A thing of Beauty is a joy forever

Hi everyone, yesterday I watched Bright stara stunning movie, an incredible work from bright_suk1sheet_ref1031the too-great-to-be-real New Zealander director Jane Campion. The movie tells the tale of the delicate yet passionate and softly spoken love between the poet John Keats and miss Fanny Brawne.

English Romantic poet, mister Keats dedicated his short life and his vibrant work to a continue and most serious research of the perfection: a perfection obtained by the unique use of words, of a liquid and flawless, flowing use of the english language, getting his inspiration from the medieval myth and the legends of the ancyent Greece. Keats admired the value and the appalling emotions deriving from Beauty, from the concept of Beauty, from loving and letting himself being absorbed by Beauty in things and in Nature.

After his beloved brother death, in 1818, John Keats travelled to London and stayed at his good friend Charles Brown’s house. There he met miss Fanny Brawne, guest as well in Brown’s home with her family. At this very moment begins the movie Bright star, and we are taken by the hand and their love is shown to us. With such a delicacy, a fairy like touch, as if the story is pulled on by invisible silk threads.

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John Keats is played in the movie by a hypnotical and incredibly charming Ben Wishaw. An actor with such a unique way of acting, that I believe it is the perfect John Keats… You never really can tell what he is thinking and that just enhances the developing and the telling of the romance… In the same way, miss Brawne is played by Abbie Cornish, as well such a misterious actress to me that she is the most right match to Ben Wishaw. Their voices… They…

Snubbed ... Abbie Cornish, who plays Fanny Brawne in Bright Star.

Well, I must begin at the beginning. This movie is just intoxicating.

6271406541_38d36e7f62_oIt is a … light wing… a flash of pink flowers… It has … the most… exquisite music… It develops itself like the flight of a butterfly. The screenplay is perfection. To me, it’s as if this whole movie is a poem. You lose yourself watching it, you get lost into a beautiful, soothing mist of images, voices reading poems, nature sounds, birds singing… flowers, meadows of blue flowers… And you begin to029_bs_01239-abbie-cornish-as-fanny-brawne-in-bright-star4 understand that it is not a movie you’re watching, no, it is a delicate dream, the edge of a ribbon… the… oh, yes… the ribbons, the sewing, the fabrics… Fanny creates and designs clothes. But not ordinary clothing, oh no, they are “charming”, lovely, pleated masterpieces of an utter elegance and avantguarde for their times and she is lulled by her greatness with the sewing. It is her power, it is her nature and it is used as a first way of getting to know poet Keats: talking about the art, the beauty of what she creates. Everything is told to you with such politeness and amiable words, that you are instantly transported into this world. This magical world of love, poetry and tailoring. And then his art, the poetry, and her art, the tailoring, get infused together and create something magical. The days pass, while the two lovers talk about poems, life, love, happiness, summer… And you wish you could live in that world, as light as a flower petal…

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And the music… ooh, that music, you have to listen to the soundtrack of this movie, which by the way is also enriched with Ben and Abbie reading poems… oh, so beautiful, so decadent…
After watching the movie I just took a few photographs of little details as though I was seeing them through Fanny’s eyes… Embroidery details… Beautiful fabrics… White lace, trimmings… Fanny is depicted as a fierce young lady who struggles to find something else in her life, like many of the most beloved female characters in books and movies. She yearns for something more and I believe that by sewing she is kind of creating a world where she can hide herself and be alone and content, thinking, planning, dreaming. And so does John Keats with his poetry. It’s their own way of escaping the world. But when they meet, the world opens up and embraces them and they walk through flowery fields and lay in the sun together, finally finding their true natures and happiness…

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The highest moment in Keats’ poetry can be found in Ode to a nightingale, where the poet wants to recreate a somehow stupefying work of art, a reading that would lull away his beloved in some kind of daze, of amazement and astonishment for the surrounding Beauty.

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE

by John Keatsrim1

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
         But being too happy in thine happiness,—
                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
                        In some melodious plot
         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
         Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,bow1
         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
                        And purple-stained mouth;
         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
                And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
         What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
                        And leaden-eyed despairs,
         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
                Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;stitch1
                        But here there is no light,
         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
         Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
                Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
                        And mid-May’s eldest child,
         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
         I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
         To take into the air my quiet breath;
                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,pleated1
                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
                        In such an ecstasy!
         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
                   To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
         No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
         In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
                        The same that oft-times hath
         Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.white cotton rose1
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
         As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
                Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
                        In the next valley-glades:
         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
I have loved this movie so much, I recommend it to all of you who are looking for a moment of escape from our world and sinking into a misty world of fairies and white cotton gowns, poems and Beauty… above all Beauty… and…
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Fanny Brawne: “I still don’t know how to work out a poem.”

John Keats: “A poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving into a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore but to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out, it is a experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept the mystery.”

Fanny Brawne: “I love mystery…”

 

2 Replies to “A thing of Beauty is a joy forever”

  1. I needed to thank you for this fantastic read!!

    I undoubtedly enjoying every little touch of it I have you bookmarked to
    take a look at new material you post.

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