are you still awake?
tis late, we know.
everyone is sleeping in the apartment building over here.
our candles are burning brightly for we have stayed up – warm, cosy, under the blankets and smooth sheets – to watch Bright Star.
we Thought we had told you about our experience (not quite meeting for we never shook hands or embraced on both cheeks as per our usual definition of Meeting someone) of seeing Jane Campion speak at the Director’s Guild in Manhattan.
but it must have been before we became teamgloria………….how curious that there were Movie Screenings that happened before we could tell you about them.
To whom did we tell before?
We remembered feeling Utterly Light-headed and dreamy and full of promise and hope and poetry and bluebell woods and calico petticoats.
We did ask a Question (we always enjoy asking Directors a question for we are terribly Keen to learn, for our own future exploits and excitements).
yes. you’re right. a few of our favo(u)rite actors are indeed present in this movie. the gifted and lovely Ms. Cornish, Mr. Whishaw (whom we are eagerly awaiting in the second series of The Hour – if you scroll down this post – ahem – what appears to be a Rather Long and enthusiastic post, you’ll see a moment from that script and our own musings therein) and Mr. Schneider (his performance in The Beloved impressed us greatly and was No. 10 in our list of summer movies during our hiatus from teamgloria in case you want a recap here).
Alas we cannot recall the Question that we asked Jane Campion now (may we call her Jane? – yet we feel sure that she has a cool nickname that one would use but only Know if one truly knew her).
at the screening at the Director’s Guild.
Something about Hampstead and England and how-she-researched and why and wherefore and oh – let’s have some poetry.
a little something from Keats?
lie back on the pale apricot satin chaise and tea shall be arriving shortly while Mr. Keats reads to us.
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 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.