-Because my brain hates reading sentences, it regularly sums up everything in one word, and sticks with it. I will share the word for this film with you, gentle civilians: dignified.-Oh, sure, Paul Schneider is brilliantly boorish (boorishly brilliant?), albeit with a sketchy Scottish accent and what appears to be a sympathy pregnancy belt. And, yes, I'd normally be ripping on it as shameless Oscar bait, had it won any Oscars. But is it because it hadn't, because I love the cast, the cinematography, or that I'm just in a mood, that I don't hate this movie at all?
-Who else cried when Fanny (Abbie Cornish, who should've kicked Sandra Bullock's ass at the Oscars) got word of John Keat's (Ben Whishaw) death, one either too painful or too contrived to show on screen (he, in fact, never appears after leaving for Rome, save for a brief shot of him staring out a window all soulful and junk)? Her screaming and sobbing in hysterics, at a loss for breath and crying for her mother, juxtaposed immediately by her quietly sitting at a table, sewing. Things shouldn't be allowed to be so sad.
-Abbie Cornish, who manages to convey the instant love Fanny feels for John without making it trite or silly.
-Seriously, Ben Whishaw is so skinny, I worry. Here, he rivals the delicacy of the film itself (I'm almost afraid to criticise it, I fear it'll snap into dust at the mere whisper of a harsh word), every walk, every smile, every line spoken soft. But you can never get inside of his head (this is Fanny's point of view, after all), and that might be its fault.
-He and Fanny never pick a side of masculine or feminine roles in the chaste relationship. John is a feminine guy, intelligent but easily distracted, burdened but never showing it, while Fanny is a masculine girl, opinionated and fearless and in half-awe of Keats.
-Paul Schneider rocks. His and Fanny's verbal sparring are the highlights, surely.
-Never been a fan of Jane Campion, but I'll make an exception.