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Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Aloysius J. Gleek:
--- Quote from: southendmd on September 22, 2017, 09:01:21 am ---I'm not sure I could handle the cognitive dissonance of hearing Armie reading the story, which is from Elio's point of view.
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--- Quote from: Aloysius J. Gleek on September 22, 2017, 09:58:59 am ---You know, I'm not only totally ok with it, I love it, because I believe Oliver is speaking the words back to Elio, the words Elio has just first spoken. I mean, how Call Me by Your Name is that??
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--- Quote from: southendmd on September 22, 2017, 12:15:19 pm ---Excellent point! (But still...)
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Think of it this way; as gifted, as talented our boy Timmy Chalamet is, his (post--??) millennial speech (gabble?) is not exactly the greatest instrument to voice Aciman's (Elio's) precise (not to say pretentious) torrent of fevered, logorrheic eloquence. But Oliver (I mean Armey!)--I mean, GOD, that measured, honeyed blond baritone is perfect!!
And--I wasn't at all wrong in saying Armey is a 21st century doppelganger of George Peppard-- LOOK! but especially LISTEN! to the video immediately below. Talk about honeyed blond baritone!
The strong, lovely, logical, totally-understandable-but-never-overly-enunciated accent is again, perfect, and it sounds exactly like Armey (although, in the clip, Peppard IS slightly overly enunciating by mocking, in a playful way, Tiffany's, John McGiver's lovely salesclerk, the jokey situation). By the way, can you guess that I have become a rabid Armey fan? Ok, it's true, I cop to it. ::) :laugh: :laugh:
(Apropos of nothing in particular, re ONE of the three distinct accents in this great scene at Tiffany's in Breakfast at Tiffany's: the accent of wonderful character actor, John McGiver (a born and raised New Yorker who went to Regis High School on 84th Street)--people now disparage 'Mid-Atlantic' accents from the 30's, 40's, 50's (and yes, 60's and 70's) as being artificial or stagey or contrived, but when I was a child (born in 1954) there were a lot of New Yorkers who really spoke like that--little old ladies, rich people, salesclerks like John McGiver, school teachers, EDUCATED people, but they are all dead now, NOBODY talks like that anymore, more's the pity.)
[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rVFi-yeTe5g[/youtube]
Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961)
George Peppard, Audrey Hepburn
& John McGiver
Published on Oct 08, 2011
--- Quote from: Aloysius J. Gleek on September 13, 2017, 07:47:17 pm ---Oh my LORD, it just struck me--
You know who Armie looks like?
(Looks like? And sounds like--
that voice!!)
George Peppard! :o
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--- Quote from: Aloysius J. Gleek on September 22, 2017, 08:41:44 am ---
SEPT 21, 2017
Elio and Oliver's first night together, as read by Armie Hammer
[on Soundcloud NOW]
(Call Me By Your Name audiobook drops Oct 3.)
CLICK HERE TO HEAR:
https://soundcloud.com/macaudio-2/call-me-by-your-name-by-andre-aciman-read-by-armie-hammer
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Aloysius J. Gleek:
The Semiotics of the Bathing Suit
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Semiotics
--- Quote from: Aloysius J. Gleek on September 09, 2017, 07:15:57 am ---
https://www.garow.me/media/1571539586949360017_4225893710
--- End quote ---
--- Quote from: Aloysius J. Gleek on September 18, 2017, 08:51:28 pm ---CALLMEBYYOURNAMEFANART
https://twitter.com/CuZn34
by @CuZn34
https://twitter.com/hashtag/cmbyn
https://twitter.com/CuZn34
He had, it took me a while to realize, four personalities depending on which bathing suit he was wearing. Knowing which to expect gave me the illusion of a slight advantage. Red: bold, set in his ways, very grown up, almost gruff and ill-tempered--stay away. Yellow: sprightly, buoyant, funny, not without barbs--don't give in too easily; might turn to Red in no time. Green, which he seldom wore: acquiescent, eager to learn, eager to speak, sunny--why wasn't he always like this? Blue: the afternoon he stepped into my room from the balcony, the day he massaged my shoulder, or when he picked up my glass and placed it right next to me.
Today was Red: he was hasty, determined, snappy.
CALLMEBYYOURNAMEFANART by @CuZn34
https://twitter.com/CuZn34
Sep 16 2017 11 Likes
#CMBYN #CallMeByYourName #elio #elio perlman #oliver #ulliva #armie hammer #timothée chalamet
#andré aciman #book #novel #luca guadagnino #film #movie #movies #film
#lgbt #lgbtmovie #sonyclassics #oscar
#painting #art #artist #fanart #twitter
#laterpeaches #🍑
#Red
#later!
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Aloysius J. Gleek:
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/06/garden/06Domestic.html?mcubz=3
Domestic Lives
The Day He Knew Would Come
By ANDRÉ ACIMAN
JAN. 5, 2011
Sometimes the writer and his sons would invent errands to avoid reaching home too soon. A favorite was a visit to the
Christmas tree vendors on 110th Street. Credit Richard Perry/The New York Times
THE doors to their bedrooms are always shut, their bathroom always empty. On weekends, when you wake up in the morning, the kitchen is as clean as you left it last night. No one touched anything; no one stumbled in after partying till the wee hours to heat up leftovers, or cook a frozen pizza, or leave a mess on the counter while improvising a sandwich. The boys are away now.
Two decades ago there were two of us in our Upper West Side home. Then we were many. Now, we’re back to two again.
I knew it would happen this way. I kept joking about it. Everyone joked. Joking was my way of rehearsing their absence, of immunizing myself like King Mithridates, who feared being poisoned and learned to take a tiny dose of poison on the sly each day.
Even in my happiest moments I knew I was rehearsing. Waiting for my eldest son’s school bus, standing on the corner of 110th Street and Broadway at 6:20 p.m. while leaning against the same mailbox with a warm cup of coffee each time — all this was rehearsal. Even straining to spot the yellow bus as far up as 116th Street and thinking it was there when in fact I hadn’t seen it at all was part of rehearsing. Everything was being logged, nothing forgotten.
When the bus would finally appear, the driver, an impatient Vietnam veteran, would dash down Broadway, either squeaking to a halt if the light was red before 110th or hurtling across to 109th to let some of the students out. The bus, from Horace Mann, trailed the one from the Riverdale Country School by a few seconds every evening. I’d remember that, just as I’d remember the reedy voice of the beggar squatting outside Starbucks, or my son’s guarded squirm when I’d hug him in view of the schoolmates who watched from the school bus window.
By late November it was already dark at 6 p.m. As always, coffee, mailbox, traffic. Our ritual never changed, even in the cold. Together, we’d walk down 110th Street and talk. Sometimes we needed to buy something along the way, which made our time together last longer. Sometimes we made up errands to avoid reaching home too soon, especially after Thanksgiving when all three sons and I would walk over to the Canadian Christmas tree vendors and chat them up about prices. And sometimes I’d tell my eldest that it helped to talk about the day when we wouldn’t be able to take these walks together. Of course, he’d pooh-pooh me each time, as I would pooh-pooh his own anxieties about college. He liked rituals. I liked rehearsing. Rituals are when we wish to repeat what has already happened, rehearsals when we repeat what we fear might yet occur. Maybe the two are one and the same, our way to parley and haggle with time.
Sometimes, in winter, when it’s dark, and the feel, the lights and the sound of the city can so easily remind me of the bus stop at 6:20 p.m., I’ll still head out to 110th Street and stand there awhile and just think, hoping it might even hurt.
But it never hurts. Partly because I’ve rehearsed everything so thoroughly that scarcely an unchecked memory can slip through or catch me off guard, and partly because I’ve always suspected there was more sentiment than feeling in my errands to 110th Street.
Besides, e-mail and cellphones kept my eldest son, in college, present at all times. And there were his twin brothers who still lived at home and would continue to do so for two more years, shielding me from his absence. Together the twins and I still walked by the tree vendors on 110th Street and still put off buying anything until it was almost Christmas Eve. Things hardly changed. We removed one leaf from the dining table, my eldest’s dirty running shoes disappeared from our hallway, and his bedroom door remained shut, for days sometimes. Life had become quiet. Everyone had space. In the morning, on his way to class in Chicago, he always managed to call. A new ritual had sprung.
Then this past September, the twins left as well. Suddenly a half gallon of milk lasts eight days, not just one. We don’t buy sausages or peanut butter or stock all manner of cereals that have more sugar than wheat. There is no one to rush home and cook for, or edit college applications for, or worry about when they’re not back past 3 a.m. No sorting though dirty socks, no mediating the endless bickering about who owns which shirt, no setting my alarm clock to ungodly hours because someone can’t hear his alarm clock in the morning, no making sure they have 12 No. 2 pencils, and not just two.
All things slow down to what their pace had been two decades earlier. My wife and I are rediscovering things we didn’t even know we missed. We can stay out as long as we wish, go away on weekends, travel abroad, have people over on Sunday night, even go to the movies when we feel like it, and never again worry about doing laundry after midnight because the boys refuse to wear the same jeans two days in a row. The gates are thrown open, the war is over, we’re liberated.
Months after they’d left, I finally realized that the one relationship I had neglected for so many years was none other than my relationship with myself. I missed myself. I and me had stopped talking, stopped meeting, lost touch, drifted apart. Now, 20 years later, we were picking up where we’d left off and resumed unfinished conversations. I owned myself.
One evening, while preparing dinner with my wife, I went a step further and realized I had committed the unmentionable: I had stopped thinking of the three persons who are still dearer than life itself. I did not miss them and, stranger yet, hadn’t thought of them all day. Is the human heart this callous? Can out of sight, out of mind apply to one’s children as well? Really?
I was almost ready to pass the cruelest verdict on myself when I suddenly came across something I could never have foreseen, much less rehearsed. A young couple with twins in a stroller was crossing the street in a rush, precisely where the school bus used to stop. As I watched them chat with one of the Canadians at the Christmas tree stall, I suddenly wished I was in the young father’s place with my own twins, 10 years, five years ago, even last year. We’d buy something warm to drink across the street then rush to say hi to the tree vendors. Now it seemed I’d lost the right to walk up to them.
I envied the couple with the twins. And, as though to prod the knife deeper into the wound, for a moment I allowed myself to think that this is 20 years ago, I’ve just gotten married, my children are not born yet, and our new, three-bedroom apartment feels far too vacant for just the two of us. I stare at the couple and am thinking ahead for them, or ahead for myself, it’s not clear which, picturing the good things that have yet to come, even telling myself that the time for the 6:20 bus lies so very, very far away that it’s almost impudent to conjure it up just now.
And then I finally saw things for what they were. Just as the boys came and went this Christmas, this is how it always is and has been: things come and then they go, and however we bicker with time and put all manner of bulwarks to stop it from doing the one thing it knows, the best thing is learning how to give thanks for what we have. And at Christmas I was thankful; their bedroom doors were open again. But I knew, even as I welcomed the flurry of bags and boxes and hugs and yelps, that a small, sly corner of my mind was already dreading and rehearsing that morning in January when they’d all head back to the airport.
André Aciman, a professor of comparative literature at the City University of New York Graduate Center, is the author, most recently, of “Eight White Nights,” a novel.
Aloysius J. Gleek:
CALLMEBYYOURNAMEFANART
BOOK COVERS
#armiehammer #timothéechalamet #cmbyn
http://edwardnygmaa.tumblr.com/post/165552365154
https://laterpeaches.tumblr.com/post/165575594633
Ana Paula · she/her · 21
brazilian · cis · ISFP
Ravenclaw, Lawful Good, etc, etc
TURNS OUT THAT
LONELY PEOPLE
ARE ALL THE SAME
http://edwardnygmaa.tumblr.com/about
http://edwardnygmaa.tumblr.com/
Aloysius J. Gleek:
--- Quote from: southendmd on September 22, 2017, 09:01:21 am ---I'm not sure I could handle the cognitive dissonance of hearing Armie reading the story, which is from Elio's point of view.
--- End quote ---
:o :o :o :o
He likes it! He likes it!
André Aciman
@aaciman
6:13 AM - 23 Sep 2017
15 Retweets 65 Likes
https://twitter.com/aaciman?lang=en
https://twitter.com/aaciman/status/911579370896142337
Armie's incandescent reading:
--- Quote from: Aloysius J. Gleek on September 22, 2017, 08:41:44 am ---
20 Descriptions of Armie Hammer's Voice
in the Call Me By Your Name Audiobook
September 21, 2017 6:14 pm
Armie Hammer. Photo: Matt Winkelmeyer/Getty Images
There’s such melody in Armie Hammer’s voice that the devil has to work overtime to get a new Nickelback song in the world, just so everything stays in balance.
vulture.com
http://www.vulture.com/2017/09/just-20-descriptions-of-armie-hammers-voice.html?utm_source=tw&utm_medium=s3&utm_campaign=sharebutton-t
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--- Quote from: Aloysius J. Gleek on September 22, 2017, 07:55:02 am ---
SEPT 21, 2017
Elio and Oliver's first night together, as read by Armie Hammer
[on Soundcloud NOW]
(Call Me By Your Name audiobook drops Oct 3.)
CLICK HERE TO HEAR:
https://soundcloud.com/macaudio-2/call-me-by-your-name-by-andre-aciman-read-by-armie-hammer
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--- Quote from: Aloysius J. Gleek on September 04, 2017, 06:23:15 pm ---
Oh my. :o :o :o
https://www.amazon.com/Call-Me-Your-Name-Novel/dp/B06ZZZXQ9G
Call Me by Your Name: A Novel – Audiobook – Unabridged
André Aciman (Author), Armie Hammer (Narrator), Macmillan Audio (Publisher)
Pre-order purchase
Releases October 03, 2017
Audiobook
$0.00
Free with your Audible trial
Audio CD
$32.46
1 New from $32.46
©2017 André Aciman (P)2017 Macmillan Audio
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