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I spend a good portion of my Saturday mornings dredging up one of my storage boxes filled with the books I’ve hoarded over the years. A couple of weeks ago I rediscovered Elizabeth Goudge’s The Little White Horse, which I bought in high school just because J. K. Rowling blurbed for it (same reason I bought Darren Shan’s first Cirque du Freak book in college). Last week I chanced upon my half-a-decade-old copy of Frank Cottrell Boyce’s Millions, based on his screenplay of the film of the same name directed by Danny Boyle (there goes my obligatory Pelikula plug of the week). Today I found this lovely literary triquetra.
Yes, not only did I watch Charmed, the wicked-good series that used to air every Monday, 9 p.m. on Studio 23 (UHF Channel 81 in Dagupan City) right after Dawson’s Creek, alternately crushing on Alyssa Milano and Shannen Doherty, and later trying to convince myself that the entrance of Rose McGowan as the latter’s replacement was not at all the onset of the series’ jumping the shark, I also bought and read the books based on it.
In my mind these short novels used to be right up there with Eoin Colfer’s Artemis Fowl series and even J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy. I kid you not. I dare not reread them now, though, lest I be exposed to the books’ less than brilliant prose and plot devices. I’d rather they remain the winning and entertaining pieces of fantasy fiction I believed them to be when I read them years ago. I see no point in breaking the spell, no point in challenging their magic. Their sexy, sexy magic.

I spend a good portion of my Saturday mornings dredging up one of my storage boxes filled with the books I’ve hoarded over the years. A couple of weeks ago I rediscovered Elizabeth Goudge’s The Little White Horse, which I bought in high school just because J. K. Rowling blurbed for it (same reason I bought Darren Shan’s first Cirque du Freak book in college). Last week I chanced upon my half-a-decade-old copy of Frank Cottrell Boyce’s Millions, based on his screenplay of the film of the same name directed by Danny Boyle (there goes my obligatory Pelikula plug of the week). Today I found this lovely literary triquetra.

Yes, not only did I watch Charmed, the wicked-good series that used to air every Monday, 9 p.m. on Studio 23 (UHF Channel 81 in Dagupan City) right after Dawson’s Creek, alternately crushing on Alyssa Milano and Shannen Doherty, and later trying to convince myself that the entrance of Rose McGowan as the latter’s replacement was not at all the onset of the series’ jumping the shark, I also bought and read the books based on it.

In my mind these short novels used to be right up there with Eoin Colfer’s Artemis Fowl series and even J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy. I kid you not. I dare not reread them now, though, lest I be exposed to the books’ less than brilliant prose and plot devices. I’d rather they remain the winning and entertaining pieces of fantasy fiction I believed them to be when I read them years ago. I see no point in breaking the spell, no point in challenging their magic. Their sexy, sexy magic.

As I read Keats’s letters (who spells badly like me), I came across his theory of negative capability: an endorsement of mystery, of developing your capacity to accept mystery without ‘irritable searching after fact and reason’. I began to realize that perhaps poetry is not so much in need of understanding as loving, or being enchanted, seduced, intrigued and awed. Like eating something delicious, you don’t need to know how it was made; all you need to do is enjoy it.
Jane Campion, writer and director of Bright Star, in her introduction for Bright Star: The Complete Poems and Selected Letters by John Keats
This might be the only time I’ll ever reblog something I wrote for Pelikula (although I sure hope not), so I beg you indulge me in this rare  instance of self-aggrandizement. I just love this film so much that I  cannot not have my thoughts on it recorded on my own blog as well. I’m  not sure if that even makes sense. But what I’m trying to say is, I  really love this film. Did I mention that I love this film?
Anyway, it may be of interest for you to know that I took the title  of my rave review from one of John Keats’s letters to Fanny Brawne:

I never knew before,  what such a love as you have made me feel,  was; I did not believe in it;  my Fancy was afraid of it, lest it should  burn me up. But if you will  fully love me, though there may be some  fire, ‘twill not be more than we  can bear when moistened and bedewed  with Pleasures. 

pelikula:

Bedewed with Pleasures by Aldrin Calimlim Bright Star (2009) D: Jane Campion S:  Abbie Cornish, Ben Whishaw, Paul  Schneider I’m not particularly good with poetry. My attempts at   understanding poems (the supposedly great ones, at least), let alone   composing them, have invariably ended with me scratching my head,   exhausted and plagued with prosodic perplexities. Those I did   understand, although very remotely, were either explained to me by   reading guides or by my uncle who used to read poems, such as William  Cullen  Bryant’s Thanatopsis and William Earnest Henley’s Invictus,  to me when I was only a curious little sponge. Something about the   restrictive nature of poems, the significance of their rhymes (or   absence thereof), and their tendency towards abrupt diversions makes   them a particularly tough nut to crack, so tough in fact that once upon a   time I indefinitely swore off making a stab at a poem that is more  than  four verses long. However, after watching Jane Campion’s biopic of  John  Keats, one of the most celebrated poets in history, at least  twice, I see that pact I made with myself finally has to be broken.
Like one of Keats’s most famous  compositions, Endymion, which  begins with the statement, “A thing  of beauty is a joy for ever,”  Campion’s film, Bright Star,  opens with a sequence that  evokes the same sentiments contained in that  famous line and also  serves to portend the allurement of the rest of  the film: a needle, a  piece of thread, and a hand delicately making  stitches, not unlike the  way a poet weaves words. The hand belongs to  Frances “Fanny” Brawne  (Abbie Cornish), a fashion student, the girl next  door who falls deeply  in love with John Keats (Ben Whishaw), resulting  in an ill-fated  romance that is the focus of the film.
Admittedly,  there’s not much of a plot to speak of. It’s just John  and Fanny being  smitten with each other and all these forces trying to  keep them apart  both in distance and affection. There’s the cynical  Charles Armitage  Brown (Paul Schneider), John’s closest friend and  colleague who  disapproves of their relationship, arguing that it will  no doubt take  away his freedom and get in the way of his writing.  There’s the times  they live in, amongst people who deem John, who lives  in penury on  account of his indebtedness and his books selling very  poorly, unsuited  to marry Fanny. And then there’s John’s growing  illness, a bad case of  tuberculosis that would later claim his life at  the young age of 25,  leaving Fanny utterly devastated. Granted, it’s a  plain story, but the  manner in which it is told is anything but.
What Campion, the  Academy Award-winning screenwriter and director of  The Piano, and  her troupe managed to come up with here is a  masterpiece so richly  acted it almost plays out like an enactment of a  lengthy poem based on  the last three years of John Keats. She makes the  pre-Victorian era  characters in her film recite odes and sonnets every  ten minutes or so,  but in the more dominant instances when they don’t,  they speak so  impeccably it’s as though they’re composing dialogical  poems as they go  along. More than anything, it’s a tribute to the  talents at work that  their acting and delivery appear to come as  naturally as “leaves to a  tree.” Cornish and Whishaw are especially  commendable, one complementing  the other as they, through  conversations, poems, letters, dances, kisses, and  stares, deal with  the longing and exhilaration that are rooted in an  obsessive, but  nonetheless real, romantic relationship.
On a more  technical level, not since Joe Wright’s Atonement caught me  enamored in its grandeur have I seen such attention to detail  as in Bright  Star. Greig Fraser’s breathtaking cinematography,  Janet Patterson’s  dazzling production and costume design, and Mark  Bradshaw’s unobtrusive  score work together to augment the film’s poetic  quality. To give you  an idea as to how subtly beautiful, lyrical even,  Bright Star is,  I cite a couple of scenes that I think stand  out above the rest: the  scene where the lovers enjoy an afternoon  stroll by the river park (a  splendid recreation of George Seurat’s Sunday  Afternoon on the Island  of LaGrande Jatte if I ever saw one) and  the scene where Fanny sits and reads one of John’s letters in the middle  of a meadow filled with  bluebells (shown above, it later became part  of the cover art for the  Vintage Classics collection of some of the  best poems and letters by the  poet, a book that I will no doubt grab  the first chance I get).  Campion, in telling the story of a great  Romantic poet, ended up being a Romantic artist herself.  
Bright Star took its title from John’s sonnet about Fanny,   which begins with those two words, a fitting description of the former  for the latter. I remember having encountered that poem in the distant   past and, it being more than four verses long, I didn’t give it much   thought, because as I have said in the beginning of this review and like  Fanny in the beginning of the film, I was, is, not very bright with  poetry. So  during the scene when Fanny asked John how to properly  understand a  poem, I just had to pay attention to his answer: “A poem  needs  understanding through the senses. The point of diving in 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 an  experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul  to  accept mystery.” Surely, we all could use a bit of mystery in our  lives.  And John Keats could very well have been talking to me.

This might be the only time I’ll ever reblog something I wrote for Pelikula (although I sure hope not), so I beg you indulge me in this rare instance of self-aggrandizement. I just love this film so much that I cannot not have my thoughts on it recorded on my own blog as well. I’m not sure if that even makes sense. But what I’m trying to say is, I really love this film. Did I mention that I love this film?

Anyway, it may be of interest for you to know that I took the title of my rave review from one of John Keats’s letters to Fanny Brawne:

I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did not believe in it; my Fancy was afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, ‘twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures.

pelikula:

Bedewed with Pleasures
by Aldrin Calimlim

Bright Star (2009)
D: Jane Campion
S: Abbie Cornish, Ben Whishaw, Paul Schneider

I’m not particularly good with poetry. My attempts at understanding poems (the supposedly great ones, at least), let alone composing them, have invariably ended with me scratching my head, exhausted and plagued with prosodic perplexities. Those I did understand, although very remotely, were either explained to me by reading guides or by my uncle who used to read poems, such as William Cullen Bryant’s Thanatopsis and William Earnest Henley’s Invictus, to me when I was only a curious little sponge. Something about the restrictive nature of poems, the significance of their rhymes (or absence thereof), and their tendency towards abrupt diversions makes them a particularly tough nut to crack, so tough in fact that once upon a time I indefinitely swore off making a stab at a poem that is more than four verses long. However, after watching Jane Campion’s biopic of John Keats, one of the most celebrated poets in history, at least twice, I see that pact I made with myself finally has to be broken.

Like one of Keats’s most famous compositions, Endymion, which begins with the statement, “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,” Campion’s film, Bright Star, opens with a sequence that evokes the same sentiments contained in that famous line and also serves to portend the allurement of the rest of the film: a needle, a piece of thread, and a hand delicately making stitches, not unlike the way a poet weaves words. The hand belongs to Frances “Fanny” Brawne (Abbie Cornish), a fashion student, the girl next door who falls deeply in love with John Keats (Ben Whishaw), resulting in an ill-fated romance that is the focus of the film.

Admittedly, there’s not much of a plot to speak of. It’s just John and Fanny being smitten with each other and all these forces trying to keep them apart both in distance and affection. There’s the cynical Charles Armitage Brown (Paul Schneider), John’s closest friend and colleague who disapproves of their relationship, arguing that it will no doubt take away his freedom and get in the way of his writing. There’s the times they live in, amongst people who deem John, who lives in penury on account of his indebtedness and his books selling very poorly, unsuited to marry Fanny. And then there’s John’s growing illness, a bad case of tuberculosis that would later claim his life at the young age of 25, leaving Fanny utterly devastated. Granted, it’s a plain story, but the manner in which it is told is anything but.

What Campion, the Academy Award-winning screenwriter and director of The Piano, and her troupe managed to come up with here is a masterpiece so richly acted it almost plays out like an enactment of a lengthy poem based on the last three years of John Keats. She makes the pre-Victorian era characters in her film recite odes and sonnets every ten minutes or so, but in the more dominant instances when they don’t, they speak so impeccably it’s as though they’re composing dialogical poems as they go along. More than anything, it’s a tribute to the talents at work that their acting and delivery appear to come as naturally as “leaves to a tree.” Cornish and Whishaw are especially commendable, one complementing the other as they, through conversations, poems, letters, dances, kisses, and stares, deal with the longing and exhilaration that are rooted in an obsessive, but nonetheless real, romantic relationship.

On a more technical level, not since Joe Wright’s Atonement caught me enamored in its grandeur have I seen such attention to detail as in Bright Star. Greig Fraser’s breathtaking cinematography, Janet Patterson’s dazzling production and costume design, and Mark Bradshaw’s unobtrusive score work together to augment the film’s poetic quality. To give you an idea as to how subtly beautiful, lyrical even, Bright Star is, I cite a couple of scenes that I think stand out above the rest: the scene where the lovers enjoy an afternoon stroll by the river park (a splendid recreation of George Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of LaGrande Jatte if I ever saw one) and the scene where Fanny sits and reads one of John’s letters in the middle of a meadow filled with bluebells (shown above, it later became part of the cover art for the Vintage Classics collection of some of the best poems and letters by the poet, a book that I will no doubt grab the first chance I get). Campion, in telling the story of a great Romantic poet, ended up being a Romantic artist herself. 

Bright Star took its title from John’s sonnet about Fanny, which begins with those two words, a fitting description of the former for the latter. I remember having encountered that poem in the distant past and, it being more than four verses long, I didn’t give it much thought, because as I have said in the beginning of this review and like Fanny in the beginning of the film, I was, is, not very bright with poetry. So during the scene when Fanny asked John how to properly understand a poem, I just had to pay attention to his answer: “A poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving in 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 an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery.” Surely, we all could use a bit of mystery in our lives. And John Keats could very well have been talking to me.

toynbeeconvector asked: Hi Aldrin! :) Would you know where I can get a copy of that book?

Hi, Nash! I presume you’re talking about Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield. I learned of the book from Johnine, who had been looking for a copy of it and asked me if I happened to have chanced upon one. I wasn’t aware of the book prior to her asking me about it since I hardly ever browse the biography and memoirs sections (I’m not so crazy about nonfiction), but it wasn’t long before I found a copy at Fully Booked Gateway—and bought it. Hehe. Then I looked for more copies in other bookstores, and the cheapest I found was in NBS Robinsons Galleria. I immediately informed Johnine, and soon enough she went there and got hold of it. If I’m not mistaken, only one copy is left, and it may just be yours. :)

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it.
J.D. Salinger, alluding to himself in The Catcher in the Rye

@outtosavetheworld

outtosavetheworld:

kevinlovesmasha:

vpg:

Musical scoring is one thing you’d most appreciate in this film - of course Hans Zimmer does his job amazingly well. Other than the perfectly consistent cinematography and well-established script, all you’d comment on is Rachel McAdams’ lack of accent.

Guy Ritchie did an amazing job directing this film and he knows when and where to punch the action, the drama, the sarcasm (I found it humorously perfect), and the suspense. Though ranked atop an intellectual ladder, the whole story needs a little brain into watching making its audience a little more active in thinking how the story would unfold unlike other films that leave you sitting wondering what’ll happen next, Sherlock Holmes will pick you up from your seat the moment your back touches the backrest. It will definitely get you biting your nails while thinking about the whole plot.

The cinematography and production design worked wonders for the film - as a viewer, I was too engulfed into the film that for a few seconds I though I lived during the old English era.

Robert Downey Jr. showed great acting (as always) and expressed Sherlock’s intellect and wit very naturally, while Jude Law as the ever loyal sidekick Watson did a fabulous job in getting through the sarcasm in the character and did an amazing job in making an impression that is huge enough to get attention but subtle to not overpower Holmes. But the third major cast in mind did an average job, Rachel McAdams somehow lacked in the English accent but the way she moves is as graceful as always.

All in all I give it ★★★★★ over ★★★★★

I’m going to watch this movie on Tuesday night with some friendssss! :)

Dear Mae, we are so watching this, kay?

(On a sidenote: I used to follow @vpg before - for three days up to one week. But as it turned out, I didn’t like the too much chatting on the dash [well, I chat alright, but not like ym-chat] plus, something I have psychoanalyzed about too famous guys on the internet, especially those who sort-of-look-good. But as far as I can remember, he’s pretty smart and very talented. Look here, this movie review sounds like a movie review - albeit more detached at that. Hmmm. With sort of the things we hear as always or like those motherhood statements and generalized movie aspects? Hehe. I like mine with pure sarcasm and writer’s personality. Hence, I wouldn’t trade @dreamsofelectricsheep’s movie reviews for anything. Dude, whatever happened to you?!)

Hi, Hazel! Gee, thanks! And to answer your question: This is what happened to me. You can read my reviews (t)here. Follow us now! :)

The actors wear track-suits of chestnut velvet. On their feet are light strutted hooves, about four inches high, set on metal horse-shoes. On their hands are gloves of the same colour. On their heads are tough masks made of alternating bands of silver wire and leather; their eyes are outlined by leather blinkers. The actors’ own heads are seen beneath them: no attempt should be made to conceal them.

Any literalism which could suggest the cosy familiarity of a domestic animal—or worse, a pantomime horse—should be avoided. The actors should never crouch on all fours, or even bend forward. They must always—except on the one occasion where Nugget is ridden—stand upright, as if the body of the horse extended invisibly behind them. Animal effect must be created entirely mimetically, through the use of legs, knees, neck, face, and the turn of the head which can move the mask above it through all the gestures of equine wariness and pride. Great care must also be taken that the masks are put on before the audience with very precise timing—the actors watching each other, so that the masking has an exact and ceremonial effect.

Peter Shaffer’s note on The Horses in Equus
"As I read Keats’s letters (who spells badly like me), I came across his theory of negative capability: an endorsement of mystery, of developing your capacity to accept mystery without ‘irritable searching after fact and reason’. I began to realize that perhaps poetry is not so much in need of understanding as loving, or being enchanted, seduced, intrigued and awed. Like eating something delicious, you don’t need to know how it was made; all you need to do is enjoy it."
"What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it."
@outtosavetheworld
"

The actors wear track-suits of chestnut velvet. On their feet are light strutted hooves, about four inches high, set on metal horse-shoes. On their hands are gloves of the same colour. On their heads are tough masks made of alternating bands of silver wire and leather; their eyes are outlined by leather blinkers. The actors’ own heads are seen beneath them: no attempt should be made to conceal them.

Any literalism which could suggest the cosy familiarity of a domestic animal—or worse, a pantomime horse—should be avoided. The actors should never crouch on all fours, or even bend forward. They must always—except on the one occasion where Nugget is ridden—stand upright, as if the body of the horse extended invisibly behind them. Animal effect must be created entirely mimetically, through the use of legs, knees, neck, face, and the turn of the head which can move the mask above it through all the gestures of equine wariness and pride. Great care must also be taken that the masks are put on before the audience with very precise timing—the actors watching each other, so that the masking has an exact and ceremonial effect.

"

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