In the New Yorker...

[Aloysius J. Gleek]

John, I must say that your review is spot on and far superior to Edelstein's. Thanks so much for sharing it here!  

Agreed!  

Meryl and Katherine, Thank You! so much, but--Oops! The New Yorker 's Perversely Contrarian Beard (Richard Brody)  Begs (begs??) to Differ!



"All that’s missing is the Web site offering Elio-and-Oliver tours through the Italian countryside, with a stopover at the Perlman villa. Instead of gestural or pictorial evocations of intimacy, the performers act out the script’s emotions with a bland literalness that—due to the mechanistic yet vague direction—is often laughable, as in the case of the pseudo-James Dean-like grimacing that Luca Guadagnino coaxes from Timothée Chalamet."



 
 
 


https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/12/04/call-me-by-your-name-an-erotic-triumph


Richard Brody
The Empty, Sanitized Intimacy of
Call Me by Your Name

By Richard Brody   November 28, 2017 4:00PM


In “Call Me by Your Name,” starring Armie Hammer and Timothée Chalamet, the director Luca Guadagnino displays no real interest
in the characters, only in the story. Photograph by Sayombhu Mukdeeprom / Sony Pictures Classics



Luca Guadagnino’s new film, “Call Me by Your Name,” may be progressive in its appropriately admiring depiction of a loving and erotic relationship between two young men, but its storytelling is backward. It is well known, and therefore no spoiler to say, that it’s a story, set in 1983, about a summer fling between a graduate student named Oliver (Armie Hammer), who’s in his mid-twenties, and Elio (Timothée Chalamet), the seventeen-year-old son of the professor with whom Oliver is working and at whose lavish estate in northern Italy he’s staying. Half a year after their brief relationship, Oliver and Elio speak, seemingly for the first time in many months. Elio affirms that his parents were aware of the relationship and offered their approval, to which Oliver responds, “You’re so lucky; my father would have carted me off to a correctional facility.” And that’s the premise of the film: in order to have anything like a happy adolescence and avoid the sexual repression and frustration that seem to be the common lot, it’s essential to pick the right parents. The movie is about, to put it plainly, being raised right.

If Guadagnino had any real interest in his characters, what Elio and Oliver say about their parents near the end of the movie would have been among the many confidences that they share throughout. Long before the two become lovers, they’re friends—somewhat wary friends, who try to express their desire but, in the meantime, spend lots of time together eating meals and taking strolls, on bike rides and errands—and the story is inconceivable without the conversation that they’d have had as their relationship developed. And yet, as the movie is made, what they actually say to each other is hardly seen or heard.

They’re both intellectuals. Oliver is an archeologist and a classicist with formidable philological skills and philosophical training; he reads Stendhal for fun, Heraclitus for work, and writes about Heidegger. Elio, who’s trilingual (in English, French, and Italian) is a music prodigy who transcribes by ear music by Schoenberg and improvises, at the piano, a Liszt-like arrangement of a piece by Bach and a Busoni-like arrangement of the Liszt-like arrangement, and he’s literature-smitten as well. But for Guadagnino it’s enough for both of them to post their intellectual bona fides on the screen like diplomas. The script (written by James Ivory) treats their intelligence like a club membership, their learning like membership cards, their intellectualism like a password—and, above all, their experience like baggage that’s checked at the door.

What their romantic lives have been like prior to their meeting, they never say. Is Oliver is the first man with whom Elio has had an intimate relationship? Has Elio been able to acknowledge, even to himself, his attraction to other men, or is the awakening of desire for a male a new experience for him? What about for Oliver? Though Elio and Oliver are also involved with women in the course of the summer, they don’t ever discuss their erotic histories, their desires, their inhibitions, their hesitations, their joys, their heartbreaks. They’re the most tacit of friends and the most silent of lovers—or, rather, in all likelihood they’re voluble and free-spoken, as intellectually and personally and verbally intimate as they are physically intimate, as passionate about their love lives as about the intellectual fires that drive them onward—but the movie doesn’t show them sharing these things. Guadagnino can’t be bothered to imagine (or to urge Ivory to imagine) what they might actually talk about while sitting together alone. Scenes deliver some useful information to push the plot ahead and then cut out just as they get rolling, because Guadagnino displays no interest in the characters, only in the story.

For that matter, Guadagnino offers almost nothing of Elio’s parents’ talk about whatever might be going on with their son and Oliver. Not that the parents (played by Michael Stuhlbarg and Amira Casar) are absentee—they’re present throughout, and there are even scenes featuring them apart from both Elio and Oliver, talking politics and movies with friends, but there isn’t a scene of them discussing their son’s relationship. They don’t express anything about it at all, whether approval or fear or even practical concern regarding the reactions of the neighbors. The characters of “Call Me by Your Name” are reduced to animated ciphers, as if Guadagnino feared that detailed practical discussions, or displays of freedom of thought and action, might dispel the air of romantic mystery and silent passion that he conjures in lieu of relationships. The elision of the characters’ mental lives renders “Call Me by Your Name” thin and empty, renders it sluggish; the languid pace of physical action is matched by the languid pace of ideas, and the result is an enervating emptiness.

There are two other characters whose near-total silence and self-effacement is a mark of Guadagnino’s blinkered and sanitized point of view—two domestic employees, the middle-aged cook and maid Mafalda (Vanda Capriolo) and the elderly groundskeeper and handyman Anchise (Antonio Rimoldi), who work for Elio’s family, the Perlmans. What do they think, and what do they say? They’re working for a Jewish family—the Perlmans, Elio tells Oliver (who’s also Jewish), are the only Jewish family in the region, even the only Jewish family ever to have set foot in the village—and they observe a brewing bond between Elio and Oliver. Do they care at all? Does the acceptance of this homosexual relationship exist in a bubble within the realm of intellectuals, and does that tolerance depend upon the silencing of the working class? Is there any prejudice anywhere in the area where the story takes place?

The one hint that there might be any at all comes in a brief scene of Elio and Oliver sharing a furtive caress in a shadowed arcade, when they brush hands and Oliver says, “I would kiss you if I could.” (That pregnant line, typically, ends the scene.) Even there, where the setting—the sight lines between the town at large and the character’s standpoint—is of dramatic significance, Guadagnino has no interest in showing a broad view of the location, because of his bland sensibility and flimsy directorial strategy, because of his relentless delivery of images that have the superficial charm of picture postcards. Adding a reverse angle or a broad pan shot on a setting is something that Guadagnino can’t be bothered with, because it would subordinate the scene’s narrow evocations to complexities that risk puncturing the mood just as surely as any substantive discussion might do.

To be sure, there’s much that a good movie can offer beside smart talk and deep confidences; for that matter, the development of characters is a grossly overrated quality in movies, and some of the best directors often do little of it. There’s also a realm of symbol, of gesture, of ideas, of emotions that arise from careful attention to images or a brusque gestural energy; that’s where Guadagnino plants the movie, and that’s where the superficiality of his artistry emerges all the more clearly. He has no sense of positioning, of composition, of rhythm, but he’s not free with his camera, either; his actors are more or less in a constant proscenium of a frame that displays their action without offering a point of view.

The intimacy of Elio and Oliver is matched by very little cinematic intimacy. There are a few brief images of bodies intertwined, some just-offscreen or cannily framed sex, but no real proximity, almost no closeups, no tactile sense, no point of view of either character toward the other. Guadagnino rarely lets himself get close to the characters, because he seems to wish never to lose sight of the expensive architecture, the lavish furnishings, the travelogue locations, the manicured lighting, the accoutrements that fabricate the sense of “order and beauty, luxury, calm, and sensuality.” All that’s missing is the Web site offering Elio-and-Oliver tours through the Italian countryside, with a stopover at the Perlman villa. Instead of gestural or pictorial evocations of intimacy, the performers act out the script’s emotions with a bland literalness that—due to the mechanistic yet vague direction—is often laughable, as in the case of the pseudo-James Dean-like grimacing that Guadagnino coaxes from Chalamet. Even the celebrated awkward dance that Oliver performs at an outdoor night spot was more exhilarating when performed to a Romanian song by an anonymous young man at a computer screen. Hammer is game, playful, and openhearted, but the scene as filmed is calculatedly cute and disingenuous. (Such faults in performance fall upon directors, not because they pull puppet strings but because they create the environment and offer the guidance from which the performances result, and then they choose what stays in the movie.)

There are moments of tenderness—telegraphed from miles away but nonetheless moving, as when Oliver grasps Elio’s bare shoulder and then makes light of it, when he reaches out to touch Elio’s hand, when Elio slides his bare foot over Oliver’s—that are simply and bittersweetly affecting. They’re in keeping with the story of a love affair of mutual discovery that is sheltered from social circumstances, from prejudice, from hostility, from side-eyes or religious dogma—and that nevertheless involves heartbreak. It’s a story about romantic melancholy and a sense of loss as a crucial element of maturation and self-discovery, alongside erotic exploration, fulfillment, and first love. The idea of the film is earnest, substantial, moving, and quite beautiful—in its idea, its motivation, its motivating principle. It offers, in theory, a sort of melancholy romantic realism. But, as rendered by Guadagnino, it remains at the level of a premise, a pitch, an index card.

Near the end of the film, Professor Perlman delivers a monologue to Elio that concentrates the movie’s sap of intellectualized understanding and empathy into a rich and potent Oscar syrup. The speech is moving and wise; Stuhlbarg’s delivery of it, in inflection and gesture, is finely burnished. Here, Guadagnino’s direction is momentarily incisive, in a way that it has not been throughout the film, perhaps because the professor’s academicized liberalism toward matters of sex is the one thing that truly excites the director. The entire film is backloaded—and it’s nearly emptied out in order for him to lay his cards, finally, on the table.


Richard Brody began writing for  The New Yorker in 1999, and has contributed articles about the directors François Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard, and Samuel Fuller. He writes about movies in his blog for newyorker.com. He is the author of “Everything Is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean-Luc Godard.”   newyorker.com   https://www.newyorker.com/culture/richard-brody

[Meryl]

What can I say? Brody is a sad little man with a withered soul.     

[southendmd]

What can I say? Brody is a sad little man with a withered soul.     

OMG, what a sad little cretin.

This read like a Borowitz report!

Why, after Anthony Lane's glowing review, does the New Yorker need to publish this rubbish?

[Front-Ranger]

It seems like the critic has something against the director. Hidden baggage. 

[Aloysius J. Gleek]

It seems like the critic has something against the director. Hidden baggage. 

What can I say? Brody is a sad little man with a withered soul.     

This read like a Borowitz report!

 

[serious crayons]

I read Brody only occasionally, but he does seem to frequently take, as you say, John, a contrarian view. Like, "Oh, they're all saying this about that? I'll show them!" In fact, that's probably when and why I read him, because I see some reference to him sharply disagreeing with others or puncturing overhype, so I look it up and frankly sometimes I agree with his take. He also has the luxury of writing on more leisurely deadlines than Anthony Lane; he doesn't have to get his review in just as the film is opening, or to review every big film, so he can wait until everyone else weighs in and then deliver his verdict.

In this case, not having seen the movie yet, I can't judge for myself. But he does seem at odds with everybody else in the the critic community.

[Jeff Wrangler]

OK, I've got another question about New Yorker usage.

In Steve Coll's editorial in the November 13 issue, I found this statement:

At a minimum, as Representative Adam Schiff, the senior Democrat on the House Intelligence Committee, put it, "the Russians mounted what could be described as an independent expenditure campaign on Mr. Trump's behalf."

So, I thought--or I was taught--that when a direct quotation is a complete sentence in itself (or something like that), you capitalize the first letter of the first word. Thus:

...Schiff ... put it, "The Russians mounted. ..."

On the other hand, if you write the sentence this way:

... Schiff ... put it that "the Russians mounted. ..."

Then you don't capitalize the the. I think I've seen other examples like this recently.

I wonder what's up? Is it just The New Yorker, or have the rules changed?

[serious crayons]

Aside from the perennially annoying habit of putting the verb, "put it," after a long string identifying the source, I don't think that would bother me.

On the one hand, it might not have been a whole sentence. Schiff might have said "The very least we know for sure -- and I tell you this with utter certainty -- is that the Russians mounted ..." So in that case "The Russians" was not the beginning of the sentence and the writer paraphrased the first part.

But I also don't think a sentence fragment quote requires "that." I would be fine with

"At a minimum, some Trump campaign spending originated, as Schiff put it, 'with those zany Russians.'"

Meanwhile, throwing a "that" in the sentence as is, as in your example, would strike me as wordy and unnecessary, even out of place. "At a minimum, Schiff put it that "the Russians mounted ..." I think it reads better without the "that."

[Jeff Wrangler]

Aside from the perennially annoying habit of putting the verb, "put it," after a long string identifying the source, I don't think that would bother me.

That is annoying. but in this case it doesn't bother me because what comes before "put it" is shorter than these things sometimes are.

On the one hand, it might not have been a whole sentence. Schiff might have said "The very least we know for sure -- and I tell you this with utter certainty -- is that the Russians mounted ..." So in that case "The Russians" was not the beginning of the sentence and the writer paraphrased the first part.

I'm not following you here. Surely you aren't suggesting paraphrasing something and passing it off as a direct quotation? 

But I also don't think a sentence fragment quote requires "that." I would be fine with "At a minimum, some Trump campaign spending originated, as Schiff put it, 'with those zany Russians.'"

I completely disagree with you on the "that," but maybe that's just the way I was taught by various English composition teachers, including one who was also my journalism teacher.

On the other hand, I think that your rewrite is fine. It's perfectly grammatical and correctly uses lower case for the "w" in "with." "With those zany Russians" is just a phrase, not a whole sentence. "With" doesn't need to be capitalized.

Meanwhile, throwing a "that" in the sentence as is, as in your example, would strike me as wordy and unnecessary, even out of place. "At a minimum, Schiff put it that "the Russians mounted ..." I think it reads better without the "that."

I'm not following you here, either. You're saying it reads better without a "that," but you're putting in a "that."  I if you're going to take out the "that," then the sentence should read,"'At a minimum', as Schiff put it, 'the Russians mounted. ...'"

I note that Steve Coll is dean of the Columbia University School of Journalism, so he presumably knows what he's doing. However, I remain convinced that  "The" needs to be capitalized. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it.

And I'm blaming TNY rather than Coll.

[Jeff Wrangler]

Aside from the perennially annoying habit of putting the verb, "put it," after a long string identifying the source, I don't think that would bother me.

"T'was the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse," Clement Clarke Moore, clergyman and poet, said.

OK, I guess that's not strictly about TNY. ...