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Andrew Garfield in ‘Breathe’ – Variety. Practically a household name if not a household face, Andy Serkis may have done more than anyone in contemporary film to revise and expand perceptions of what constitutes screen acting. Whether as slippery no- man’s- creature Gollum or mighty chimpanzee warlord Caesar, his detailed, digitally abetted characterizations have effectively divorced the ideas of performance and physical presence, making the stage- trained thespian an unlikely flag- bearer for cinema’s more synthetic possibilities.

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That future- minded reputation is scarcely in evidence, however, in “Breathe,” Serkis’ surprisingly fusty directorial debut. A soft square slab of British heritage filmmaking, bathed in buttery light nearly as golden as the awards it’s targeting, this earnestly romantic biopic of odds- beating polio patient Robin Cavendish and his unwavering wife, Diana, keeps its eyes moist and its upper lip stiff to the last — but its sweeping inspirational gestures rarely reach all the way to the heart. Primarily a showcase for stars Andrew Garfield and Claire Foy, “Breathe” allows both to essay the kind of old- school, hand- on- heart human emoting that Serkis himself (who stays out of the ensemble here) rarely gets to do on camera. On the other hand, one can see how the reigning king of disembodied performance would be drawn to direct Garfield in a role played almost entirely from the neck up: As Cavendish, a spirited tea broker suddenly and irreversibly paralyzed with polio at the age of 2. A big performance on a very contained canvas, it’s polished and presented as the kind of tour- de- force that won Eddie Redmayne an Oscar for “The Theory of Everything” — a film that could serve as a template for Serkis’s debut, though beside “Breathe’s” consistently lovestruck perspective and lush album of Robert Richardson- lensed sunsets, it looks positively gritty by comparison. Produced by Cavendish’s own son Jonathan, the integrity of the project is beyond reproach, yet a slight sense of twee artifice creeps in from the introductory title card — not “Based on a true story,” but, more coyly, “What follows is true …,” as Nitin Sawhney’s thick, tinkly score strikes a matching note of whimsy. The opening scene, awash in cricket whites, straw boaters and cream teas, plays less as biographical scene- setting than as a halcyon ode to bygone England, as Cavendish meets young, comely Diana Blacker on a village green one swell summer’s day in 1.

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William Nicholson’s script wastes no time setting a fairytale romance into motion: “I just know this is it,” Diana muses minutes into proceedings, though we’ve scarcely got to know the two perfect lovers just yet. Before we know it they’re married, flown off to a picture- book vision of colonial Kenya, and slow- dancing to Bing Crosby’s “True Love” under caramel African skies, though beyond their mutual wholesome attractiveness and good humor, neither character has come into focus. If Serkis’s aim is to conjure an unsustainable idyll ahead of looming tragedy, job done. Yet far from turning to shades of rain once Cavendish is suddenly struck by polio and given mere months to live, “Breathe” maintains an unexpectedly breezy, on- the- bright- side tone — the filmmaking itself channeling the briskly British keep- calm- and- carry- on pluck that Diana, in particular, mustered to see the couple through years of adversity.

You’re not dead, and that’s that,” she admonishes her husband in spit- spot fashion, like a more doe- eyed Mary Poppins, while Cavendish stoically describes his predicament as “a bit of a bugger.” A year of confinement in a draconian London hospital, as the patient struggles to regain powers of communication, is depicted with suitable solemnity, though his lowermost anguish is kept to a minimum. Once he and Diana defy doctor’s orders and leave the hospital, settling in a dreamy but supposedly ramshackle country pile, the film’s emotional trajectory is strictly upward, punctuated by simultaneous triumphs of mechanics and the spirit: Handily outliving the doctors’ prognosis, Cavendish and his friend Teddy Hall (Hugh Bonneville) develop a groundbreaking wheelchair with attached respirator, embarking on a course of life- enhancing advancements for polio sufferers worldwide. In “Breathe,” there is nary a setback that can’t be turned into a moment of teaching or cheer: Even a potentially fatal technical failure while holidaying in remote rural Spain is remedied with a communal fiesta, flamenco dancing taking the edge of a near- death experience. Elsewhere, the family dog accidentally unplugging Cavendish’s respirator is played for droll slapstick, timed to the patient’s short, gasping breaths; further, rather extraneous comic relief comes from a digitally doubled Tom Hollander as Diana’s sweetly doltish twin brothers Bloggs and David. Distracting as it is, the seamless technological gimmickry enabling this sideshow performance does bear the stamp of Serkis’s more forward- thinking thespian agenda.)On the one hand, it’s refreshing to see Serkis and Nicholson blithely skating around the most turgid extremes of the disease- of- the- week genre.

But as decades go by — Cavendish passed away in 1. Breathe” kicks into a sterner gear, complete with noble, formal speechifying and considerations of euthanasia, the film’s emotional foundation feels a bit thin. To the end, we know little of the Cavendishes but their most laudable virtues of compassion and resilience: No surprise, given that the production is most palpably and affectionately a family affair. But no marriage this courageous under fire can have endured without moments of complication and conflict that are glossed over in Nicholson’s script, and Garfield and Foy struggle to carve out many edges or angles in their personable performances. Consolidating her English- rose screen persona after playing the young Elizabeth II in TV’s “The Crown,” Foy practically makes Felicity Jones look like Béatrice Dalle.)What’s left is the pleasant, well- turned- out precis of a story one is certain has deeper pain and poetry to offer, executed with heartfelt commitment to the cause but not a world of detail, either human or environmental: Even Robert Richardson’s typically lacquered cinematography seems to cut corners, casting East Africa, Spain and rural Oxfordshire in much the same toasty light.

Song of Myself. Won't you help support Day. Poems? 1. 81. 9- 1. I celebrate myself, and sing myself. And what I assume you shall assume. For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul. I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air. Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their. I, now thirty- seven years old in perfect health begin. Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance. Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten.

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard. Nature without check with original energy. Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with.

Nuklearna wojna niszczy cywilizację na planecie. Po wielu latach ze statku kosmicznego z ocalałymi ludźmi zostaje wysłana na Ziemię grupa nieletnich. 1 I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul. Issuu is a digital publishing platform that makes it simple to publish magazines, catalogs, newspapers, books, and more online. Easily share your publications and get. 07 zgłoś się (1976-1987) 07-Ghost (2009) 10 dni, by przeżyć / Ed Stafford: Left For Dead (2017) 100 Questions (2010) 1000 złych uczynków (2008). A soft square slab of British heritage filmmaking, bathed in buttery light nearly as golden as the awards it's targeting.

I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it. The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the. It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it.

I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked. I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath. Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love- root, silk- thread, crotch and vine. My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing. The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and. The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of.

A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms. The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag. The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields.

The feeling of health, the full- noon trill, the song of me rising. Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of. You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions. You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through.

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me. You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self. I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the.

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. There was never any more inception than there is now. Nor any more youth or age than there is now. And will never be any more perfection than there is now. Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. Urge and urge and urge.

Always the procreant urge of the world. Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and.

Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life. To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well. Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical. I and this mystery here we stand. Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen.

Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age. Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they. I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean. Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be. I am satisfied- -I see, dance, laugh, sing.

As the hugging and loving bed- fellow sleeps at my side through the night. Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with. Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes. That they turn from gazing after and down the road. And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent.

Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead? Trippers and askers surround me. People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and. I live in, or the nation. The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new. My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues. The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love.

The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill- doing or loss. Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news. These come to me days and nights and go from me again. But they are not the Me myself. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am. Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary.

Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest. Looking with side- curved head curious what will come next. Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with. I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you. And you must not be abased to the other. Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat.

Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not. Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning. How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me.

And parted the shirt from my bosom- bone, and plunged your tongue. And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet. Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass. And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own.

And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own. And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women. And that a kelson of the creation is love. And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields.

And brown ants in the little wells beneath them. And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and. A child said What is the grass? How could I answer the child?

I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord. A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt. Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see. Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic. And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones. Growing among black folks as among white.

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass.