Author Topic: Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017)  (Read 257427 times)

Offline Aloysius J. Gleek

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Re: Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017)
« Reply #670 on: December 24, 2018, 11:53:12 pm »
 :D :D :D :D :D

  André Aciman
                                       @aaciman


9:12 AM - 9 Dec 2018
98 Retweets 98 748 Likes


https://twitter.com/aaciman
https://twitter.com/aaciman/status/1071814968604016643

My son just gave me
the loveliest Christmas present ever!







https://forward.com/series/forward-50/2018/andre-aciman/
50
André Aciman
Exemplary Dad & Author of
Call Me by Your Name
by Alexander Aciman
December 9 2018



It is late 1993. My dad and I are eating peanuts on the back of the M11 bus. Remember this moment for the rest of your life, he tells me. Some moments are worth remembering even if you can’t understand why, and some things you cannot enjoy without saying how much you are enjoying them.

It is autumn 1994. In the rain my father carries me past Lincoln Center to Dante Park, where a statue of the brooding Florentine looks down on 66th Street, beads of water trickling down his chin. This, my dad says, was the great poet who lived in exile, and we too are in exile.

It is winter 1997. We are watching Dr. Zhivago  on the small tube TV in my grandparents’ living room — the foggy fluish warmth of an old radiator, the whole house glowing with the yellow light of dying incandescent bulbs. We’re just going to watch for a few minutes, he says, knowing that we’ll probably stay to the end. For weeks afterward I ask him to whistle the theme for me. I hear it in my head at night.

In the spring of 1998 we travel to France alone together, just the two of us. For a few weeks we get to be French. These are the best days of my life and we will talk about them for the next 20 years.

One rainy night in the winter of 2000 I watch my dad read aloud from the first chapter of an unfinished novel beneath the dim light and faux Victorian paneling at KGB Bar. I think of Riverside Drive in the snow, and how one day I might walk into a party and meet a girl.

Rome 2003. We sneak off during a family vacation and visit his old apartment on the other side of town, where he spent some of the unhappiest years of his life, where still we must take a nostalgic pilgrimage. In the late afternoon sun he points to the pink-ochre building and shows me the window of his bedroom. It is different than I imagined it from his stories.

In February 2007, during a blizzard, we find our seats at Film Forum to see Last Year at Marienbad, a film that I will hate. He insists that years from now I’ll revisit it and change my mind. He is right.

In spring 2008 I listen as my father reads Chateaubriand and Racine aloud to my grandfather, who won’t make it past May.

In June 2012 he suggests skipping my college graduation and going to the beach instead. Sometimes, as he says in Arabic, lazem beach, we need the beach.

It is spring 2013. I’ve just been dumped 12 hours ago. At lunchtime my father waits outside my office at the Time/Life building to take a walk with me. We split a Starbucks sandwich, and he hands me a handkerchief, which stays in my jacket pocket for the next five years. He could never possibly know how much this walk means to me.

Summer 2017. In his living room, over scotch and pistachios, I read aloud to him the first two chapters of a novel I’m working on. His are the thoughts that matter most.

It is October 2017. I am sitting next to my dad in Alice Tully Hall, waiting for Call Me By Your Name  to start. I am so proud of him. By the end of the night everyone in the room will see what I have always seen, and have felt what I have always felt.



Alexander Aciman has written for The New York Times, the New Republic and The Paris Review. He is the son of Andre Aciman.







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.

« Last Edit: February 09, 2019, 06:29:05 pm by Aloysius J. Gleek »
"Tu doives entendre je t'aime."
(and you know who I am...)


Cowboy Curtis (Laurence Fishburne)
and Pee-wee in the 1990 episode
"Camping Out"

Offline Aloysius J. Gleek

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Re: Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017)
« Reply #671 on: December 27, 2018, 10:19:04 am »
So--both at the beginning and at the end,
this conversation between
Armie Hammer and Dakota Johnson
is almost entirely about Luca Guadagnino--
is this a tease, are we are looking at The Sequel,
Mr and Mrs Armie Oliver meets 'Teemmy' Elio?


 :laugh: :laugh: :laugh: :laugh: :laugh:


STUDIO
[youtube=1067,600]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CnDtfDRsFto[/youtube]
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CnDtfDRsFto
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-AkWb0e5xvo


VARIETY STUDIO: Variety's Actors on Actors presented by Amazon Studios

Armie Hammer and Dakota Johnson
Actors on Actors - Full Conversation

(and The Sequel??)



sandra innit
Published on Dec 5, 2018




and also:


Variety Studio
Published on Dec 23, 2018


« Last Edit: December 27, 2018, 12:42:21 pm by Aloysius J. Gleek »
"Tu doives entendre je t'aime."
(and you know who I am...)


Cowboy Curtis (Laurence Fishburne)
and Pee-wee in the 1990 episode
"Camping Out"

Offline Front-Ranger

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Re: Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017)
« Reply #672 on: December 27, 2018, 12:56:35 pm »
Great news about the sequel if it's not a tease!

That article by Alexander Aciman was very moving!
Too much to do. . .I don't have time to get old!

Offline Jeff Wrangler

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Re: Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017)
« Reply #673 on: December 27, 2018, 07:04:18 pm »
Nobody noticed? Today is Timothee Chalamet's 23rd birthday.
"It is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide."--Charles Dickens.

Offline Aloysius J. Gleek

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Re: Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017)
« Reply #674 on: February 01, 2019, 10:55:23 am »



Dialogue is stilted and awkward, as if it’s been put through Google Translate a few times while characters, if you can even call them that, act in strange, unlikely ways (much of the audience exhaustion was aimed at dim-witted 80s horror movie behaviour). The performers are left with very little to work with and while Armie Hammer does find away of making the most of his haunted alcoholic, Dakota Johnson and Zazie Beetz, two wonderful actors, are stranded with hopelessly one-dimensional roles. Arguably the biggest mystery of the film is exactly why they would have signed on to such a thankless project in the first place.


Again--
is this a tease, are we are looking at The Sequel,
Mr and Mrs Armie Oliver meets--???


 :laugh: :laugh: :laugh: :laugh: :laugh:




https://www.theguardian.com/film/2019/jan/31/wounds-review-armie-hammer-dakota-johnson-sundance



First look review
Sundance 2019

Wounds
Armie Hammer v cockroaches
(with Dakota Johnson)
in goofy cursed phone horror
An attractive cast and a handful of arresting visuals can’t save
this glossy, underwritten tale of a barman losing his mind

★★★★★
by Benjamin Lee
@benfraserlee

Thu 31 Jan 2019 17.09 EST Last modified on Thu 31 Jan 2019 17.11 EST



Dakota Johnson and Armie Hammer in Wounds



During my particular screening of Wounds  at this year’s Sundance film festival, there was an added in-cinema soundtrack. Certain reactions are to be expected when watching a button-pushing horror, from gasps to screams to nervous laughter following a deviously employed jump scare, but others are less desirable, unintentional mockery or incredulity the sign of a major misstep.

The audience was as audibly unsure and exhausted with what was on-screen as I was, a confused, haphazard jumble of ideas, gore and tone, a misfiring curio set to befuddle and disappoint when it finally gets released. It’s an attempt at something artful and opaque yet wrapped in a slick, glossy package, a film that thinks it has something on its mind but is actually terminally vacant. It’s a strange career swerve for British-Iranian writer-director Babak Anvari, who impressed so many with his first feature, the effectively restrained ghost story Under the Shadow, a film constructed with a careful finesse that’s sadly absent here. Based on a novella by Nathan Ballingrud, the film focuses on Will (Armie Hammer), a bartender who enjoys his job just a little too much, preferring to drink with his regulars rather than spend time with girlfriend Carrie (Dakota Johnson).

One night, after a particularly violent brawl, Will finds a cellphone left on the floor. He takes it home and starts to interact with a string of unsettling messages. Strange things then start to happen, many of them involving cockroaches....

Opening quite pretentiously with a Joseph Conrad quote, Anvari hints at the study of a sociopath, but it’s one of the film’s many half-thought ideas and bar one atrociously written domestic row late in the film, it doesn’t take hold in quite the way that it should. Because there’s a lot going on in Wounds  yet somehow also very little. There’s a Stephen King-lite protagonist gradually losing his mind and fighting against his worst urges. There’s a Ring-esque techno-curse, complete with supposedly haunting imagery. There’s a psychodrama about alcoholism. There’s a body horror. There’s a lot. Yet in a brief 92 minutes not one of these competing elements is able to develop, the ramshackle script feeling more like a stream of consciousness than anything complete.

Dialogue is stilted and awkward, as if it’s been put through Google Translate a few times while characters, if you can even call them that, act in strange, unlikely ways (much of the audience exhaustion was aimed at dim-witted 80s horror movie behaviour). The performers are left with very little to work with and while Hammer does find away of making the most of his haunted alcoholic, Johnson and Zazie Beetz, two wonderful actors, are stranded with hopelessly one-dimensional roles. Arguably the biggest mystery of the film is exactly why they would have signed on to such a thankless project in the first place.

Relying quite heavily on thunderously scored jump scares, inevitably some of them do work and aside from the more manipulative moments, Anvari does also manage a handful of arresting visuals, especially during the final, nutso scene. But the unintended outcome of these glimpses is a desire for a more effective framework for them to live within. Wounds  creeps and crawls and pokes and bleeds but it never really works.

Wounds is showing at the Sundance film festival


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wounds_(film)

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt5913798/





So--both at the beginning and at the end,
this conversation between
Armie Hammer and Dakota Johnson
is almost entirely about Luca Guadagnino--
is this a tease, are we are looking at The Sequel,
Mr and Mrs Armie Oliver meets 'Teemmy' Elio?


 :laugh: :laugh: :laugh: :laugh: :laugh:


STUDIO
[youtube=1067,600]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CnDtfDRsFto[/youtube]
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CnDtfDRsFto
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-AkWb0e5xvo


VARIETY STUDIO: Variety's Actors on Actors presented by Amazon Studios

Armie Hammer and Dakota Johnson
Actors on Actors - Full Conversation

(and The Sequel??)



sandra innit
Published on Dec 5, 2018




and also:


Variety Studio
Published on Dec 23, 2018



"Tu doives entendre je t'aime."
(and you know who I am...)


Cowboy Curtis (Laurence Fishburne)
and Pee-wee in the 1990 episode
"Camping Out"

Offline Aloysius J. Gleek

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Armie Hammer’s talent seems fairly widely known at this point, but he’s so good in Wounds  it feels well worth repeating; he really is an extraordinary lead. It’s truly shocking how quickly he loses himself in this role an then continues to pour every ounce of himself into it as Will experiences his vulnerable, downward spiral. Wounds  calls for the viewer to play along and attempt to put the pieces together right along with Will, and Hammer’s highly engaging performance is key to making that happen, while evoking an added frustration that comes with the fact that Will is clearly helpless.




http://collider.com/wounds-review-armie-hammer/#sundance-2019




Sundance 2019
Wounds
Sundance 2019 Review
An Armie Hammer Showcase
with a Swing and Miss Ending

by PERRI NEMIROFF
JANUARY 31, 2019



Dakota Johnson and Armie Hammer in Wounds




Just because a movie doesn’t end the way you hope, doesn’t mean the entire thing is an utter failure, but sometimes that big finish is such an outrageous swing and egregious miss, that it completely changes the way you look at the entire experience. So is the case with Babak Anvari‘s head-scratcher Wounds.

Armie Hammer leads as Will, a New Orleans bartender. It’s a typical night at Rosie’s with Will serving some regulars but then a group of underage college kids walk in. Will cuts them a break, serves them some beers and lets them stay. When a fight breaks out and the cops are called, the kids make a swift exit but amidst the chaos, one leaves her cell phone behind. Will takes the phone home with plans to bring it back to the bar the next day, but after receiving a string of bizarre and disturbing text messages, Will and his girlfriend Carrie (Dakota Johnson) become completely consumed by the mystery at hand.

Wounds  starts off strong. The movie opens with a lengthy scene at Rosie’s where we get to settle in by seeing Will in his element. Minus the decision to serve minors, he seems like a decent, charming guy but it quickly becomes clear that he isn’t a “save the day” hero. From there Wounds  starts to reveal the layers of its mystery, and they’re downright riveting. The progression of text messages and images become increasingly sinister, and the situation becomes more and more intoxicating as the movie grows darker. Anvari and his team use quick cuts to violent, highly unsettling visuals and also bold stingers in the sound mix to great effect, keeping you firmly on edge, nervously awaiting the next threat to Will and Carrie.

Armie Hammer’s talent seems fairly widely known at this point, but he’s so good in Wounds  it feels well worth repeating; he really is an extraordinary lead. It’s truly shocking how quickly he loses himself in this role an then continues to pour every ounce of himself into it as Will experiences his vulnerable, downward spiral. Wounds  calls for the viewer to play along and attempt to put the pieces together right along with Will, and Hammer’s highly engaging performance is key to making that happen, while evoking an added frustration that comes with the fact that Will is clearly helpless.

He also has a ton of chemistry with Zazie Beetz. She plays Alicia, his ex and close friend, and Will is caught between still having feelings for her but also filling the role of supportive best friend. It’s an appealing relationship that feels like it’s got a significant amount of history behind it, and Beetz also has this wildly captivity, natural on-screen presence that breathes so much life and energy into her character. Johnson, on the other hand, is in a bit of a tight spot with this role. She’s so soft-spoken and blasé that Carrie comes across as quite dull. Given Will’s feelings for Alicia, it makes sense that he doesn’t appear to be as madly in love with Carrie, but Johnson is so cold in her scenes it’s tough to imagine why Will and Carrie got together to begin with.

That disconnect does suck some of the energy out of Wounds  as the film frequently cuts back to Carrie at their home doing her own detective work, but the more devastating problem with Wounds  is its ending. I’m going to steer clear of specifics and major spoilers but if you’d rather know nothing at all about the way Wounds  wraps up, you might want to stop reading here. But it does feel necessary to address the conclusion given the fact that I suspect it’s something that will heavily influence overall feelings on the film.

Mysterious endings can be highly effective, especially when they send you out the door considering and reconsidering what just happened. Wounds  does just that, but the ending is so out of left field and unsupported that the whole story unravels the more you think about it. It’s a shocking conclusion that will be tough to shake, but what’s the point in something like that if the rest of the experience caves under the weight of an ending that seems so out of touch with the rest of the movie? The entertainment value is there and Wounds  most certainly had my attention most of the way through, but the swing and miss ending makes it tough to recommend.

Rating: C+

Wounds does not currently have a release date.





FYI, from two years ago:








It must be said that Call Me by Your Name  is a triumph in every regard. Michael Stuhlbarg’s role as Elio’s father isn’t necessarily a large role in terms of screentime, but he delivers a monologue towards the end of the film that felt like it made time stop. Luca Guadagnino and James Ivory’s script is measured and tight; thoughtful and delicate. Every inch of this movie is expertly crafted, right down to the stunning final shot. It’s at once a universal story of young love and a relatable, emotional story of a homosexual awakening. In that regard it’s a tremendous love story period, but also a winning entry in the legion of queer cinema.







http://collider.com/call-me-by-your-name-review/




Sundance 2017
Call Me by Your Name
Sundance 2017 Review
Armie Hammer and Timothée Chalamet
Astound in Sensual Triumph

by ADAM CHITWOOD
Monday 23 January 2017



Days filled with swimming, reading, and eating fresh fruit ... Timothée Chalamet, Michael Stuhlbarg and Armie Hammer in Call Me by Your Name




In my four years attending the Sundance Film Festival, I’m not sure I’ve seen anything as purely rapturous as Call Me by Your Name.  The new feature film from I Am Love  and A Bigger Splash  filmmaker Luca Guadagnino chronicles a summer romance that blossoms between a young boy and a visitor in northern Italy, and by the film’s end it solidifies its place as one of the queer cinema greats alongside Carol, Brokeback Mountain, and Moonlight.  The film is a tremendously sensual, hypnotic coming of age/coming out tale of first love. Anchored by a phenomenal breakout performance from Timothée Chalamet, Armie Hammer’s best work yet, and masterful craftsmanship, Call Me by Your Name is an instant addition to the best romances of the 21st century.

Based on the book of the same name by André Aciman, the film takes place in 1983 in Northern Italy, where a 17-year-old boy named Elio is spending the summer in his family’s 17th century villa. His father (Michael Stuhlbarg), a professor of Greco-Roman culture, enlists a research assistant named Oliver (Hammer) to come and spend the summer with his family. Elio is transfixed by Oliver at first sight, but approaches the handsome American warily, keeping him at arm’s length. As the summer continues and Elio and Oliver play a game of chicken, daring one another to make the first romantic overture, the two finally give into their feelings and spark a romance that is passionate, playful, and pure.

Chalamet is nothing short of a revelation as Elio. The actor is probably best known for his work on Homeland  or for a brief role in Interstellar,  but this is one of the biggest breakthrough performances in recent memory. He imbues Elio with complicated layers—a confident exterior; a precocious charm; a fearful undercurrent. All of these shine through and more and he’s so good in the role that at first you even doubt whether he actually likes Oliver. Of course he’s simply preparing himself for rejection by throwing out the first jabs, but this results in a relationship that is at first delightfully contentious, then playfully so before turning into full on flirtation.

But as a closeted 17-year-old, Elio is still working out his feelings by losing his virginity to a local Italian girl who has the hots for him. Their relationship never comes off as phony, more as an exploration, and there’s a ticking clock plot point towards the end of the film that raises the stakes in hilariously sexy fashion.

As the relationship between Elio and Oliver becomes physical, the film really digs into this as a first love story and a coming out story. Love is universal, so the feelings between Elio and Oliver are the same feelings felt by all, but it’s nice that Guadagnino doesn’t ignore the elephant in the room: that Elio and Oliver’s sexuality is a thing to be hidden at that point in time. There’s a reason their relationship began so contentiously, and Oliver makes reference early in the film that he’s “been good” so far and doesn’t want to do anything to mess that up. It’s heartbreaking, really, to see Elio so miserable at the start of the film, surrounded by such beauty.

But this is no misery porn. The teasing that goes on between the two characters is magnificently handled by Guadagnino, who keeps a playful hand on the proceedings so as not to drown the film in self-serious romance. Summer flings are fun! So are first loves. And while this does blossom into something deeply felt, the summer season and Italian setting add a touch of lightheartedness to the scenes. Moreover, Guadagnino’s focus on sensuality over sexuality imbues the film with a romp vibe with an undeniable allure. One imagines that a more explicit or erotic version of the film would have downplayed how deeply felt the emotions are between Oliver and Elio.

Gorgeously shot by Sayombhu Mukdeeprom (Arabian Nights ), this is a film that you just want to soak up. The Italian scenery is milked for all its worth, and the days filled with swimming, reading, and eating fresh fruit are divine. But the secret weapon to immersing audiences into the world of Call Me by Your Name  is some incredible sound design. The footsteps on the gravel roads, the creaking floors in the ancient villa—you not only see this world, you feel it. That only allows the audience to fall deeper into the film’s trance, becoming infatuated with the romance between Elio and Oliver.

It must be said that Call Me by Your Name  is a triumph in every regard. Stuhlbarg’s role as Elio’s father isn’t necessarily a large role in terms of screentime, but he delivers a monologue towards the end of the film that felt like it made time stop. Guadagnino and James Ivory’s script is measured and tight; thoughtful and delicate. Every inch of this movie is expertly crafted, right down to the stunning final shot. It’s at once a universal story of young love and a relatable, emotional story of a homosexual awakening. In that regard it’s a tremendous love story period, but also a winning entry in the legion of queer cinema.

Rating: A





« Last Edit: February 01, 2019, 03:53:15 pm by Aloysius J. Gleek »
"Tu doives entendre je t'aime."
(and you know who I am...)


Cowboy Curtis (Laurence Fishburne)
and Pee-wee in the 1990 episode
"Camping Out"

Offline Front-Ranger

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Re: Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017)
« Reply #676 on: February 01, 2019, 02:11:40 pm »
I had the hardest time stopping where the spoilers began, but I did it, because I want to see the movie!
Too much to do. . .I don't have time to get old!

Offline Aloysius J. Gleek

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Re: Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017)
« Reply #677 on: February 01, 2019, 03:51:35 pm »
I had the hardest time stopping where the spoilers began, but I did it, because I want to see the movie!


I'll remember that in the future, Lee!   ;) :-*

"Tu doives entendre je t'aime."
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Offline Aloysius J. Gleek

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Over time, Will’s growing fragility (Armie Hammer) becomes the most intriguing aspect of Wounds. At first, Hammer seems like he’s out of place in a horror movie — he’s too jocular, too sturdy, too tall — but Babak Anvari manages to subvert his star’s persona. There’s a growing sense that Will’s good looks and general privilege have allowed him to take things for granted.

He didn’t feel compelled to finish college because he assumed that someone would always be willing to pay for the pleasure of having him around. He takes Carrie (Dakota Johnson) for granted because he’s safe in the knowledge that some other girl would always want him. He traipses over Alicia’s boundaries (Zazie Beetz) because he’s confident that she likes it. This is the first time that the world has been an uncertain place for him, and the anxiety exposes how shallow he is under the surface. Someone calls him a “mock person” at one point, which feels as much of a diss to the character as it does a self-own of Anvari’s two-dimensional screenplay.





https://www.indiewire.com/2019/01/wounds-review-sundance-armie-hammer-dakota-johnson-babik-anvari-1202038869/



Sundance 2019
Wounds
Sundance 2019 Review
Armie Hammer
and Dakota Johnson
Fight an Evil Cell Phone
Babak Anvari's disappointing follow-up to Under the Shadow is a
well-calibrated but woefully underwritten jump-scare machine.


by David Ehrlich
@davidehrlich

Jan 27, 2019 6:35 pm



Dakota Johnson and Armie Hammer in Wounds




Babak Anvari’s Wounds  opens with a Heart of Darkness  quote about the evil wilderness that whispered to Colonel Kurtz, and how it “echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core.” And, uh, that’s a pretty bold choice for a movie about a demonically possessed cell phone that’s trying to contact the emptiness inside of Armie Hammer.

Alas, the trouble with this silly horror exercise — Anvari’s follow-up to his unnerving 2016 debut, Under the Shadow — isn’t that it’s pretentious, but rather that it doesn’t take itself seriously enough. The film’s threadbare story runs parallel to some compelling ideas about masculine insecurity, internalized pain, and the price of genetic privilege, but Anvari’s well-calibrated jump-scare machine is too preoccupied with gross effects, unmotivated jolts, and that strange rash that’s growing in Hammer’s left armpit to engage with any of them. The film may have been conceived as a love letter to the likes of David Lynch and Nicolas Roeg, but — amusingly disgusting finale notwithstanding — it has far more in common with the jittery, skin-deep horror fare that’s filled the massive void those giants have behind after departing for television or the great beyond.

Based on a novella by Nathan Ballingrud, the action begins in a sleepy New Orleans dive bar just before closing time. Will (Hammer), an effortlessly handsome bartender with a shit-eating grin that hides a complete lack of ambition, is the only person on duty, but the crowd is under control. The obese, completely nude woman playing billiards in the back? She’s a regular, and naked girls drink for free. The boisterous drunken tank of a man with questionable politics and a rowdy bunch of meathead friends? That’s Eric (“Orange Is the New Black” actor Brad William), and he’s always like this. Will barely flinches when Eric gets stabbed in the face with a broken bottle. The beautiful twentysomething who flirts with Will before making out with her boyfriend? That’s Alicia (Zazie Beetz), and she’s there every night, which is weird because there are definitely a few other bars in the French Quarter.

Of all these sordid boozehounds and night owls, the only ones who make Will a little nervous are the group of (probably underage) college kids who walk in like they own the place and start filming Eric’s fight instead of doing anything to stop it. Millennials: always helpful when you need to blame someone for all the world’s madness. Will is not amused, and he only gets more annoyed when he sees that one of the teens left their cell phone behind at the bar.

Why does he bring the phone home instead of leaving it at the bar? Will doesn’t know, but his girlfriend Carrie (Dakota Johnson) is suspicious enough that we have to assume there’s some kind of history there. It’s hard to believe that he’s cheated on her before — again, Carrie is played by Dakota Johnson, and her character doesn’t seem to own any pants — but there clearly isn’t much trust between them. Have he and Alicia slept together in the past, or do they just get off on the danger of being near each other? Apologies for all of the rhetorical questions, but Wounds  is as short on answers as it is long on ambiguity, which makes for such a maddeningly vague experience that it soon feels more sketched than scripted.

That extends to the nameless supernatural terror that begins to plague Will after he unlocks the abandoned phone and responds to a few eerie text messages.


This might be the point you might want to stop reading, Lee!!   :laugh: :laugh:


The person — or thing ! — on the other end of the line sends photos of a man’s decapitated head, and we’re off to the races. Anyone who’s seen a horror movie in the last 20 years can guess where things go from here: Will starts seeing things (giant cockroaches, mostly) and stops sleeping well. He receives a bunch of ominous phone calls, and notices that he’s being followed by a blonde girl in a black Charger (it’s possible to tease out the meaning behind this, but there’s little incentive to try). Literally every single thing in his world turns into a potential jump-scare, as he can’t so much as drink a beer or look out the blinds without the sound editor suddenly cranking things up to 11. It’s no way to live.

Over time, Will’s growing fragility becomes the most intriguing aspect of Wounds. At first, Hammer seems like he’s out of place in a horror movie — he’s too jocular, too sturdy, too tall — but Anvari manages to subvert his star’s persona. There’s a growing sense that Will’s good looks and general privilege have allowed him to take things for granted.

He didn’t feel compelled to finish college because he assumed that someone would always be willing to pay for the pleasure of having him around. He takes Carrie for granted because he’s safe in the knowledge that some other girl would always want him. He traipses over Alicia’s boundaries because he’s confident that she likes it. This is the first time that the world has been an uncertain place for him, and the anxiety exposes how shallow he is under the surface. Someone calls him a “mock person” at one point, which feels as much of a diss to the character as it does a self-own of Anvari’s two-dimensional screenplay.

But it gets harder to be so gracious as the scares intensify. While Anvari has a killer instinct for framing a room for maximum dread, pulling our eyes into shadowy corners only to sock us from another direction completely, his visual imagination remains underdeveloped. Many of the sudden frights come from quick flashes of unrelated imagery (a bloody eyeball here, a severed head there), and that trick is old before he even trots it out. Will and Carrie’s house eventually hosts a portal to…something bad…but the threat of something in the darkness is always scarier than what Anvari eventually shows us — at least until the go-for-broke final scene, which is disconnected from the drama of Will’s story but nevertheless hints at the movie a more disciplined Wounds  might have been.

The harder that Wounds  cleaves to the idea that its mysterious evil force is just a metaphor for its characters’ inner ugliness, the clearer it becomes that none of these people are real enough to carry that kind of weight. It’s telling that the most interesting scene is the one in which Hammer just sits at his laptop and Googles some generic occult nonsense — there’s a chance he might stumble across the plot of a better film. He doesn’t. Some wounds never heal.


Grade: C-

Wounds premiered at the 2019 Sundance Film Festival. Annapurna will release it on March 29.





FYI, from two years ago:







It’s 1983, “somewhere in Northern Italy.” The height of summer, and all of the neighborhood teenagers are in heat. Elio Perlman (Timothée Chalamet, keeping the promise he showed in “Miss Stevens” last September) is still a virgin. A 17-year-old American whose father, a local celebrity, is an eminent professor specializing in Greco-Roman culture (Michael Stuhlbarg), Elio has sprouted from the soil like the apricot trees that surround his family’s villa, and he’s impatiently waiting to bloom. Scrawny enough to be mistaken for a child but sophisticated enough to be mistaken for a man, Elio is a multilingual music prodigy who’s more comfortable with Bach and Berlioz than he is in his own body. He knows everything and nothing. But he’s about to get one hell of an education. (....)

Guadagnino lives for the climactic portion of this story, when feelings are finally transmuted into action and Oliver’s true nature breaks through the marble bust of his body (Armie Hammer’s warmth in these scenes is extraordinary). The details are best experienced for yourself, but it’s safe to say that movie lives up to the book’s steamy reputation, and Chalamet and Hammer throw themselves at each other with the clumsy abandon of first love. Growingly increasingly divorced from its source material as it goes along, the final beats of Guadagnino’s adaptation galvanize two hours of simmering uncertainty into a gut-wrenchingly wistful portrait of two people trying to find themselves before it’s too late.





http://www.indiewire.com/2017/01/call-me-by-your-name-review-armie-hammer-luca-guadagnino-sundance-2017-1201772350/




Sundance 2017
Call Me by Your Name
Sundance 2017 Review
Luca Guadagnino Delivers A Queer Masterpiece
Hot on the heels of  A Bigger Splash the filmmaker returns with a film that's worthy of comparisons to  Carol and Moonlight

by David Ehrlich
 @davidehrlich

Monday 23 January 2017 3:15 pm



‘He’s about to get one hell of an education’ ... Michael Stuhlbarg, Timothée Chalamet and Armie Hammer in Call Me by Your Name




“Is it better to speak or to die?” That’s the core question of “Call Me By Your Name,” which surfaces in a scene where a character reads the words of Marguerite of Navarre in “The Heptaméron,” but it’s an idea at the heart of all queer narratives. It’s been especially present in queer cinema, where muteness and survival are often the most bittersweet bedfellows. But “Call Me By Your Name” not only quotes Marguerite’s words, it suffuses them into every fiber of its being. It’s a great film because of how lucidly it poses her question, and an essential one because of how courageously it answers it.

Directed by Luca Guadagnino with all of his usual cool (“I Am Love”) and adapted from André Aciman’s beloved 2007 novel of the same name, the rapturous “Call Me By Your Name” nearly rates alongside recent LGBT phenomenons “Carol” and “Moonlight,” matching the artistry and empathy with which those new masterworks untangled the repressive desire of same-sex attraction.

It’s 1983, “somewhere in Northern Italy.” The height of summer, and all of the neighborhood teenagers are in heat. Elio Perlman (Timothée Chalamet, keeping the promise he showed in “Miss Stevens” last September) is still a virgin. A 17-year-old American whose father, a local celebrity, is an eminent professor specializing in Greco-Roman culture (Michael Stuhlbarg), Elio has sprouted from the soil like the apricot trees that surround his family’s villa, and he’s impatiently waiting to bloom. Scrawny enough to be mistaken for a child but sophisticated enough to be mistaken for a man, Elio is a multilingual music prodigy who’s more comfortable with Bach and Berlioz than he is in his own body. He knows everything and nothing. But he’s about to get one hell of an education.

Every summer, Elio’s father flies out a graduate student to stay at the villa and help him with his research — this year’s intern is Oliver (Armie Hammer, as sensational here as he was in “The Social Network,” but similarly a touch too old for the part). Oliver is 24 and his body is an epic unto itself, as big as any one of the ancient statues that have been dredged up from the local seas. Arrogant, eager, and almost suspiciously handsome for an aspiring historian, the mysterious new visitor often seems as though he got lost on his way to a Patricia Highsmith novel. While much of the film feels stretched between the feverish eros of Bertolucci, the budding warmth of Mia Hansen–Løve, and the affected stoicism of James Ivory (who, at 88, has a co-writing credit on this screenplay), a thin shadow of suspense creeps along the outer edges of each frame, priming viewers for a very different kind of pivot than the one Guadagnino deployed during the third act of “A Bigger Splash.”

Elio and Oliver grow closer as the summer sinks toward its dog days — at first they share only a bathroom, the skinny adolescent looking at his unpredictable new friend as though he can’t understand how they could be the same species, let alone be interested in the same thing. But commonalities and semi-secrets soon emerge: For one thing, they’re both Jews in a land of goys. Oliver, no doubt aware that he looks like the winner of Hitler’s master race, wears a Star of David necklace underneath his shirt, a barely visible emblem of his otherness. The Perlmans, on the other hand, are what Elio’s father describes as “Jews of discretion” (one of the funnier lines in a movie that’s laced with a sharp sense of humor), but the strangeness of celebrating Hanukkah within spitting distance of Vatican City eventually makes its mark.

As the film progresses, Elio and Oliver begin to share more tangible things: Bike rides, errant touches, an unknown desire to have sex with one another (that last one is a biggie). Crucially, however, Elio is as conflicted about his own passions as he is those of the boy next door. His tastes are molten and volatile — he performs the same piano piece in a wildly different style every time he plays it, much to Oliver’s amused frustration. When he’s not busy gawking at his brawny infatuation, he’s enthusiastically trying to deflower the French girl down the street (Esther Garrell, of the New Wave Garrells), who wears her wardrobe of summer dresses like she’s trying to shame away the other seasons.

Telling this story with the same characteristically intoxicating capriciousness that has come to define his work, Guadagnino doesn’t dwell on looks of questionably requited longing. He’s not Todd Haynes and — with the possible exception of a long take mid-movie that follows the two leads around a fountain and endows the space between them with a palpably physical sense of attraction and denial — he doesn’t try to be. Instead, he stays attuned to the raw energy of trying to feel someone out without touching them, of what it’s like to live through that one magical summer where the weather is the only part of your world that doesn’t change every day.

Rippling with nervously excited piano compositions and shot with immeasurable sensuality by Thai cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom (“Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives” and “Arabian Nights”), “Call Me By Your Name” is a full-bodied film that submits all of its beauties to the service of one simple truth: The more we change, the more we become who we are. Like the Latin prefixes that Oliver and Mr. Perlman trace back to their roots or the antiquated artworks that resonate because of how much the world has changed since their creation, Elio learns that growth — however wild or worrisome it might seem at the time — is the greatest gift that he can give himself.

Watching him slowly come to that realization is an unforgettable and enormously moving experience because of how the film comes to realize it, too. Guadagnino lives for the climactic portion of this story, when feelings are finally transmuted into action and Oliver’s true nature breaks through the marble bust of his body (Hammer’s warmth in these scenes is extraordinary). The details are best experienced for yourself, but it’s safe to say that movie lives up to the book’s steamy reputation, and Chalamet and Hammer throw themselves at each other with the clumsy abandon of first love. Growingly increasingly divorced from its source material as it goes along, the final beats of Guadagnino’s adaptation galvanize two hours of simmering uncertainty into a gut-wrenchingly wistful portrait of two people trying to find themselves before it’s too late. As Elio’s father puts it in a heart-stopping monologue that every parent might want to memorize for future use: “Don’t make yourself feel nothing so as not to feel anything. What a waste.”

Leaving us with one of the gorgeous new songs that Sufjan Stevens wrote for the film, this achingly powerful story — a brilliant contribution to the queer cinema canon — breathes vibrant new life into the answer that Marguerite of Navarre gave to her own question. “I would counsel all such as are my friends to speak and not die,” she said, “for ’tis a bad speech that cannot be mended, but a life lost cannot be recalled.”

Grade: A

“Call Me By Your Name” premiered in the Premieres section of the 2017 Sundance Film Festival. Sony Pictures Classics will release it later this year.


"Tu doives entendre je t'aime."
(and you know who I am...)


Cowboy Curtis (Laurence Fishburne)
and Pee-wee in the 1990 episode
"Camping Out"

Offline Aloysius J. Gleek

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https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/07/style/timothee-chalamet-flight-economy.html



NOTED
When Celebrities Fly Coach:
Timothée Chalamet
is the latest in a line of public figures who have drawn
outsize attention for sitting with the rest of us.

by Valeriya Safronova
@vsaffron

Feb. 7, 2019



Alankrutha Giridhar and a fan. Alankrutha Giridhar



When Alankrutha Giridhar boarded her flight on Monday, she was understandably more concerned with finding overhead luggage space than meeting her seatmate.

Then she got a closer look at his face.

“When I sat next to him, I was like, ‘I’m 100 percent sure it’s him,’” Ms. Giridhar said, “but I didn’t want to prod or be weird or creepy.”

The man sitting next to her — in economy class and the middle seat, no less — was Timothée Hal Chalamet: the 23-year-old Oscar nominee (for Call Me by Your Name), Frank Ocean fanboy and early adopter of the luxury fashion harness. Er, bib.





https://www.refinery29.com/en-us/2019/01/221513/timothee-chalamet-sequined-harness-explained



For the first hour and a half of the journey, Ms. Giridhar tried to conceal her excitement about sharing limited legroom with Mr. Chalamet. But when he asked her when the flight would land, Ms. Giridhar couldn’t help addressing his fame. She told him she knew who he was and asked him why he was in economy.

“He was just like, ‘What do you mean?’” Ms. Giridhar said. “He didn’t actually answer. I said, ‘People must recognize you.’ And he said, ‘You’re the only one. Nobody else has.’”

In flying coach, Mr. Chalamet joined a long list of public figures who have been noticed in the cheap seats. Prince William flew coach from Memphis to Dallas in 2014 after a wedding. His brother, Harry, and Meghan, the Duchess of Sussex, reportedly took up three rows with their security team when they traveled to Nice aboard British Airways last year. In 2012, Jessica Alba sat in economy on a trip from Los Angeles to New York while her two kids and their nanny were in first class, according to Radar Online. Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt and their six children took an Air France flight from Paris to Nice in 2015, according to The Daily Mail.

Traveling in economy “is relatively common for people of all pay scales,” said Liana Corwin, the consumer travel expert at Hopper, a flight-booking app. “I think the key thing is convenience.”

Ms. Corwin added that celebrities and professional athletes regularly book flights through Hopper, and the app only offers seats in coach. “They’re people just like us and they have schedules they need to maintain, and sometimes economy will get them there faster and easier,” she said.

Claire Danes said as much about her choice to fly coach after she won the Screen Actors Guild award for best actress in a TV movie or mini-series in 2011. “It’s the only seat available, and I have to go back to work tomorrow morning,” Ms. Danes told Extra. “I get to shower in the hotel and then I go to set — and act some more.”


But it isn’t always about convenience. In 2014, Amy Adams, a six-time Oscar nominee, traded her first-class seat from Detroit to Los Angeles with a soldier who was in coach. She told Inside Edition that the point was to bring attention to people serving in the military.

Politicians are often spotted on airplanes, too. An observer once captured a shot of Mitt Romney snoozing with his mouth open in an aisle seat. Bernie Sanders has appeared in coach enough times to spark a hashtag: #SandersOnaPlane. Though convenience might certainly be a factor in both cases, it doesn’t hurt that flying “with the people” gives a politician a relatable gleam.

Ms. Giridhar certainly experienced that with Mr. Chalamet. “He was asking me so many questions about my life,” she said. “I was like, ‘This is so weird. Why are you asking questions about me?’”

Later they took a selfie, which Ms. Giridhar tweeted as part of a witty, charming Twitter thread about her experience.

Their conversation continued for the remainder of the journey.

“When the flight landed, we were talking about his upcoming films,” Ms. Giridhar said. “He wished me luck with my career,” which is in information technology. Her response? “I hope you win multiple Oscars one day.”


Valeriya Safronova is a reporter for the Style section. She is based in New York.


"Tu doives entendre je t'aime."
(and you know who I am...)


Cowboy Curtis (Laurence Fishburne)
and Pee-wee in the 1990 episode
"Camping Out"