Review: Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman

I first saw Call Me by Your Name last December at Edinburgh’s independent Cameo cinema. What initially began as an innocent meander along a vague interest in the fiery nostalgia of the trailer ended in a near-death experience facilitated by an endless stream of tears. I will not write that I have never before been so emotionally sucker-punched by a film because, hey, I’ve seen A.I. like three times and do not even *begin* to tell me that the forest abandonment scene is not the most heart-wrenching thing you have ever had the (dis)pleasure of viewing! So yes, I will not write that, but I will emphasise that watching the credits of Luca Guadagnino’s chef-d’oeuvre slither down upon Timothée Chalamet’s sorrowful gaze was a similar experience to that of witnessing your entire life crumble into meaningless ash around your feet.

Regardless of these not-even-remotely dramatic sentiments, I did not switch on my laptop and bother to open a 34^th Microsoft Word document to write a lengthy review of Chalamet’s beauty and Guadagnino’s brains. I do, however, intend to share my thoughts on the silent assassin that started this whole mess: André Aciman’s original text.

The novel nosedives into the psychological ambling of the 17-year-old protagonist, Elio Perlman, without allowing the reader an opportunity to brace themselves. Almost the entirety of Aciman's prose reads as a stream-of-consciousness, as Elio decides, and then undecides, plans, and then unplans, ponders, and then continues to ponder in even greater profundity, the very essence of his feelings, whether they be good, bad, or lustful, about his family's summer house-guest, Oliver.

While such a narrative style has the potential to drive one absolutely potty with frustration, this novel must be the only one of its kind to convey the swoops and soars of first love / borderline infatuation with unflinching honesty and continued intrigue. Long story short, it somehow kind of works. Although the vast majority of its 250 pages try to unlock and categorise the hormonal frenzy of the protagonist rather than stray into the realm of having an actual plot, the text is never dull, never self-righteous or overly gratuitous, and the dialogue is always wonderfully honest.

Initially causing mild alarm and disbelief, the extent to which Elio's adoration became obsessive was occasionally difficult to swallow. As the film unravels at a luxuriously slow pace, like a cat unfurling itself on a sun-drenched patio, such intense infatuation is not communicated to the same degree as in the text. Admitting that this did render the 17-year-old sometimes slightly less personable in my eyes, as soon as the reader is able to understand the reciprocity of emotional feeling, it dwindles in its mild insanity.

Always the cynic, perhaps my unease in taking to the strength of Elio's love is part in parcel due to the fact that I am yet to experience the depth of worship conveyed throughout the text. I mean, golly, does it really set your standards high for love. Not only love, but personal discovery, sacrifice,  consciousness, and appreciation. Take my favourite quotation from the novel as an example of this:

Like every experience that marks us for a lifetime, I found myself turned inside out, drawn and quartered. This was the sum of everything I'd been in my life - and more: who I am when I sing and stir-fry vegetables for my family and friends on Sunday afternoons; who I am when I wake up on freezing nights and want nothing more than to throw on a sweater, rush to my desk, and write about the person I know no one knows I am, who I am when I crave to be naked with another naked body, or when I crave to be alone in the world; who I am when every part of me seems miles and centuries apart and each swears it hears my name.

Yeah, really deep - but comprehensible! Perhaps we, who do not possess Aciman's genius writing talents but feel that we're worthy of human kindness nonetheless, can all relate to this feeling, yet would never be able to articulate it in such a perfect way. This particular passage comes from an entire chapter dealing with what is called the San Clemente Syndrome. While this chapter is a little difficult to wrap your head around, in it Aciman compares the human experience to the Basilica of San Clemente in Rome, a sacred sight upon which layers and layers of new stone intent for new purposes are built on top of each other. Representative of the construction of an inner sacred site, within which total love for the other is imbued, Elio nd Oliver's stint in Rome entirely consecrates their relationship as eternal in the face of separation. One of the most important parts of the novel, the denouement is undoubtedly one of the most emotive pieces of literature that I have ever read.

Sure, it all seems a bit gushy, but taking time to quietly reflect upon the message here communicated by Aciman, Call Me by Your Name is an incredible book, an almost eulogy, that speaks for all love.

5 Patsy's out of 5