screen every moment he’s on it.

The action and the special effects were just terrific, and the fight choreography was especially damned sweet. I was cheering during the climactic battle on the moving train.

My favorable X-Bias might be a factor here, but I’d rate this movie an 8 out of 10 for being a trippy, violent, guilty pleasure.

 

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The Piker Press features “Lilac, Wine, Pomegranate, Black”

I’m pleased to see a short poem of mine published by The Piker Press — “Lilac, Wine, Pomegranate, Black.”  You can find it right here.

As always, thanks to Editor Sand Pilarski for allowing me to contribute to this terrific weekly online journal of arts and sciences!

 

 

Warmest regards.

I know this is perfectly strange (look who you’re talking to), but I have never once checked a day’s temperature in my life. I’ll check whether it’s going to rain, sure. But when it comes to the temperature, I’ve always relied on just sticking my head outside to “see what it’s like out.”

Anyway … the past few months have been bizarrely warm. A warm September doesn’t faze me much, because sometimes Septembers are like that.

But it was warm enough to wear a t-shirt out this past Halloween, wasn’t it? And maybe even shorts, depending on what you find comfortable?

Throughout December, my fellow Roanokers occasionally commented that it was like spring out. And I absolutely cannot remember a Christmas that was more unseasonably warm.

It is the evening of January 11, and it was too warm after nightfall tonight to wear a winter jacket. Even a heavy sweatshirt might have been pushing it. A light rain has cooled this evening somewhat as we are arriving now at 7 PM, which makes a jacket okay, I guess.

This post isn’t intended as a commentary on climate change or anything. I’m just saying the situation is pretty damn weird, that’s all.

 

 

“McHaiku”

McHaiku:

Ravenously bolt
that midnight Egg McMuffin.
Then cower in shame.

 

 

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Throwback Thursday: “Gargoyles” (1972)!

“Gargoyles” (1972) was a fairly corny made-for-television creature feature that’s still remembered fondly by a lot of older horror fans.  Despite its predictably campy nature, this weak-premised ABC Movie-of-the-Week just … inexplicably worked.  There are still people today who comment about how badly this scared them when they were kids.  It didn’t exactly terrify me when I saw it rebroadcast in the 1980’s, but I definitely found it pretty thrilling when I was in the second grade or so.

I think that there are a few elements of this apocalyptic monster flick that combined to make it effective — at least for impressionable youngsters.  The first was its garish costuming by Thomas S. Dawson; the film’s eponymous monsters looked kitsch, but nonetheless creepy.  The second was the movie’s sound editing — the bad guys’ grunts and electronically distorted voices could get under your skin.  The third was film’s dark, desert setting, and the fourth was director Bill L. Norton’s choice to film the attack sequences in trippy, 70’s-tastic slow motion.

Don’t get me wrong — I don’t think that “Gargoyles” is frightening by today’s standards.  But back in the day, it was unusually good for a made-for-TV horror film.  (You can find the entire movie for free on Youtube if you want to see for yourself.)

Postscript — that is indeed a young Scott Glenn in the trailer as one of the movie’s heroes.

 

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World War Tweet.

I’m calling it. Historians will look back on the advent of social media as a key escalating factor in international crises.

It actually isn’t always a very good thing when heads of state can spontaneously interact in real-time, at any moment, without their staffs vetting or tempering their messages, even when those heads of state are tired or upset or under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

And there’s more here to consider. If you’re in your 40’s, as I am, you can remember that good friend from high school who you got along swimmingly with if you occasioned to speak with them twice a year — maybe on the phone, maybe when you visited the old neighborhood. You held diametrically opposed views on politics or religion, but those things seldom arose in conversation.

Then Facebook and Twitter brought all of those differences front and center. You could be reminded of them every day — in a platform of interaction that is manifestly habit-forming. The ease and availability of that interaction paradoxically drove you apart. (Recall, please, the old adage that “high fences make good neighbors.”) You woke up one day and realized that your good friend from high school wasn’t such a good friend any more.

What we are witnessing today is a case of technology having disastrous unintended consequences.

 

 

(They are, presumably, Goodfriends.)

Goodreads keeps sending me notifications saying “You are now friends with” so-and-so.

Goodreads puts far more effort into me having a healthy social life than I do. They’re a bit heavy-handed about it, though.

“IN SOVIET RUSSIA, FRIENDS MAKE *YOU.*”

 

 

“Say hello to my little friend.”

This handemade leather-bound volume is about the length of my forefinger; it was an especially cool Christmas present from a writer friend of mine.  She picked it up for me at a Renaissance Faire.  She told me I could write all my “secret thoughts” here.  (I’ve got a lot of ’em.)

I personally like to think that it looks like something out of Stephen King’s “The Dark Tower” universe, like maybe the place where Roland inscribes clues about his quest.  (I know he doesn’t need to search for clues in any of the books, but still.)  Or maybe it’s a convenient pocket-tome for the vengeance-driven Arya Stark from “Game of Thrones” to keep her “list.”

I haven’t yet decided precisely what I will record here.  I quite love it, though.  It’s sitting on my desk as a reminder for me to write.  (You know what would fit perfectly on a single page?  All the progress I’ve made on my novel in the past six months.  Maybe I’ll start with that.)

 

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“An Ode to the Paintings of a Newly Discovered Artist,” by Eric Robert Nolan

“An Ode to the Paintings of a Newly Discovered Artist”

In smoke-tones
as only oldest memories will slow their burns to smolder,
her visions sift
as softly as ash,
breeze-blown and balmy,
will filter forward noiselessly in palling ebon fingers:
the dim ellipses of faces, our silhouetted lost,
their bewitching figures now remembrances unlit, all
ordered under odor of the flare.

Silently out of the late-day hearth,
the spent fire’s sigil on the floor
angles out of chance into her portraitures of soot.

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