Maria’s review published on Letterboxd:
I loved the equal weight given to John Keats' poetry and Fanny Brawne's sewing, how it shows the difference between manual and intellectual labour, a difference that is both concrete (John spends his time staring at walls, while Fanny constantly uses her hands) and socially constructed (Fanny's creations are considered lesser—less valuable, less creative, less interesting—because they're traditionally women's art). It's a film that revels in the senses—the touch of fabric, of a needle and thread, of rain and butterflies, of caressing a cat, of a hand touching another; the smell of flowers and grass and snow and wind; the sound of nature unfolding, of words, of poetry, of a lover's voice; the taste of scones, of tea, of lips; and the act of seeing, which goes without saying. By its own logic—"a poem needs understanding through the senses [...] it is an experience beyond thought"—the film becomes a poem. I don't really know where I'm going with this or what else to say, except that it's such a beautiful film, one that perfectly captures what makes poetry so magical.