Scenografiskt är Bright Star den vackraste film jag sett.
Handlingen rör sig kring Fanny Brawne och hennes kärlek för Keats. Jag lärde mig uppskatta John Keats när jag läste engelsk litteraturhistoria på universitetet. Hans texter fastnade hos mig. På samma sätt om Mr Keats poeis fångar mina sinnen har den här filmen fångat mig. Den är fantastiskt sceniastisk, färgglad, vacker och olycklig.
Istället för att försöka göra historien rättvisa med mina egna ord så får ni läsa vad en annan bloggare har att säga om den.
Like his poetry, it prizes the senses – experience before concept: in colour – rich coordinations of costume and foliage in purples, pinks, blues and earthier tones; in texture – softness of velvet or cotton on treetop brush and hardwood skirting; in sound – vocal and natural harmonies. Love is regarded in its tactile qualities – what more can art aspire to articulate? Each movement – first encounter, discovery, pursuit, withdrawal, physical contact, separation, correspondence, loss, rediscovery, isolation, consummation, twilight, conclusion – is treated briskly with plot, yet spun into luxurious tapestry of emotion and affect.
Her advances are as ambivalent, coy or beguiling, as the jokes of her nemesis, Charles Brown. They are measured in expressions and silence. Keats’ defeated desire hides beneath furrowed brow and protean enthusiasm. Campion summons susurrant notes at each ecstatic touch, when hands first meet, when lips embrace and when hands burrow through hair. Keats worries he may catch alight. Abbie Cornish grasps and claws at the void as Brawne receives nothing from her distant love. Murmurs speak to her joy at a beautiful letter, as do kisses for Toots. The world changes colour and season with her mood, which in turn stems from these gestures. She kneels, her hands roam across the fabrics of his robes as he silently pleads forgiveness. As he summons the verse of bright star, his head rests on her breast, rising and falling, her kiss on the crown of his head. Trapped beyond reach, his sickbed mere inches through the wall, she rests a cheek against cold boards.
SE DEN!
Bright Star
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art —
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —
No — yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.
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