Bright Star

Bless the Red Box. It surprises me sometimes. I am not often pleased with my findings there, but once in a while I take a chance and can be quite satisfied. Last night I came across one such title that intrigued me. While reading the synopsis, I was instantly taken by the name John Keats. He has been a favorite poet of mine, one of the British romantic poets I studied while in literature classes and while studying abroad one summer in London. Poetry enchants me. Probably because I'm not very good at it. John Keats is a master.

Last night around one in the morning (you can do that when you're unemployed), I started my movie 'Bright Star', which is also the name of one of his poems. I loved the portrayal of a very short time-frame of his life, but a time of much emotion, love, and pain. He fell in love with a girl named Fanny. Keats was a poor man and had no money to offer Fanny (he had not 'made it' with his poems yet). Having little money didn't stop he and Fanny from getting engaged and making plans of marriage. In this time, however, he became ill. Long story short, he died a short time later at the pre-mature age of 25. He died thinking he was a failure, never to know how loved his poetry would be by millions to come.

This movie felt real, and not the least bit contrived. The heart-wrenching emotion in this movie felt unlike any other. There has never been a more real portrayal of the most simplistic, yet most common emotions that rule the heart. There was some intense sadness that even drew a few tears from my eyes. I didn't expect it.

Here's a clip:



I don't guarantee everyone will see and feel what I did in this movie, but I thoroughly enjoyed seeing such a beautiful portrayal of this part of Keats life. Yep, loved it.

Bright Star (Written for Fanny by John Keats)

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 steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever – or else swoon to death