Despite one of my best friends/most astute film critics I know calling it "a coffee table book of a movie" (and though I hated to admit it, I agreed) Jane Campion's Bright Star remains one of my favorite films. When I need to calm down or just generally feel better, I put it on while I try to sleep or just watch on these frequently rainy days. I watch for the scene with the billowing curtain, for when they sweep the tattered butterflies into the dust bin, most especially for all the moments when they read Keats's poems and letters.
I suppose that's why I made my own scrap book out of Jane Campion's scrap book. Her site is now defunct, but it seems I'm not the only one who loved it's dreamy moods. Something about the fact that the site no longer exists seems fitting, doesn't it? Makes it all the more romantic? I think Keats himself would have appreciated that kind of ephermera. The same guy whose tomb says "here lies one whose name was writ in water."
As I contemplate a lot of big decisions coming up for me on this Mother's Day in the US, I wish I had a bit more time to daydream to Bright Star. At least this work and wind in St Andrews will keep me busy and thoughts of mothers at bay.