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CALL ME BY YOUR NAME

Producer: Peter Spears, Luca Guadagnino, Emilie Georges, Rodrigo Teixeita and Marco Morabito
Director: Luca Guadagnino
Writer: James IvoryLuca Guadagnino and Walter Fasano
Stars: Armie Hammer, Timothee Chalamet, Michael Stuhlbarg, Amira Cesar, Esther Garrel, Victoire Du Bois, Vanda Capriolo, Antonio Rimoldi, Elena Bucci, Marco Sgrosso, Andre Aciman and Peter Spears
Studio: Sony Pictures Classics

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More than a decade ago Ang Lee’s screen adaptation of Annie Proulx’s “Brokeback Mountain” became a breakthrough film in terms of presenting gay attraction as a theme in mainstream cinema. Told in a stately, reserved manner, it nonetheless showed enormous empathy even as it proceeded to a tragic denouement.

Now Luca Guadagnino’s “Call Me By Your Name,” adapted by James Ivory, Guadagnino and Walter Fasano from André Aciman’s novel, represents a major progression along those lines—a coming-of-age story that celebrates a young man’s finding himself told with sensitivity and honesty. But unlike last year’s equally groundbreaking “Moonlight,” it’s done up in sunny, exuberant style—in Guadagnino’s characteristically extrovert fashion, abetted by the gloriously lustrous cinematography of Sayombhu Makdeeprom—even though it concludes with a recognition that love is not necessarily lasting.

The story is simple but the emotional undercurrents complex. In the summer of 1983, seventeen-year old Elio Perlman (Timothée Chalamet) is enjoying his family’s customary summer in their north Italian villa with his American father (Michael Stuhlbarg), a professor of classical archaeology, and his Italian mother (Amira Casar). Elio is a prodigy of sorts—studious, multi-lingual and adept on guitar and piano. He is also understandably engaging in preliminary sexual experimentation with his girlfriend Marzia (Esther Garrel).

Enter Oliver (Armie Hammer), the handsome, easygoing twenty-something grad student who will serve as the professor’s research assistant for the season. As usual, Elio surrenders his room to the fellow he calls “the usurper,” moving into an adjacent one with a shared bathroom.

For weeks, it seems, the relationship between the two is a succession of fumbled approaches and mixed signals. Elio is put off by Oliver’s casual self-confidence, his ability to fit in with the locals, even by the offhanded “Later” with which he departs any scene. When Oliver simply touches his shoulder, he cringes. And yet Elio is drawn to Oliver as they cycle around the village or go to an outdoor dance party; he will, among other things, take to wearing a Star of David necklace in emulation of him.

And one day, as they circle a war memorial in the town square, Elio gingerly makes a suggestion to Oliver that he follows up with a far more direct invitation as they lie in the verdant grass beside a cool stream. Oliver initially resists, and Elio himself is torn, not only continuing to engage with Marzia but ridiculing a flamboyant gay couple, Mounir (Aciman himself, in a cameo) and Isaac (producer Peter Spears), when they visit his parents. Later that night, though, Elio approaches Oliver, and they finally connect in a highly erotic but discreetly composed coupling, from a line of dialogue in which the film’s title takes its meaning.

The relationship is intense but also shot through with humor, most notably in what will surely become the film’s most memorable scene, involving a peach put to a distinctive use, which Oliver remarks on with a hilarious observation. But it is also short, since Oliver’s departure is imminent. Elio’s parents suggest that the two share a few days in Bergamo before Oliver leaves for America, and there they enjoy a passionate time together that includes a pop song that, for once, is perfectly chosen.

Through that song sequence, the film also upends one of the most disreputable clichés of the genre, replacing the usual episode of discovery and mistreatment with one of mingled joy and sadness instead. And further surprise is forthcoming in an extraordinary conversation between father and son after Elio returns home, a revealing monologue on friendship and love—with a nod to Montaigne –which Stuhlbarg delivers with a remarkable combination of simplicity and depth. A postscript set in the following winter, marked by an uninterrupted minutes-long close-up of Elio that can be seen as the visual equivalent of his father’s message, ends the film on an equally compelling note.

That final scene also represents the culmination of a performance by Chalamet that is stunning in every respect (and made more so in this instance because he has to share the sequence for a while with a pesky fly). Over the course of that single close-up the young actor registers in miniature the arc of uncertainty, happiness and heartbreak in his summer experience that he has earlier conveyed so brilliantly throughout the film. This result is one of the fullest, most compelling portraits of adolescent longing ever seen on screen.

Chalamet’s accomplishment, however, shouldn’t be allowed to overshadow Hammer’s less showy but equally impressive performance. The film truly represents a cinematic pas de deux in which each partner must support the other with impeccable timing and control, and Hammer contributes his best work ever to the equation. Stuhlbarg ‘s presence is supportive all along, but he takes center stage with that incredible final speech; the remainder of the cast is also excellent, as are the contributions of the technical crew, including production designer Samuel Dehors and costumer Giulia Piersanti. And the editing of Fasano complements Makdeemrom’s camerawork perfectly: watch that war memorial scene, and the bicycle episode that follows, where Fasano allows the empty road to linger before catching up to the men at the lake.

Some viewers may inevitably react negatively, in this post-Kevin Spacey world, to the very idea of a relationship between a seventeen-year old and a man seven or eight years older. But the story told by “Call Me By Your Name” has nothing to do with force or coercion, or any sort of abuse; it’s about an impulse on both sides that each resists until the other is ready, and the essential purity of what comes of their mutual surrender to it. (The visual allusions to the statuary of the Greco-Roman period also point to an epoch which looked upon such relationships very differently.) This is, in the end, a simple and beautiful love story—a “Brief Encounter” that happens to be gay, told with humanity and heart-wrenching truth. (The departure of the train near the close calls David Lean’s film to mind.)

It is also, of course, one of the year’s very best films.

THE SHAPE OF WATER

Producer: Guillermo del Toro and J. Miles Dale
Director: Guillermo del Toro
Writer: Guillermo del Toro and Vanessa Taylor
Stars: Sally Hawkins, Michael Shannon, Richard Jenkins, Octavia Spencer, Doug Jones, Michael Stuhlbarg, David Hewlett, Nick Searcy, Stewart Arnott, Nigel Bennett, Morgan Kelly, Lauren Lee Smith, Martin Roach, Allegra Fulton and John Kapelos
Studio: Fox Searchlight Pictures

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After expending entirely too much effort on big-budget nonsense like “Blade,” “Hellboy,” “Pacific Rim” and “Crimson Peak” (not to mention the TV series “The Strain” and the flop thriller “Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark”), Guillermo del Toro has returned to his roots in offbeat, highly personal cinema with his best film in a decade—ever since “Pan’s Labyrinth.” While still feeding into del Toro’s love of the genre movies he adored while growing up, “The Shape of Water” proves a nostalgia trip with real emotional resonance, a fantastic fable of outsiders pitted against a cruel world that makes its viewers think as well as feel.

The film can be briefly described as a romance between the Creature from the Black Lagoon and a mute maintenance worker, but that would sell it short. In 1962, as the Cold War rages, an amphibian man (limned, in a remarkable “creature” suit, by Doug Jones) has been captured by the U.S. government and brought to a facility in Baltimore, where he is guarded—and mistreated—by a brutal federal agent named Richard Strickland (Michael Shannon) while being examined by the far more sympathetic Dr. Robert Hoffstetler (Michael Stuhlbarg). The goal is to determine how the creature’s anatomy might provide clues that might facilitate human abilities in space travel.

It’s top secret, hush-hush stuff, of course, but when Strickland suffers an injury that requires aid (as well as a cleaning job), two of the maintenance staff are allowed into the inner sanctum—mute, mousy Elisa Esposito (Sally Hawkins) and her sassy buddy Zelda (Octavia Spencer). Elisa catches a glimpse of the melancholy creature, and feels it a kindred spirit of sorts. Using food and music, she secretly coaxes it into a relationship that blossoms into an interspecies friendship, and then something more. And when Strickland and his super-hawkish military superior General Hoyt (Nick Searcy) decide that the experiment should be terminated with extreme prejudice despite Hoffstetler’s objections, Elisa decides to intervene, enlisting her reluctant neighbor Giles (Richard Jenkins) to assist her in pulling off a great escape. (Others will eventually take roles in the mission as well.)

Given that this is a del Toro film, there are some elements—Strickland’s early accident and its aftermath, an impromptu lunch the creature grabs in Giles’s apartment, a last-act confrontation that takes a violent turn—that are somewhat gruesome. But they’re embedded in a rich, mesmerizing romantic fantasy with a heartfelt streak that extends to all of society’s outcasts. Visually it’s as gorgeous as “Crimson Peak” was, though the perfectly detailed color palette this time emphasizes blues and greens as opposed to the reds of the earlier picture (it’s impossible to overpraise the work of production designer Paul Denham Austerberry and cinematographer Dan Lausten), and aurally it’s equally magical, thanks not only to the period pop songs used as plot pegs but to the lovely, amazingly varied music by Alexandre Desplat, which stands out even among his long train of outstanding scores.

The centerpiece of “Water” is, of course, the relationship between Elisa, played by Hawkins with ineffable charm) and the amphibian man (with Jones bringing poetic grace to his every move). They are the ultimate unlikely couple, both of them isolated from society in distinct ways but drawn together by a bond of differentness. But the other characters are outsiders, too. Giles, beautifully played by Jenkins, is a gay man fired from his job at an ad agency that he’s desperately trying to win back; and when he attempts to make contact with the counterman at a pie shop (Morgan Kelly), he’s cruelly rebuffed. The same clerk refuses to serve African-American customers, which throws into relief the position of Zelda (played with typical energy by Spencer) at a time when casual racism, in contrast to today’s hidden variety, was rife. (Prejudice of any sort, in fact, is equated with some degree of dehumanization, which reaches its ultimate point in, for example, Strickland’s attitude toward the amphibian.) But even Hoffstetler, whom Stuhlbarg endows with a weary dignity, turns out to stand apart while Strickland himself, to whom Shannon brings a demonic degree of malevolent intensity, finds himself alone in the end.

As so often in del Toro’s films, one can’t help but note the director’s own cinematic obsessions at work. Elisa and Giles not only share a love of old Hollywood musicals, which they watch together on television—a plot thread that leads to a rhapsodically outrageous dance sequence that trumps even those in Herbert Ross’s sumptuous remake of Dennis Potter’s “Pennies from Heaven”—but just happen to live above a creaky old theatre where CinemaScope biblical epics play to near-empty houses.

But while such references could seem merely precious or cute, in this case they bring an added layer of feeling to a wondrous adult fairy-tale played out with impeccable cinematic control. “The Shape of Water” is a magical and moving experience.