Call Me by Your Name

Is it better to speak or to die?

I was looking back at my last review of this film, which was at the start of 2021, and I remember distinctly feeling this synergy with Elio as a character. I had just read the book and saw so much of myself in him. Being so intimate with him, being in his thoughts and knowing how he felt—I felt seen. I truly believe Elio was this window into my soul.

In the last few months, I’ve felt this desire to go back and be inside his head, because I feel like I’ve become more attached to him. I started to reread the book, but I decided I wanted to watch the movie first because, last time, I think reading the book and then watching the movie dampened my experience of the film.

Watching it again hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt like I was Elio. I feel like I am Elio. And I fear that I will always be like Elio. It was actually quite a horrible experience, feeling like I was connecting deeper with this confused, repressed teenager more than I did when I was closer to his age.

I feel like it’s very easy to dismiss people who have never been in long-term relationships, to say their feelings of love are less valid or that they don’t necessarily understand what love is. But I think this film so perfectly captures unspoken love, the hurt and anguish of it, and how that love can fester and eat at you.

The central question of the film, Is it better to speak or to die?, struck me as so poignant the first time I watched it. I was taken aback at how the entire film revolved around this phrase. But this time, I found myself more drawn to the story surrounding it: the German fairy tale of two people in love, who were, unbeknownst to each other, feeling the same thing. Viewing the entire film through that lens makes it sting even more.

In my previous review, I wrote that I wished we’d spent more time developing Oliver and Elio’s relationship. I think I said that because I was coming off of reading the book, where you do get to spend so much more time with them. You’re in Elio’s head more, so you understand exactly how he’s feeling. But actually, for the runtime and the story Guadagnino wanted to tell, I think he captures their relationship so perfectly.

There’s a distinct queerness to their relationship and the way it builds through unspoken gestures and subtle nuances—details you only really notice if you’re aware of what’s happening and how both of them are feeling. There’s this moment when Timothée Chalamet, as Elio, is shaving in the mirror. He finishes, and the camera just holds on him. That moment blew me away. I already loved his performance in this film, but that one scene stuck with me.

He looks at himself, and you can tell he’s pleased and happy. You know exactly why he shaved and what that implies. But then the camera lingers just a beat longer, and his expression shifts ever so slightly. It speaks volumes about the insecurities he has in himself, which are explored more throughout the film.

In recent months, I’ve had really intense emotions I don’t fully understand. I’ve been trying to piece together how I feel, often feeling lost and inadequate. There’s a moment in the film that I had completely forgotten about until this rewatch. I remember the tracking shot of Elio and Oliver at the fountain, talking about the statue, but I didn’t remember the content of that scene. When Oliver says to Elio, “You’re so intelligent. You know so much,” and Elio responds, “I don’t. I know nothing of the things that matter,” I was overwhelmed. Once again, I felt so deeply seen by this character.

They’re talking in veiled sentences, nothing explicit, but I knew exactly how Elio felt. And that sucks. It’s a testament to Guadagnino’s work that, in such a short runtime, you’re able to fully understand who Elio is and the mess that is his brain. I don’t think this is a universal experience, but I found it endlessly relatable. The film is so quiet and introspective—I just adored it.

Weirdly, I didn’t view this as a blossoming love story between Elio and Oliver this time. I think their relationship is secondary. It facilitates the ability to explore these feelings that are so hard to describe and talk about. I found myself appreciating this film endlessly more because of that.

By the time it hits Michael Stuhlbarg’s speech at the end, I felt wrecked. Since I first watched this film, I’ve come to know myself more, and that speech—both reading it and watching it in the movie—hit me so hard. Like I’m sure it does for most people, it resonates deeply. For someone like me, who has wanted to rip out and destroy certain emotions, that speech is so beautiful. Stuhlbarg delivers it so beautifully.

It weirdly serves as this glimmer of hope in an ending that is so melancholic and devastating. It reminds you that even in the hardest times, when emotions feel unbearable, those feelings will pass. Let them pass through you. Don’t rip them out, because those feelings are what make us who we are.

In the moment, it can feel impossible to hold onto that. You might desperately want to get rid of those feelings. But isn’t it better to have felt than to never feel at all?

And then comes that devastating final scene. I still maintain it’s a better ending than the book. Last time I watched it, I just thought it was a beautiful ending. This time, I felt so much. Since watching it, it’s stuck with me in a completely different way.

What a gorgeous, gorgeous movie. I felt deeply jealous watching this stunning, sun-drenched film while it was freezing cold outside. What a cheery Christmas romp