Call Me By Your Name. Who knew it was so good?

 (Originally published 21 June 2022)

 Last night . . . and five years late, I watched a movie I'd never intended to see.  But, being something of a completist, I've been a fan of the (now very) controversial actor, Armie Hammer, and with only a few titles missing, decided it was time for Call Me By Your Name. Was I surprised?  Yes, and far more than I could have possibly imagined. There is no word I would attach to Luca Guadagnino's film other than masterpiece, and, of the few films I've seen of his, it is far and away the finest. 

His treatment of André Aciman's 2007 novel is one of the best transfers from book to screen I've seen . . . maybe ever.  That's a strong statement, and I may walk it back eventually, but I doubt it.  Seriously.  Absolutely everything about Guadagnino's interpretation of this tale feels right and faithful, beginning with the uncomfortable nature of the story which he makes to feel, of all things . . . feel perfectly natural. So many elements come together to achieve this cinematic Gesamtkunstwerk, that, it's impossible to think of and comment on them all.  This includes the amazing soundtrack with its use of John Adams, Mozart, Bach, (and more) which makes the images they accompany fairly pop in their details. The use of music here blends like a sort of light, illuminating the story without ever intruding upon it.  Then there are the characters with each role perfectly cast, and executed brilliantly by a troupe of actors who bring nuance, depth, and more than just a touch of mystery to their roles. Indeed, there is mystery in each of these characters and they become as real as you or I.  While all are superb, I'll leave it that the film really is beautifully carried by its two principals, Armie Hammer and Timothée Chalamet.  

But wait, there's more! Take for instance the amazing, breathtaking lighting design used throughout, and Guadagnino's almost preternatural use of space . . .  water . . . ancient architecture . . . all of it blending in with new world emotions that, as they casually bubble to the surface, we realize, are not so new after all. No. Not new at all.  It's fucking brilliant.

Anyway, I was knocked out by every moment, scene, line and can think of no more beautiful ending to a film than the closing, shot - which continues during and extends to the final credits. Guadagnino has created something he does not want to end - and we don't want him to.  At least I didn't.   

So, after falling on my swort (not literally, relax) I followed this experience with my usual trick: finally reading the reviews.  Not surprisingly (or perhaps so, given my track record of loving things critics seem to hate) almost every one of them was a rave.  

And then there was, of course, Richard Brody's hatchet job for the New Yorker.  In by far the longest, prosiest, rant against everything about Guadagnino's movie.  Everything.  Seriously this exhausting review seemed to take longer to read than the film it was tearing apart.  For brevity's sake (your welcome), here's my distillation of his hatred:

Empty, sanitized intimacy . . .if Guadagnino had any interest in his characters . . . .the story is inconceivable without the conversation that they’d have had as their relationship developed ... yet, ... what they actually say to each other is hardly seen or heard.  Guadagnino can’t be bothered to imagine (or to urge Ivory to imagine) what they might actually talk about while sitting together alone. (he) displays no interest in the characters, (All) of the characters are reduced to animated ciphers . . . “Call Me by Your Name” (is) thin and empty, ... sluggish; the languid pace of physical action is matched by the languid pace of ideas, and the result is an enervating emptiness.

Boo.  Hiss.  Brody complains the Guadagnino does not establish either Elio or Oliver's sexual or romantic histories before they meet; expressing how knowledge of their respective pasts is a necessity for character development and our ability (or inability) to read them. How sad to be a critic for a well regarded publication and be incapable of seeinig things, or have any ability to interpret characters without having all the details explained to you.  He went on to complain about camera angles, shadows, lighting, pan shots, quite literally every detail of the film.  Brody's review reads like a diatribe constructed by a jilted lover on a vendetta, right down to hinting at "and another thing!"  Not only could I not possibly disagree with him more, I also couldn't stop laughing.

Anyway. . . I'm glad I finally broke down and gave Call Me By Your Name a go.  It was a truly beautiful experience  . . . one of my favorites of the year, and I can't wait to revisit it again. 

Pasolini & Callas: Medea - Brutal and Beautiful

I first saw the Pasolini/Callas Medea in my teens and . . . well, I was was highly critical of it. I found it disappointing on almost all counts: terrible sound editing, cheap film stock, overly bright, washed-out lighting, bizarre, amateurish acting styles, inadequately edited, etc. I became irritated even more by the extended murder scene of Glauce and Creon going seemingly on forever, and then . . . wait; what's this? It's repeated all over again? Did someone get the wrong reel into the house?

Ten years went by before I watched it again, but this time something happened.  As opposed to watching it on my father's TV screen, it was now on a big screen at the National Gallery of Art in a far better print than what I'd seen.  After that viewing I found myself emotionally drained, my jaw on the proverbial floor with the sudden realization I'd just finished a film that alternately horrified, fascinated and astonished me. I like when that happens. 

Medea is a grim, violent, film, minimally processed which only adds to its gruesome, wild rawness. This is Pasolini's Medea, not Euripedes and it easy viewing is is not. It's not a casual "night at the movies."  Medea is wild in a way that surprises (or can . . . should?) fans of  Hollywood cinema . . . or fans of traditional operatic ways of storytelling. 

A score seemingly steeped in African and Middle Eastern music, with the nasal bleating of women's voices in near pre-historic sounding rhythmic chant adds further to the element of being out there produced by this film.  This Medea is about as far away from popular cinema as one can get. Medea doesn't easily compare to films of any other style or genre; in fact, not even all that much with some of Pasolini's other work. There are reasons.  And yet, if one allows oneself to succumb to its hypnotic, mesmerizing pace - a pace simultaneously frenetic and static - we realize this is as about as close to a hallucinatory experience one can achieve without the use of an illegal substance. Of course, not everyone wants that experience.

As Medea, Callas is amazing. There is, quite simply, no other way to put it. And yet, oddly enough when the film came out, she was roundly criticized for not being able to transfer the magic she so naturally gave on stage onto the big screen. I strongly disagree. The more I watch this film - which has probably amounted to a few times a year for close to thirty years - the more amazed I become by it, and by her performance in it. Yes, I, too, had initially been critical of her almost languid weirdness, but have, over that time, grown to see her commitment to the role as formidable - total.  I find that I'm forever riveted by her almost painfully expressive mask as she inhabits completely this legendary character who is, quite literally, capable of, well, everything (and yes, everything is the correct word in this instance).

Where I was once critical of the lighting which seemed unusually bright, harsh, stripped of deeper colors, I've grown to realize (or think I do) why Pasolini did what he did and what he was hoping to capture.  To finally understand why he chose to film at the times of day he chose to shoot, and all of this resulting in a fascinating, brutal, and surreal luminosity that bathes the entire film with an almost palpable sense of visual texture. It took me years . . . and some think I'm crazy (which is not untrue . . . at least entirely), but it is stunning. It works. 

The landscapes Pasolini chose to film in are every bit as brutal . . .  and as vital as the characters of this grisly tale.  What is also quite remarkable is his near excision of all spoken text (the screenplay being nearly dialogue free) which brings us into a world that is both timeless yet ancient world . . . a universe where all may be understood without the use of verbal communication.

The savagely brutal, bloody rites of the sacrifices for fertility and harvest initially seem barbarous to us, but then become somehow . . . . beautiful . . .  fascinating. Sacred. They also make us cringe with the realization of how, not so long ago, this was us.

A remarkable, savage and beautiful film.