Call Me by Your Name

Call Me by Your Name ★★★★★

*Sufjan Stevens playing softly in the corner*

He came. He left. Some things are just too terrible to grasp at once. Other things – often naked, indelible in their strange remembrance as translucent thin layers of film rattle back and forth around one’s brain until the realization dawns, telling them that, albeit gone, the summer of ‘83 would last their whole life. Bodies basked in the morning sun, remaining unadulterated, and pages of transcribed music, Greek poems, French novels flapping continuously across the dinner table. It’s not that hard to fall in love with these pretentious European bourgeoisies who leisurely rode their bikes to the countryside, philosophized about the attraction of language, chewing on soft fruits, drinking apricot juice, calling names (your name, my name, our names or any names) and pondering on whether it would be better to speak or to die. Their answer to that was to love - love ‘til it scars, love ‘til the nose bleeds, love as the peach explodes, and love without realizing that they were on borrowed time (something that cannot be borrowed more), without realizing the cigarette ashes had gone cold. This one is so good that I don't think the sequel is necessary.

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