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BetterMost, Wyoming & Brokeback Mountain Forum  |  The World Beyond BetterMost  |  The Culture Tent (Moderator: Sheriff Roland)  |  Topic: Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017) 0 Residents and 1 Guest are viewing this topic. « previous next »
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Author Topic: Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017)  (Read 184310 times)
Aloysius J. Gleek
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« Reply #670 on: December 24, 2018, 11:53:12 pm »

 Cheesy Cheesy Cheesy Cheesy Cheesy

 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: December 25, 2018, 01:27:35 am by Aloysius J. Gleek » Logged

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


Cowboy Curtis (Laurence Fishburne)
and Pee-wee in the 1990 episode
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Aloysius J. Gleek
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« 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

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 » Logged

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(and you know who I am...)


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and Pee-wee in the 1990 episode
"Camping Out"
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« 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!
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« Reply #673 on: December 27, 2018, 07:04:18 pm »

Nobody noticed? Today is Timothee Chalamet's 23rd birthday.
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"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.
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BetterMost, Wyoming & Brokeback Mountain Forum  |  The World Beyond BetterMost  |  The Culture Tent (Moderator: Sheriff Roland)  |  Topic: Armie Hammer & Timothée Chalamet find love in Call Me By Your Name (2017) « previous next »
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