《call me by your name》
《call me by your name》
👉摇滚 盛世美颜 颠倒众生
小妖精戴涵涵 × 麻瓜版哈利波特（划掉）
👉冯德伦 × 吴彦祖
👉神曲Merry Christmas Mr.Lawrence出处
影片 《当我们17岁》 法国
影片 《当我们17岁》 法国
With one hand on the handlebar...
With one hand on the handlebar he lifted his shirt and exposed a huge scrape and bruise on his left hip.
"Still gives me the creeps," I said, repeating my aunt's verdict.
"Just a lost soul, really."
I would have touched, caressed, worshipped that scrape.
On our way, I noticed that Oliver was taking his time. He wasn't in his usual rush, no speeding, no scaling the hill with his usual athletic zeal. Nor did he seem in a rush to go back to his paperwork, or join his friends on the beach, or, as was usually the case, ditch me.
Perhaps he had nothing better to do. This was my moment in heaven and, young as I was, I knew it wouldn't last and that I should at least enjoy it for what it was rather than ruin it with my oft-cranked resolution to firm up our friendship or take it to another plane. There'll never be a friendship, I thought, this is nothing, just a minute of grace.
"Is there anything you don't know?"
I looked at him. This was my moment. I could seize it or I could lose it, but either way I knew I would never live it down. Or I could gloat over his compliment—but live to regret everything else. This was probably the first time in my life that I spoke to an adult without planning some of what I was going to say. I was too nervous to plan anything.
"I know nothing, Oliver. Nothing, just nothing."
"You know more than anyone around here."
Why was he returning my near-tragic tone with bland ego-boosting?
"If you only knew how little I know about the things that really matter."
He must have hit on something, though God knows what. Perhaps he was trying not to seem taken aback.
"What things that matter?"
Was he being disingenuous?
"You know what things. By now you of all people should know."
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because I thought you should know."
"Because you thought I should know." He repeated my words slowly, trying to take in their full meaning, all the while sorting them out, playing for time by repeating the words. The iron, I knew, was burning hot.
"Because I want you to know," I blurted out. "Because there is no one else I can say it to but you."
There, I had said it.
Was I making any sense?
I was about to interrupt and sidetrack the conversation by saying something about the sea and the weather tomorrow and whether it might be a good idea to sail out to E. as my father kept promising this time every year.
But to his credit he didn't let me loose.
"Do you know what you're saying?"
This time I looked out to the sea and, with a vague and weary tone that was my last diversion, my last cover, my last getaway, said, "Yes, I know what I'm saying and you're not mistaking any of it. I'm just not very good at speaking. But you're welcome never to speak to me again."
"Wait. Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"Ye-es." Now that I had spilled the beans I could take on the laid-back, mildly exasperated air with which a felon, who's surrendered to the police, confesses yet once more to yet one more police officer how he robbed the store.
"Wait for me here, I have to run upstairs and get some papers. Don't go away."
I looked at him with a confiding smile.
"You know very well I'm not going anywhere."
P.S.“Because I wanted you to know.”
"I wish I hadn't spoken," I finally said.
I knew as soon as I'd said it that I'd broken the exiguous spell between us.
"I'm going to pretend you never did."
Well, that was an approach I'd never expected from a man who was so okay with the world. I'd never heard such a sentence used in our house.
"Does this mean we're on speaking terms—but not really?"
He thought about it.
"Look, we can't talk about such things. We really can't."
He slung his bag around him and we were off downhill.
He was waiting for me to say something. He was staring at me.
This, I think, is the first time I dared myself to stare back at him. Usually, I'd cast a glance and then look away—look away because I didn't want to swim in the lovely, clear pool of his eyes unless I'd been invited to—and I never waited long enough to know whether I was even wanted there; look away because I was too scared to stare anyone back; look away because I didn't want to give anything away; look away because I couldn't acknowledge how much he mattered. Look away because that steely gaze of his always reminded me of how tall he stood and how far below him I ranked.
Now, in the silence of the moment, I stared back, not to defy him, or to show I wasn't shy any longer, but to surrender, to tell him this is who I am, this is who you are, this is what I want, there is nothing but truth between us now, and where there's truth there are no barriers, no shifty glances, and if nothing comes of this, let it never be said that either of us was unaware of what might happen. I hadn't a hope left. And maybe I stared back because there wasn't a thing to lose now. I stared back with the all-knowing, I-dare-you-to-kiss-me gaze of someone who both challenges and flees with one and the same gesture.
Each leaning on one arm, we both stared out at the view. "You're the luckiest kid in the world," he said.
"You don't know the half of it."
I let him ponder my statement. Then, perhaps to fill the silence that was becoming unbearable, I blurted out, "So much of it is wrong, though."
"What? Your family?"
"Living here all summer long, reading by yourself, meeting all those dinner drudges your father dredges up at every meal?" He was making fun of me again.
I smirked. No, that wasn't it either.
He paused a moment.
"Us, you mean."
I did not reply.
"Let's see, then—" And before I knew it, he sidled up to me.
We were too close, I thought, I'd never been so close to him except in a dream or when he cupped his hand to light my cigarette. If he brought his ear any closer he'd hear my heart. I'd seen it written in novels but never believed it until now.
He stared me right in the face, as though he liked my face and wished to study it and to linger on it, then he touched my nether lip with his finger and let it travel left and right and right and left again and again as I lay there, watching him smile in a way that made me fear anything might happen now and there'd be no turning back, that this was his way of asking, and here was my chance to say no or to say something and play for time, so that I might still debate the matter with myself, now that it had reached this point—
except that I didn't have any time left, because he brought his lips to my mouth, a warm, conciliatory, I'll-meet-you-halfway-but-no-further kiss till he realized how famished mine was. I wished I knew how to calibrate my kiss the way he did. But passion allows us to hide more, and at that moment on Monet's berm, if I wished to hide everything about me in this kiss, I was also desperate to forget the kiss by losing myself in it.
"Better now?" he asked afterward.
I did not answer but lifted my face to his and kissed him again, almost savagely, not because I was filled with passion or even because his kiss still lacked the zeal I was looking for, but because I was not so sure our kiss had convinced me of anything about myself. I was not even sure I had enjoyed it as much as I'd expected and needed to test it again, so that even in the act itself, I needed to test the test.
When, finally, I lifted one knee and moved it toward him to face him, I knew I had broken the spell.
"I think we should go."
"We can't do this—I know myself. So far we've behaved. We've been good. Neither of us has done anything to feel ashamed of. Let's keep it that way. I want to be good."
"Don't be. I don't care. Who is to know?"
In a desperate move which I knew I'd never live down if he did not relent, I reached for him and let my hand rest on his crotch. He did not move. I should have slipped my hand straight into his shorts. He must have read my intention and, with total composure, bordering on a gesture that was very gentle but also quite glacial, brought his hand there and let it rest on mine for a second, then, twining his fingers into mine, lifted my hand.
A moment of unbearable silence settled between us.
"Did I offend you?"
The light of my eyes, I said, light of my eyes, light of the world, that's what you are, light of my life. I didn't know what light of my eyes meant, and part of me wondered where on earth had I fished out such claptrap, but it was nonsense like this that brought tears now, tears I wished to drown in his pillow, soak in his bathing suit, tears I wanted him to touch with the tip of his tongue and make sorrow go away.
I tore out a sheet of paper from a school notebook.
Please don't avoid me.
Then I rewrote it:
Please don't avoid me. It kills me.
Which I rewrote:
Your silence is killing me.
Way over the top.
Can't stand thinking you hate me.
Too plangent. No, make it less lachrymose, but keep the trite death speech.
I'd sooner die than know you hate me.
At the last minute I came back to the original.
Can't stand the silence. I need to speak to you.
"We haven't talked," he said.
I shrugged my shoulders, meaning, No need to.
He lifted my face with both hands and stared at me as we had done that day on the berm, this time even more intensely because both of us knew we'd already crossed the bar. "Can I kiss you?" What a question, coming after our kiss on the berm! Or had we wiped the slate clean and were starting all over again?
I did not give him an answer. Without nodding, I had already brought my mouth to his, just as I'd kissed Marzia the night before. Something unexpected seemed to clear away between us, and, for a second, it seemed there was absolutely no difference in age between us, just two men kissing, and even this seemed to dissolve, as I began to feel we were not even two men, just two beings. I loved the egalitarianism of the moment. I loved feeling younger and older, human to human, man to man, Jew to Jew.
"I had to see you," I said as I rushed to him. "Why, something wrong?" "I just had to see you." "Aren't you sick of me?" I thought I was—I was about to say—and I wanted to be—"I just wanted to be with you," I said. Then it hit me: "If you want, I'll go back now," I said. He stood still, dropped his hand with the bundle of unsent letters still in it, and simply stood there staring at me, shaking his head. "Do you have any idea how glad I am we slept together?"
I shrugged my shoulders as though to put away another compliment. I was unworthy of compliments, most of all coming from him. "I don't know."
"It would be just like you not to know. I just don't want to regret any of it—including what you wouldn't let me talk about this morning. I just dread the thought of having messed you up. I don't want either of us to have to pay one way or another."
I knew exactly what he was referring to but pretended otherwise. "I'm not telling anyone. There won't be any trouble."
"I didn't mean that. I'm sure I'll pay for it somehow, though." And for the first time in daylight I caught a glimpse of a different Oliver. "For you, however you think of it, it's still fun and games, which it should be. For me it's something else which I haven't figured out, and the fact that I can't scares me."
"Are you sorry I came?" Was I being intentionally fatuous?
"I'd hold you and kiss you if I could."
I came up to his ear as he was just about to enter the post office and whispered, "Fuck me, Elio."
He remembered and instantly moaned his own name three times, as we'd done during that night. I could feel myself already getting hard. Then, to tease him with the very same words he'd uttered earlier that morning, I said, "We'll save it for later."
I awoke to the sound of someone unhooking the latch of the shutters and then hooking it back behind him. As in my dream once, he was tiptoeing toward me, not in an effort to surprise me, but so as not to wake me up. I knew it was Oliver and, with my eyes still closed, raised my arm to him. He grabbed it and kissed it, then lifted the sheet and seemed surprised to find me naked.
He immediately brought his lips to where they'd promised to return this morning. He loved the sticky taste. What had I done?
I told him and pointed to the bruised evidence sitting on my desk.
"Let me see."
He stood up and asked if I'd left it for him. Perhaps I had. Or had I simply put off thinking how to dispose of it?
"Is this what I think it is?"
I nodded naughtily in mock shame.
"Any idea how much work Anchise puts into each one of these?"
He was joking, but it felt as though he, or someone through him, was asking the same question about the work my parents had put into me.
He brought the half peach to bed, making certain not to spill its contents as he took his clothes off.
"I'm sick, aren't I?" I asked.
"No, you're not sick—I wish everyone were as sick as you. Want to see sick?"
What was he up to? I hesitated to say yes.
"Just think of the number of people who've come before you—you, your grandfather, your great-great-grandfather, and all the skipped generations of Elios before you, and those from places far away, all squeezed into this trickle that makes you who you are. Now may I taste it?"
I shook my head.
He dipped a finger into the core of the peach and brought it to his mouth.
"Please don't." This was more than I could bear.
"I never could stand my own. But this is yours. Please explain."
"It makes me feel terrible."
He simply shrugged my comment away.
"Look, you don't have to do this. I'm the one who came after you, I sought you out, everything that happened is because of me—you don't have to do this."
"Nonsense. I wanted you from day one. I just hid it better."
I lunged out to grab the fruit from his hand, but with his other hand he caught hold of my wrist and squeezed it hard, as they do in movies, when one man forces another to let go of a knife.
"You're hurting me."
"Then let go."
I watched him put the peach in his mouth and slowly begin to eat it, staring at me so intensely that I thought even lovemaking didn't go so far.
"If you just want to spit it out, it's okay, it's really okay, I promise I won't be offended," I said to break the silence more than as a last plea.
He shook his head. I could tell he was tasting it at that very instant. Something that was mine was in his mouth, more his than mine now. I don't know what happened to me at that moment as I kept staring at him, but suddenly I had a fierce urge to cry. And rather than fight it, as with orgasm, I simply let myself go, if only to show him something equally private about me as well.
I reached for him and muffled my sobs against his shoulder. I was crying because no stranger had ever been so kind or gone so far for me, even Anchise, who had cut open my foot once and sucked and spat out and sucked and spat out the scorpion's venom. I was crying because I'd never known so much gratitude and there was no other way to show it. And I was crying for the evil thoughts I'd nursed against him this morning. And for last night as well, because, for better or worse, I'd never be able to undo it, and now was as good a time as any to show him that he was right, that this wasn't easy, that fun and games had a way of skidding off course and that if we had rushed into things it was too late to step back from them now—crying because something was happening, and I had no idea what it was.
"Whatever happens between us, Elio, I just want you to know. Don't ever say you didn't know." He was still chewing. In the heat of passion it would have been one thing. But this was quite another. He was taking me away with him.
His words made no sense. But I knew exactly what they meant.
I rubbed his face with my palm. Then, without knowing why, I began to lick his eyelids.
"Kiss me now, before it's totally gone," I said. His mouth would taste of peaches and me.
"I was waiting for you," I said.
"I thought you'd gone to sleep. I even thought you didn't want to."
"No. Waiting. I just turned the lights off."
I looked up to our house. The window shutters were all closed. I bent down and kissed him on his neck. It was the first time I had kissed him with feeling, not just desire. He put his arm around me. Harmless, if anyone saw.
"What were you doing?" I asked.
"Things. Going back to the States. The courses I have to teach this fall. The book. You." "Me?"
"Me?" He was mimicking my modesty. "No one else?"
"No one else." He was silent for a while. "I come here every night and just sit here. Sometimes I spend hours."
"All by yourself?"
"I never knew. I thought—"
"I know what you thought."
The news couldn't have made me happier. It had obviously been shadowing everything between us. I decided not to press the matter.
"This spot is probably what I'll miss the most." Then, upon reflection: "I've been happy in B."
It sounded like a preamble to farewells.
"When did you know about me?" I asked him one day. I was hoping he'd say, When I squeezed your shoulder and you almost wilted in my arms. Or, When you got wet under your bathing suit that one afternoon when we chatted in your room. Something along those lines. "When you blushed," he said.
He must have known exactly what I was feeling. What made me blush in the end was not the natural embarrassment of the moment when I could tell he'd caught me trying to hold his gaze only then to let mine scamper to safety; what made me blush was the thrilling possibility, unbelievable as I wanted it to remain, that he might actually like me, and that he liked me in just the way I liked him.
For weeks I had mistaken his stare for barefaced hostility. I was wide of the mark. It was simply a shy man's way of holding someone else's gaze.
We were, it finally dawned on me, the two shyest persons in the world.
When I opened his closet I noticed that he had left a bathing suit, a pair of underwear, his chinos, and a clean shirt on a few hangers. I recognized the shirt. Billowy. And I recognized the suit. Red. This for when he'd go swimming one last time this morning.
"I must tell you about this bathing suit," I said when I closed his closet door.
"Tell me what?"
"I'll tell you on the train."
But I told him all the same. "Just promise to let me keep it after you're gone."
"Well, wear it a lot today—and don't swim in it."
"Sick and twisted."
"Sick and twisted and very, very sad."
"I've never seen you like this."
"I want Billowy too. And the espadrilles. And the sunglasses. And you."
On the train I told him about the day we thought he'd drowned and how I was determined to ask my father to round up as many fishermen as he could to go look for him, and when they found him, to light a pyre on our shore, while I grabbed Mafalda's knife from the kitchen and ripped out his heart, because that heart and his shirt were all I'd ever have to show for my life. A heart and a shirt. His heart wrapped in a damp shirt—like Anchise's fish.
电影 《男孩》 荷兰
电影 《男孩》 荷兰
【春光乍泄】 又名【Happy Together】影评
【春光乍泄】 又名【Happy Together】影评
【王折鱼的影评系列！】 VOL 4
【尤加绿的影评系列！】 VOL 3
这部影片运用了大量音乐插曲暗示主人公情绪的转变和故事发展的背景。电影色调清新自然，取景就在主人公居住的小镇，熟悉的人物和草地水池都让人放松。大片青春的肉体更是和夏日相得益彰。而电影名“Call me by your name”则是情人间的床底呓语，寓意情人间的亲密无间融入骨血般的浓烈情感。
影片中主角细腻的情感被演员们精湛的演技展现的淋漓尽致。经典的长镜头片段——二人隔着一战雕像埃利奥喃喃的说“Because I want you to know”重复了三遍，那一瞬间将他对奥利弗的感情中懵懂但是又希望得到的犹豫传达给了观众。以及埃利奥玩弄那颗杏子的时候，对性的明示是想要把这颗杏子当做奥利弗，被发现且调戏之后窘迫到哭泣，其实是埃利奥对自己的贬低使得他情绪失控。他与奥利弗的感情在世人看来是“病态且不健康”的。无论是在年龄还是性别上都不会被大众所认可，但他仍然遵循内心深处的情感指引，和奥利弗开始了这场让他永生难忘的短暂初恋。
【王折鱼的影评系列】 VOL 1
life is short, have some pride.
原著分为四部分，以下摘自第一部分“If Not Later，When？（回头不试，更待何时？） ”
原著分为四部分，以下摘自第一部分“If Not Later，When？（回头不试，更待何时？） ”
Better stay away from him，I thought. To think that I had almost fallen for the skin of his hands， his chest， his feet that had never touched a rough surface in their existence—and his eyes， which，when their other，kinder gaze fell on you，came like the miracle of the Resurrection. You could never stare long enough but needed to keep staring to find out why you couldn't.
I knew exactly what phrase in the piece must have stirred him the first time，and each time I played it， I was sending it to him as a little gift， because it was really dedicated to him,，as a token of something very beautiful in me that would take no genius to figure out and that urged me to throw in an extended cadenza. Just for him.
We were—and he must have recognized the signs long before I did—flirting.
Fire like fear，like panic，like one more minute of this and I'll die if he doesn't knock at my door，but I'd sooner he never knock than knock now. I had learned to leave my French windows ajar，and I'd lie on my bed wearing only my bathing suit，my entire body on fire. Fire like a pleading that says， Please, please， tell me I'm wrong， tell me I've imagined all this， because it can't possibly be true for you as well， and if it's true for you too， then you're the crudest man alive.
This，the afternoon he did finally walk into my room without knocking as if summoned by my prayers and asked how come I wasn't with the others at the beach， and all I could think of saying， though I couldn't bring myself to say it， was， To be with you. To be with you， Oliver. With or without my bathing suit. To be with you on my bed. In your bed. Which is my bed during the other months of the year. Do with me what you want. Take me.
What I hoped he hadn't noticed in my overreaction to his grip was something else. Before shirking off his arm， I knew I had yielded to his hand and had almost leaned into it, as if to sa——as I'd heard adults so often say when someone happened to massage their shoulders while passing behind the——Don't stop. Had he noticed I was ready not just to yield but to mold into his body？
But it was the gold necklace and the Star of David with a golden mezuzah on his neck that told me here was something more compelling than anything I wanted from him, for it bound us and reminded me that, while everything else conspired to make us the two most dissimilar beings, this at least transcended all differences.
What baffled me was that he didn't seem to care or notice that I wore one too. Just as he probably didn't care or notice each time my eyes wandered along his bathing suit.
"What are you doing?"
"No, you're not."
I was dying to tell him.
"Private," I replied.
"So you won't tell me?"
"So I won't tell you."
"So he won't tell me," he repeated, pensively, as if explaining to someone about me.
How I loved the way he repeated what I myself had just repeated. It made me think of a caress, or of a gesture, which happens to be totally accidental the first time but becomes intentional the second time and more so yet the third.
No, two would do, he replied, and, turning to my parents, added, "I know myself. If I have three, I'll have a fourth, and more." I had never heard someone his age say, I know myself. It intimidated me.
"It's a long story, so bear with me, Pro." Suddenly Oliver had become serious. "Many Latin words are derived from the Greek. In the case of 'apricot,' however, it's the other way around; the Greek takes over from Latin. The Latin word was praecoquum, from pre-coquere, pre-cook, to ripen early, as in 'precocious,' meaning premature."
My mother, unable to resist his charm, reached out to him and tousled his hair and said, "Che muvi star!"
"He is right, there is no denying it," said my father under his breath, as though mimicking the part of a cowered Galileo forced to mutter the truth to himself.
"Courtesy of Philology 101," said Oliver.
All I kept thinking of was apricock precock, precock apricock.
"What's it to you anyway?" he asked.
I described her naked body, which I'd seen two years before. I wanted him aroused. It didn't matter what he desired so long as he was aroused.
"Are you trying to make me like her?"
"What would the harm be in that?"
"No harm. Except I like to go it alone, if you don't mind."
It took me a while to understand what I was really after. Not just to get him aroused in my presence, or to make him need me, but in urging him to speak about her behind her back, I'd turn Chiara into the object of man-to-man gossip. It would allow us to warm up to one another through her, to bridge the gap between us by admitting we were drawn to the same woman.
They are embossed on every song that was a hit that summer, in every novel I read during and after his stay, on anything from the smell of rosemary on hot days to the frantic rattle of the cicadas in the afternoon—smells and sounds I'd grown up with and known every year of my life until then but that had suddenly turned on me and acquired an inflection forever colored by the events of that summer.
I had been perfectly willing to brand him as difficult and unapproachable and have nothing more to do with him. Two words from him, and I had seen my pouting apathy change into I'll play anything for you till you ask me to stop, till it's time for lunch, till the skin on my fingers wears off layer after layer, because I like doing things for you, will do anything for you, just say the word.
Was he my home, then, my homecoming? You are my homecoming. When I'm with you and we're well together, there is nothing more I want. You make me like who I am, who I become when you're with me, Oliver. If there is any truth in the world, it lies when I'm with you, and if I find the courage to speak my truth to you one day, remind me to light a candle in thanksgiving at every altar in Rome.
Don't let him be someone else when he's away. Don't let him be someone I've never seen before. Don't let him have a life other than the life I know he has with us, with me.
Don't let me lose him.
I knew I had no hold on him, nothing to offer, nothing to lure him by.
I was nothing.
Just a kid.
I wanted him gone from our home so as to be done with him.
I wanted him dead too, so that if I couldn't stop thinking about him and worrying about when would be the next time I'd see him, at least his death would put an end to it. I wanted to kill him myself, even, so as to let him know how much his mere existence had come to bother me.
If I didn't kill him, then I'd cripple him for life, so that he'd be with us in a wheelchair and never go back to the States. If he were in a wheelchair, I would always know where he was, and he'd be easy to find. I would feel superior to him and become his master, now that he was crippled.
There is a law somewhere that says that when one person is thoroughly smitten with the other, the other must unavoidably be smitten as well. Amor ch'a nulVamato amar perdona. Love, which exempts no one who's loved from loving, Francesca's words in the Inferno. Just wait and be hopeful. I was hopeful, though perhaps this was what I had wanted all along. To wait forever.
我记得在哪儿听过一个法则：当A完全迷恋B的时候，B必定无可避免地也爱上了A。Amorch' anull' amatoamar perdona 。“爱，让每一个被爱的人无可豁免地也要去爱”，这是弗兰西斯卡在《地狱篇》里说的话。耐心等待、怀着希望。我充满希望，或许这就是我一直渴望的。我会永恒等待。
Thanks for reading.