why ‘call me by your name’ won the oscar
I felt like I was in a dreamlike trance when I first watched and read ‘Call Me By Your Name’ in 2018, a romance between a seventeen year-old boy, Elio, and a summer guest, Oliver, at Elio’s parents’ cliffside mansion on the Italian Riviera in the 1980s. Elio is precocious, cultured and sophisticated, playing musical instruments and speaking multiple languages, but alas, we see that academic and artistic prowess do not always equate to being well-versed in the complexities of love.
It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that ‘Call Me By Your Name’ has become one of my favourite movies and stories of all time. There is a film studies class at the uni I attend, the University of Melbourne, that analyses this movie. This is the kind of film we need to be studying. Why? Because of the tender and, well, absolutely awesome, acting — particularly the revelatory performance by Timothée Chalamet that punctuates the entire narrative. Because of its simultaneous pure simplicity and rich complexity in its cinematography and themes. But, crucially, also, because of the fact that this film effortlessly normalises what so many others treat as foreign — yes, because of its gentle revolution. Indeed, the beauty of the film is that it introduces the gay relationship so gently, through stolen glances that linger too long and subtext that allows you to listen between the lines — it’s so sublime; the way the story brings this huge global issue to a human scale and is therefore able to achieve great change and acceptance amidst audiences.
Never in the movie are the main men made to feel shame for their sexuality or their love of another man — there is no family drama surrounding what the Perlman’s son might be, no social stigma, no cultural tension that we feel or sense as Elio and Oliver navigate their feelings. What we cannot ignore is the familial love and compassion that Elio’s parents exhibit towards him, the casting of the Perlmans as domestic, Atticus Finch-esque heroes, and, in turn, the transcendent commentary on human love. All that spectators are prompted to feel is the human truth of love for another person; is the universality of first love and desire for physical and emotional connection. When it’s exhibited in this way, how can you not believe in the love a man can have for another? And by the way, I don’t know about you but I am adamant that Mom knows. Mom definitely knows. Annella has this very enigmatic stare throughout the whole film, you can tell she’s just not letting on.
Anyways, I digress. Let’s comment on the true magic of the film, which lies in the luxurious, lingering pace, and the sensual atmosphere and cinematography. In short, the vibe (yes, I said it) — which is immaculate. It makes you feel like you are in another world; one of texture, nuance and tone; of beauty and sensuality and cinematic perfection. A world that merely offers the prescription for audiences to breathe as they follow the unfolding of this love story; and that uses seemingly mundane moments, such as a bike ride into the piazza, or a moment alone with Elio and his thoughts, as windows into Elio and Oliver’s burgeoning relationship. Sensory elements, such as the sweat and gleam of a summer’s day on the male figure, or the cool temperature of water against lukewarm skin, or the sweet taste of apricots, are brought into focus, allowing the film to both caress and attack our senses, and inviting audiences to do what the goal of real art is — to empathise. To feel what the characters feel. To love as they love.
The book, which is so worth reading if you enjoyed the movie, is almost a study of human emotion and desire — there are often several paragraphs dedicated to a single facial expression or touch, and I wondered how on earth they were going to translate all those layers into film. But miraculously, it works. You can see everything in the facial expressions. In the little nuances, the colours they add to the film, the tiniest little movements and choreography. Meaning is conveyed in the in-between, the unsaid, the moments of silence, which would lose their potency with a trite declaration of love.
One of the main reasons i love this story so much is the theme of becoming one with another person; mind, body and soul, so much so that your identities conflate and become interchangeable. Such is the premise of the novel’s name, and why Elio and Oliver call each other by the other’s name in a romantic game they devise. However, the primary concept of liberating and divesting oneself of one’s given name could also be interpreted as a social commentary and a lamentation on a lack of acceptance — one could argue that it is only in this alternate dimension and realm, where Elio is not Elio and Oliver is not Oliver, that the characters are entirely free to be themselves, free of the shackles of societal stigma against homosexuality.
Guadagnino conjures the notion that the moment Elio and Oliver find within each other is destined to be ephemeral, because like the season of summer, like a shooting star, a love so scintillating must fade when faced with the inevitability of passing time. Every scene in the movie is a fleeting moment that manifests itself then is gone, and, as Stuhlbarg posits in his poignant monologue to his son nearing the end of the film, so too is our lease on love and physicality; so too is the transient and momentary allure of our bodies.
In essence, the melancholy beauty and gentle erotic energy of ‘Call Me By Your Name’ is ultimately understated but is truly something remarkable. The universality of the experience of first love, human desire and heartbreak makes it a beautifully elegant and brutally honest work of art, one that lingers long after Sufjan Steven’s ‘Visions of Gideon’ reaches its climax, Chalamet breaks the fourth wall and the credits roll.
