Tag Archives: Eric Robert Nolan

I need therapy after watching the Season 2 finale of “Hannibal.” Which is kind of ironic, if you think about it. (Season 2 review.)

It was brutal and amazing.  Where Season 1 was extremely good, the closing episodes of Season 2 have made the NBC thriller nearly perfect.  I actually think the show has reached the point where it actually improves on the Thomas Harris novels, as the better films (“Silence  of the Lambs” and Ridley Scott’s “Hannibal”) did.

I’m not even sure where to begin.  The dialogue is downright beautiful.  And this is a big improvement over the first season — in their zeal to portray highly intelligent characters, the screenwriters seemed to try to make every line sound brilliant — and it sometimes backfired awkwardly.   Repeated phrases and forced wordplay made the story’s accomplished academics sound like garrulous undergraduates trying to impress freshman girls at an off-campus party.  (Trust me, I know how they talk because I was one.)

In the latter episodes of season 2, the writers seemed to have gotten their game on.  You actually do get the sense that these are incredibly bright people discussing their worldviews and motivations.  I am not the most cerebral guy out there, and I’m the first to admit it — but I really feel that there were some goddam compelling examinations of themes like sociopathy, the sanctity of life (or a sociopath’s inability to perceive it), mortality, grief and bereavement, God and morality, and forgiveness.

I can’t believe I am saying this, but I think the screenwriters actually exceeded Harris’ prose in rendering Hannibal Lecter as a three-dimensional character — and this is coming from someone who LOVED Harris’ baroque “Hannibal,” which examined Lecter at far greater length than “Silence.”  For the first time, we get a coherent sense of an ideology for the character, linked closely to his inability to feel empathy and his apparent inability to feel love for other people.  And because the character is a genius and the dialogue here has improved, it’s very well articulated.

Lecter kills people (and fears his own death very little) because he perceives them as objects, in only physical or aesthetic terms:  “We are orchestrations of carbon, you and me — all our destinies flying and swirling in blood and emptiness.”

The characters themselves are better this season.  I’m sure that many others will disagree, but I think Season 1 failed to give us a truly likable main protagonist.  Will Graham, as scripted and as portrayed by Hugh Dancy, was too weak, self-absorbed and charmless to be a leading man in a police thriller.  It made me miss Clarice Starling, who was strong despite her vulnerabilities, both in the books and the films.  I wanted her to appear, all juiced up with girl power and dead-Daddy-Freudian-sublimation, and bitch-slap a little FBI training into Graham — maybe make him run that Quantico obstacle course a few times to toughen him up a little.   Starling is Naomi Wolf with firearm training, and she’s awesome.  The leading man on NBC’s show, for me, seemed to be Jack Crawford, expertly played by Laurence Fishburne.

That has changed.  Now that Graham has completed a certain character arc (I’m trying to keep this spoiler free), the new, darker, badass Graham (who often seems psychotic himself) is a terrific character to root for.  And he’s now frightening himself — his “Oh, yes.” line at the start of the finale gets under your skin just fine.  Nice work, Mr. Dancy.

I’ve criticized both Dancy and Mads Mikkelson in the past for their interpretations of characters Graham and Lecter.  Now I wish I could take it back.  Their work in the last three episodes was amazing.  They play off each other perfectly, and both actors handle heavy-handed lines perfectly.  Caroline Dhavernas is also wonderful as Alana Bloom — this actress has a great range, and is especially skilled at portraying shock and surprise.  I can’t imagine that’s easy for any actor, especially considering multiple takes.  She’s great as an audience surrogate for any horror film or dramatic thriller.

As has always been the case, the directing, the use of imagery, the recurring motifs and color, and the musical score was just wonderful.

There isn’t much more that I can say without spoilers — beyond the fact that the finale was quite sad, even by the standards of serial killer thrillers.  The ending of Graham and Lecter’s “friendship” was surprisingly moving.  Lecter’s final assault on Graham’s happiness was … sadistic.  And it’s heartbreaking when one character’s kindness to another is not repaid.

All in all, this is fantastic television.  I’d rate “Hannibal” Season 2 a perfect 10.

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“Turning 41,” by Eric Robert Nolan

Turning Forty One

Forty one found me
In midday reminiscence –
Not at the bars in Fredericksburg
Where 21 arrived like a proud, aggressive fleet,
Setting sail against
Easily conquered oceans.
Accurate charts assured my hands,
My future lay
In neatly mapped seas,
Measured leagues in quadrants,
Latitudes, longitudes.
Distant shores seemed
Vulnerable to my every effort.
The water that night
Was a kind of golden bronze,
The cheap, sweet beer
Of the college junior.

Forty one arrives
Where compasses didn’t predict.
Octants are confounded and
Sextants equivocate.
All the almanacs agree
Only that we are at sea.

© Eric Robert Nolan 2013 

 
  —  originally printed in Dead Snakes, September 2, 2013 

“Life was such a circle that no man could stand upon it for very long.” (Except maybe Tim Gatto.)

I might just post a picture of Randall Flagg every time a friend tells me that they are either reading or rereading Stephen King’s “The Stand.”  (This one’s for you, Tim Gatto.)

He really is the greatest villain of all time, beating out even Heath Ledger’s Joker, Hannibal Lecter, Two Face, Nina Meyers, Felix Cortez, and the Hunter Rose incarnation of Grendel.  (I’m talking about Flagg, here — not Tim.)

We know that Tim is REreading the tome (he got the extended version, good on him), because he actually read the book before I did.  As far back as 1989 or so, Tim and I scribbled quotes from the novel on our textbooks at Longwood High School.

Tim even quizzed me once in the cafeteria to test my reading retention.  I passed with flying colors:

“What’s the dog’s name?”

“Kojak.  Formerly Big Steve.”

(Do you remember that conversation in the lunchroom, Buddy?)  😀  Whatever.  It was more fun than the SAT equivalent.

Anyway, I myself have been stricken with the urge over the past year or so to revisit King’s “IT.”  I don’t know why.  I’m not afraid of clowns — at all.  Clowns are probably  the only popular horror archetype whose asses I think I could actually kick (clowns and sparkly vampires, that is).  Clowns aren’t scary … they’re really more … punchable.  Or … y’know — NOT bulletproof.  Also mimes.  All human beings, save the full sociopaths, have an active moral center in their brains, and I know that we all privately harbor the truth there that mimes DESERVE to die.  (You call yourselves ENTERTAINERS?!  F***ing SAY something!!  Hello!! Goodbye!!  Shakespeare’s sonnets!! The Gettysburg Address!!  For God’s sake, just STOP!!)

But I can’t get to “IT” just yet, because my pile of loaned or gift books is high.  There are Toby Barlow’s “Sharp Teeth” and King’s “Cycle of the Werewolf,” lent to me by Super Smart Art Girl.  Then there are a few books that Crunchy Girl gave me, about … spellcasting?  Or something?  (Is she technically a Wiccan?  We don’t know, because she equivocates on a lot of things.)

Anyway, Tim, safe journey.  And because we know the kind of guy you are, we know you’re headed to Nebraska and not Las Vegas (or CIBOLA).

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I can get arrested in Arizona now …

,.. because my old buddy Nate will help me beat the rap.

Congratulations to Mary Washington College alumnus Nate Wade for successfully winning his first case as Pima County Public Defender.  You make the Class of 1994 proud.

In my mind, he will now forever be Matt Murdock — even though he probably doesn’t know who that is, because he has a healthy adult mindset instead of a closet full of comic books.

In my happiness for Nate’s success, I will forgive him for attacking me with shaving cream in the basement floor of Bushnell Hall in 1990.  He thought it was *I* who locked him in the suite bathroom.  (It was actually Will Shelbourne.)

I’ll also forgive him and his hifalutin lawyer friends for failing to fully appreciate the brilliance of my various “Perry Nateson” puns on Facebook.

Keep sticking up for the little guy, Nate!!

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Eat your Wheaties!!!

Just a quick reminder that my supernatural horror story, “The Song of the Wheat,” appears this month in “Under The Bed,” which can be purchased here for just $3.99:

http://www.fictionmagazines.com/shop/u-t-b/under-the-bed-vol-02-no-08/

Here’s a summary:  “Under a limitless black firmament of summer night, an isolated Kansas farm holds secrets for two young children.  Because when there are stories to tell and strange new friends to discover, little boys and girls need never be lonely.”

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This song is dedicated to lovers of wolves, werewolves, Lycans, Wolfen, Wolves of the Calla, Fenrisulfr, savantic wolves, etc.

And, incidentally, it comes from an amazing soundtrack from one of the greatest films of all time.

“HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A PORTAL?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vegas vacation, Chinese tryrant.

Weird $+I+ that only my writer friends say to me: “We’ll put an effigy of Mao Tse Tung in the back of the Cadillac.”

[This is about a planned vacation to Vegas.  Dennis, Bro, you’re my Wingman, but every once in a while, I find myself out of my depth with you.]

“Amanda II, A Haiku,” by Eric Robert Nolan

Irises arrive

by mail — Amanda

thanks me for her poem.

 

Iris_'Mis_Dobroi_Nadezhdi'_11

It’s that time of year again … (Color Run).

… nearly half the women I know are on their way to a “Color Run.”  Which is a fundraiser where women in shorts and t-shirts throw paint at each other while running a race or something.

No matter how well intentioned the fundraising is, I’m pretty sure a guy came up with the idea.  You should see the pictures my Facebook friends in TX posted last year.  It’s like Rainbow Brite meets the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.

At any rate, to fuel your athletic spirit, here is Agatha the PreCog cheering you on, girls.

Now, RUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Together, Spying Cardinals in the Snow,” by Eric Robert Nolan

“Together, Spying Cardinals in the Snow,” by Eric Robert Nolan

Together, spying cardinals in the snow,

you ask me
if it’s crimson sorcery,
the manner in which
their alate frames
make furtive flames
flashing,
mid-air,
momentary roses, racing
fleeting ‘V’s, speeding
eye-height,
at morning light,
manic scarlet letters?

And I here I was
ever the ready pedant,
already snatching at Latin,
finding families from memory,
reaching for genuses, species.

“Cardinalis Cardinalis,”
I dryly recite
In tones as cold as the snow,
Amanda, Dear, you know
how nomenclature comforts me,
how I like to confine
images to categories,
visions into ordered words,
feelings to their well-deserved
lexical cells. Fearing them,
I make locks from similes,
manacles from metaphors,
prisons out of assonance.
Ever-present measured meter
Is a vigilant warden.

Emotions, so sentenced,
are convicts at the stocks.
Publication makes
a neurotic victory —
“See here,” I tell all,
the writer as proud jailor,
“What I’ve confined to page.”
I pen deadbolts.
Chapters incarcerate.
Life is a locked book.

Nocturnally, they creep,
lithe, limber felons —
catlike colors through the bars
thinning red escapees to commit
Misdemeanor spectrums in my dreams.

“You have a word for everything,”
the flash of your half-smile —
that angular dip in your red lips
is like a scarlet cardinal
leaning in its flight.

“So, tell me,” you repeat,
your half-joking query,
“Is it a kind of sorcery?
“Has magic made
“cardinals be our company?
“Are their quickened roses
“made by magic from enchanted trees?”

Magic —
an older language than Latin
instructs your erudite eye,
rich in the texts
of childhood’s apocrypha:
all those lost books and invisible pages,
the tomes from which we evoked
sorcery as happy boys and girls.
As authoritative
as any Church Cardinal,
we fashioned faerie,
invented their enchantments,
and then made heroes for their aid,
at the age of eight.
You’ve never forgotten.
I have.

You painted for me once
on a trip Out East,
drawing, as you’re wont to do,
from magic. Your blue hues
made a nascent moon.
Yellows yielded stars.
Errant reds raced
down your shirt in their escape
making a hasty cursive —
angled scarlet letters —
the ‘V’s” of diving birds, perhaps
or maybe “L’s for Love.
When all of your
various roses elope, you only
let them go.
You easily release the reds:
they’re only innocent dissidents.
You are an open book
and pages of flaming magenta.

We are
Together, spying cardinals in the snow.
My Love, you are my better, though.
Where dry science constrains
and skepticism cages,
You’re adept with red
spectrums. All your spells
color the cold air
and liberate the day —
with skyward scarlets,
furtive quickened roses,
manic magentas,
crimson sorcery.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan, 2014

Originally printed in Dead Snakes, 2/14/14: http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2014/02/eric-robert-nolan-poem.html