Skip to main content

"Bright Star" - Movie review


"Bright star" is more of an epic poem that is evocative of John Keats, although it is misunderstood as a biography of the poet. In his last days, poet Keats is put up at a cottage that is surrounded with beautiful gardens around it. And, in it, is a rather lonely girl, in her twenties and is fond of sewing.

Movie is a lucid play of fractured emotions playing out on the characters until such time that the plump looking Fanny falls for Keats while his friend feels neglected. The closer fanny gets to Keats, more strained the friendship becomes. All the locations are strewn with blissful springtime flowers; a scene in which fanny sits up in the middle of the garden full of blue flowers is at once enchanting. Towards the end though, it is all too melancholic; keats has to leave, for he is not salaried and is terribly ill. Fanny's reaction to the news of Keats' death is one of the best scenes in the movie.

Although it’s a poignant tale of love, the mood of the time wraps around your senses tightly into a feathery bosom of cold winter evening with the fog that never settles and in the midst of all this, is a poetic love story of a poet presented ever more poetically.

So pleasant is the whole movie that you almost forget the gripping tale, except for the spiking moments of great acting. There is detail in the movie, for instance, mostly fanny is accompanied by her sister and a young boy, and an air of enigma is created around his presence; he is shown very matured and understanding for his age.

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Entrenched Prejudices taking the form of Patriotism

What a great way to celebrate the Independence Day? I am bemused, apparently owing to the wide exposure of emotional experiences hitherto seemed innocuous. Delve a little deep into the acquaintance with idea "patriotism", one will invariably be granted with an uncalled inquisition, one gets to stare at a disconcerting vacuum. Why do we brand ourselves with nations that are a mere collection of geographically propelled, culturally augmented, self aggrandizing people? Answer is elusive to many for the reasons best known to them hitherto for their own good are turning skeptical now. Man whom the evolutionists assert shares a common ancestor with chimps and gibbons, naturally after parting his ways with his cousins (chimps, gibbons) choose to retain a comprehensive emotional, physiological and mental disposition. Man, if he ever chooses to embark on a space ship that supposedly travels back in time is bound to diminish his self esteem owing to his impromptu urge to track his ance...
Post a Comment
Read more

Photograph

I was born at about 8 PM on April the fourth, in the pleasant summer of 1994; the night was calm and the four walls of my birth place imposed a thick blank darkness about me right from the birth. My mother’s umbilical cords wound around a thin cylinder; I was the 24th to be inseminated by the index finger of a nineteen year old pimpled primate. Before me, the others were put to sleep in sets of clearly delineated columns; around the cylinder, they all crooned about in good health. Our embryonic development was constrained between two rows of perforated umbilical cords. I distinctly remember, at the time of my birth, a great blinding flash of light pierced through me; it lasted for less than a second, but it was the most harrowing time I have had. You might be wondering why our mother ‘Kodak’ was so utterly circumspect; to understand this, I must, with your permission, take you down the path of evolution. In the olden days, a specialised primate ‘photographer’ peered through the well ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Pressure Cooker

Daubing the top of wicks, one by one, with drops of kerosene, J proceeded to rest her newly bought Hawkins pressure cooker on the stove. “Now, you wait for the whistle” said the wealthy neighbouring lady who assisted J that morning with the cooker. With an assumed indifference, J waited for the whistle to lift its bottom over the lid and dance in merry. The kerosene stove, she was told won’t do justice to the cooker; she needed a proper gas stove with sleek finish and hollowed eyes that spewed blue flames with the turn of a switch. The kerosene stove with its twelve tongues brocaded over the epithelial layer of its throat, strung into a circle, served her family since the time of marriage. Her son squatted beside her, giggled and found it amusing as J rubbed his cheeks with her hands warmed before the many tongued stove. In the forlorn house under the wooden roof that leaked, between the pale brown walls that flaked, over the grey rugged tiles that cracked, mother and son lent their t...
Post a Comment
Read more