电影里的爱情究竟是乌托邦，还是真实存在的？

小楷 2018-01-04 00:47:27

看完电影有十几天了，从最开始的走不出来到现在的释然，从感伤为何相爱的人不能在一起到觉得遗憾也是一种美丽，我思考了许多。

许多人像我一般，看完电影后沉浸在电影中无法自拔，仿佛自己的心跟着艾里奥死了一样。电影情节一次又一次的回荡在脑海，初遇，交好，驾车出游，池边嬉戏以及甜蜜的床戏，到车站离别，直至电影最后一幕，艾里奥留下泪水，这些情节一直无法从脑海散去，带给人绵延的哀伤。有那么几天，我不想说话，不想理会任何人，心中只有艾里奥，我在想，为什么这样纯洁美好的爱情，不能有一个好的结局了？为什么明明相爱的两个人，却不能在一起了？带着这种情绪，我浑浑噩噩了几天。

就在某个早晨，我突然听到《遗憾》这首歌，心中豁然开朗。我明白自己为什么走不出来，为什么沉浸在电影情节中无法自拔，是因为遗憾啊！那种年少时弥足珍贵的感情，因为各种各样的原因，不得不放下的遗憾。对我来说，这份感情，对艾里奥和奥利弗都是一种遗憾，永远的遗憾，可是我又觉得，这种遗憾是美丽的，它比完整的东西要美得多。这种遗憾，因为难得，所以珍贵，这种遗憾，也有许多的无可奈何。

现在想来，电影终究是电影。也是在十几天后，我明白了，电影里讲述的东西太美好了，美好的一点也不现实，太假。可是这种美好，往往是最打动人心的。那样的夏天，那样的时光，那样的家庭，那样纯朴的民风，那样善良可爱的人，那样真挚美好的感情，那样单纯的两个人，那样开明的父母，都太美好了，不参杂一丝杂念，这样美好的东西，我称之为乌托邦，乌托邦的世界里，是有这样的感情的。朋友，静下心仔细想想，现实生活中会有这样的感情吗？会有电影里发生的一幕幕吗？在我看来，没有，爱情总归会归于现实。电影里那种美好的东西，只存在于每个人的心中，所以它那样打动你我！可是，一个人，一生能拥有这样的一个夏天，此生无憾了吧！

希望能帮到那些走不出来的朋友。

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2018-01-05 12:58:43 florabenbenben

纽约时报——Suddenly One Summer

Suddenly One Summer

By STACEY D’ERASMO
Published: February 25, 2007
This novel is hot. A coming-of-age story, a coming-out story, a Proustian meditation on time and desire, a love letter, an invocation and something of an epitaph, “Call Me by Your Name” is also an open question. It is an exceptionally beautiful book that cannot quite bring itself to draw the inevitable conclusion about axis-shifting passion that men and women of the world might like to think they will always reach — that that obscure object of desire is, by definition, ungraspable, indeterminate and already lost at exactly the moment you rush so fervently to hold him or her. The heat is in the longing, the unavailability as we like to say, the gap, the illusion, etc. But what André Aciman considers, elegantly and with no small amount of unbridled skin-to-skin contact, is that maybe the heat of eros isn’t only in the friction of memory and anticipation. Maybe it’s also in the getting. In a first novel that abounds in moments of emotional and physical abandon, this may be the most wanton of his moves: his narrative, brazenly, refuses to stay closed. It is as much a story of paradise found as it is of paradise lost.

The literal story is a tale of adolescent sexual awakening, set in the very well-appointed home of an academic, on the Italian Riviera, in the mid-1980s. Elio, the precocious 17-year-old son of the esteemed and open-minded scholar and his wife, falls fast and hard for Oliver, a 24-year-old postdoc teaching at Columbia, who has come to the mansion for six weeks to revise his manuscript — on Heraclitus, since this is a novel about time and love — before publication. Elio is smart, nervous, naïve, but also bold; Oliver is handsome, seductive and breezily American, given to phrases like “Later,” and abundantly “O.K. with” many things Elio is less O.K. with — O.K. with being Jewish, “with his body, with his looks, with his antic backhand, with his choice of books, music, films, friends.” From the first page, we know we’re in the crumbling terrain of memory. “I shut my eyes, say the word, and I’m back in Italy,” Elio writes from some later vantage point. Which is also, of course, to say: I am not in Italy now, I am not that young man, what I am going to describe is long over. Heraclitus, indeed.

The younger Elio has apparently been more or less heterosexual until Oliver arrives, but in fewer than 15 pages he’s already in a state he calls the “swoon.” He lies around on his bed in the long Mediterranean afternoons hoping Oliver will walk in, feeling “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 cruelest man alive.”

But it is true for Oliver, and he does knock, and then things really heat up. What Elio and Oliver do to a peach, for instance, might have made T. S. Eliot take a match to “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Aciman, who has written so exquisitely about exile, loss and Proust in his book of essays, “False Papers,” and his memoir, “Out of Egypt,” is no less exquisite here in his evocation of Elio’s adoration for the lost city of Oliver’s body and the lost city of the love between the two men. He builds these lost cities with the extraordinary craftsmanship of obsession, carefully imagining every last element of Elio’s affair with Oliver, depicting even the slightest touches and most mundane conversations with a nearly hyper-real attention to how, exactly, each one articulated a desire in Elio that felt “like coming home, like asking, Where have I been all my life?” Aciman never curbs or mocks Elio’s unabashed adolescent romanticism, never wheels in repressive social forces to crush the lovers, never makes one the agent of the other’s ruin. Even Elio’s father is fairly “que será, será” about what he suspects has been going on (a lot) under his scholarly roof.

What unwinds the men from each other’s embrace is none of these clichés; instead, Aciman, Proustian to the core, moves them apart, renders their beautiful city Atlantis, with the subtlest, most powerful universal agent: time. Nobody gets clocked with a tire iron. No one betrays the other. One becomes ordinary and marries; the other’s romantic fate is vague but seems to be more patchy. They meet again, 15 years later, and they’re not tragic; all they are is older. The fully adult Elio thinks, “This thing that almost never was still beckons, I wanted to tell him.” They “can never undo it, never unwrite it, never unlive it, or relive it. ... Going back is false. Moving ahead is false. Looking the other way is false.” In a book that seems to wear its heart on its sleeve, this openhanded, open-ended gesture is also its most knowing, challenging moment. That the city of desire is a scrim, all “dream making and strange remembrance,” Aciman seems to say, doesn’t mean it would be any less false not to walk into it. And if the novel is mourning this city, it is also, brick by brick, rebuilding it before the reader’s eyes.

In his essay “Pensione Eolo,” Aciman writes, “Ultimately, the real site of nostalgia is not the place that was lost or the place that was never quite had in the first place; it is the text that must record that loss.” In other words, Elio and Oliver might give each other up, but the book that conjures them doesn’t give up either one. In fact, it brings them back together, reunites them, for a glorious endless summer. In the book, the river can be revisited. The closing words echo the title: a phrase simultaneously of elegy and of invitation.

Stacey D’Erasmo’s most recent novel is “A Seahorse Year.”

特地贴上纽约时报书评，楼主自己看。我很喜欢这篇书评。

2018-01-05 13:32:08 小楷

纽约时报——Suddenly One Summer Suddenly One Summer By STACEY D’ERASMO Published: Feb

纽约时报——Suddenly One Summer Suddenly One Summer By STACEY D’ERASMO Published: February 25, 2007 This novel is hot. A coming-of-age story, a coming-out story, a Proustian meditation on time and desire, a love letter, an invocation and something of an epitaph, “Call Me by Your Name” is also an open question. It is an exceptionally beautiful book that cannot quite bring itself to draw the inevitable conclusion about axis-shifting passion that men and women of the world might like to think they will always reach — that that obscure object of desire is, by definition, ungraspable, indeterminate and already lost at exactly the moment you rush so fervently to hold him or her. The heat is in the longing, the unavailability as we like to say, the gap, the illusion, etc. But what André Aciman considers, elegantly and with no small amount of unbridled skin-to-skin contact, is that maybe the heat of eros isn’t only in the friction of memory and anticipation. Maybe it’s also in the getting. In a first novel that abounds in moments of emotional and physical abandon, this may be the most wanton of his moves: his narrative, brazenly, refuses to stay closed. It is as much a story of paradise found as it is of paradise lost. The literal story is a tale of adolescent sexual awakening, set in the very well-appointed home of an academic, on the Italian Riviera, in the mid-1980s. Elio, the precocious 17-year-old son of the esteemed and open-minded scholar and his wife, falls fast and hard for Oliver, a 24-year-old postdoc teaching at Columbia, who has come to the mansion for six weeks to revise his manuscript — on Heraclitus, since this is a novel about time and love — before publication. Elio is smart, nervous, naïve, but also bold; Oliver is handsome, seductive and breezily American, given to phrases like “Later,” and abundantly “O.K. with” many things Elio is less O.K. with — O.K. with being Jewish, “with his body, with his looks, with his antic backhand, with his choice of books, music, films, friends.” From the first page, we know we’re in the crumbling terrain of memory. “I shut my eyes, say the word, and I’m back in Italy,” Elio writes from some later vantage point. Which is also, of course, to say: I am not in Italy now, I am not that young man, what I am going to describe is long over. Heraclitus, indeed. The younger Elio has apparently been more or less heterosexual until Oliver arrives, but in fewer than 15 pages he’s already in a state he calls the “swoon.” He lies around on his bed in the long Mediterranean afternoons hoping Oliver will walk in, feeling “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 cruelest man alive.” But it is true for Oliver, and he does knock, and then things really heat up. What Elio and Oliver do to a peach, for instance, might have made T. S. Eliot take a match to “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Aciman, who has written so exquisitely about exile, loss and Proust in his book of essays, “False Papers,” and his memoir, “Out of Egypt,” is no less exquisite here in his evocation of Elio’s adoration for the lost city of Oliver’s body and the lost city of the love between the two men. He builds these lost cities with the extraordinary craftsmanship of obsession, carefully imagining every last element of Elio’s affair with Oliver, depicting even the slightest touches and most mundane conversations with a nearly hyper-real attention to how, exactly, each one articulated a desire in Elio that felt “like coming home, like asking, Where have I been all my life?” Aciman never curbs or mocks Elio’s unabashed adolescent romanticism, never wheels in repressive social forces to crush the lovers, never makes one the agent of the other’s ruin. Even Elio’s father is fairly “que será, será” about what he suspects has been going on (a lot) under his scholarly roof. What unwinds the men from each other’s embrace is none of these clichés; instead, Aciman, Proustian to the core, moves them apart, renders their beautiful city Atlantis, with the subtlest, most powerful universal agent: time. Nobody gets clocked with a tire iron. No one betrays the other. One becomes ordinary and marries; the other’s romantic fate is vague but seems to be more patchy. They meet again, 15 years later, and they’re not tragic; all they are is older. The fully adult Elio thinks, “This thing that almost never was still beckons, I wanted to tell him.” They “can never undo it, never unwrite it, never unlive it, or relive it. ... Going back is false. Moving ahead is false. Looking the other way is false.” In a book that seems to wear its heart on its sleeve, this openhanded, open-ended gesture is also its most knowing, challenging moment. That the city of desire is a scrim, all “dream making and strange remembrance,” Aciman seems to say, doesn’t mean it would be any less false not to walk into it. And if the novel is mourning this city, it is also, brick by brick, rebuilding it before the reader’s eyes. In his essay “Pensione Eolo,” Aciman writes, “Ultimately, the real site of nostalgia is not the place that was lost or the place that was never quite had in the first place; it is the text that must record that loss.” In other words, Elio and Oliver might give each other up, but the book that conjures them doesn’t give up either one. In fact, it brings them back together, reunites them, for a glorious endless summer. In the book, the river can be revisited. The closing words echo the title: a phrase simultaneously of elegy and of invitation. Stacey D’Erasmo’s most recent novel is “A Seahorse Year.” 特地贴上纽约时报书评，楼主自己看。我很喜欢这篇书评。

... florabenbenben

你相信自己的感受，却又要翻出这一大堆话。

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2018-01-05 13:39:42 小楷

纽约时报——Suddenly One Summer Suddenly One Summer By STACEY D’ERASMO Published: Feb

纽约时报——Suddenly One Summer Suddenly One Summer By STACEY D’ERASMO Published: February 25, 2007 This novel is hot. A coming-of-age story, a coming-out story, a Proustian meditation on time and desire, a love letter, an invocation and something of an epitaph, “Call Me by Your Name” is also an open question. It is an exceptionally beautiful book that cannot quite bring itself to draw the inevitable conclusion about axis-shifting passion that men and women of the world might like to think they will always reach — that that obscure object of desire is, by definition, ungraspable, indeterminate and already lost at exactly the moment you rush so fervently to hold him or her. The heat is in the longing, the unavailability as we like to say, the gap, the illusion, etc. But what André Aciman considers, elegantly and with no small amount of unbridled skin-to-skin contact, is that maybe the heat of eros isn’t only in the friction of memory and anticipation. Maybe it’s also in the getting. In a first novel that abounds in moments of emotional and physical abandon, this may be the most wanton of his moves: his narrative, brazenly, refuses to stay closed. It is as much a story of paradise found as it is of paradise lost. The literal story is a tale of adolescent sexual awakening, set in the very well-appointed home of an academic, on the Italian Riviera, in the mid-1980s. Elio, the precocious 17-year-old son of the esteemed and open-minded scholar and his wife, falls fast and hard for Oliver, a 24-year-old postdoc teaching at Columbia, who has come to the mansion for six weeks to revise his manuscript — on Heraclitus, since this is a novel about time and love — before publication. Elio is smart, nervous, naïve, but also bold; Oliver is handsome, seductive and breezily American, given to phrases like “Later,” and abundantly “O.K. with” many things Elio is less O.K. with — O.K. with being Jewish, “with his body, with his looks, with his antic backhand, with his choice of books, music, films, friends.” From the first page, we know we’re in the crumbling terrain of memory. “I shut my eyes, say the word, and I’m back in Italy,” Elio writes from some later vantage point. Which is also, of course, to say: I am not in Italy now, I am not that young man, what I am going to describe is long over. Heraclitus, indeed. The younger Elio has apparently been more or less heterosexual until Oliver arrives, but in fewer than 15 pages he’s already in a state he calls the “swoon.” He lies around on his bed in the long Mediterranean afternoons hoping Oliver will walk in, feeling “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 cruelest man alive.” But it is true for Oliver, and he does knock, and then things really heat up. What Elio and Oliver do to a peach, for instance, might have made T. S. Eliot take a match to “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Aciman, who has written so exquisitely about exile, loss and Proust in his book of essays, “False Papers,” and his memoir, “Out of Egypt,” is no less exquisite here in his evocation of Elio’s adoration for the lost city of Oliver’s body and the lost city of the love between the two men. He builds these lost cities with the extraordinary craftsmanship of obsession, carefully imagining every last element of Elio’s affair with Oliver, depicting even the slightest touches and most mundane conversations with a nearly hyper-real attention to how, exactly, each one articulated a desire in Elio that felt “like coming home, like asking, Where have I been all my life?” Aciman never curbs or mocks Elio’s unabashed adolescent romanticism, never wheels in repressive social forces to crush the lovers, never makes one the agent of the other’s ruin. Even Elio’s father is fairly “que será, será” about what he suspects has been going on (a lot) under his scholarly roof. What unwinds the men from each other’s embrace is none of these clichés; instead, Aciman, Proustian to the core, moves them apart, renders their beautiful city Atlantis, with the subtlest, most powerful universal agent: time. Nobody gets clocked with a tire iron. No one betrays the other. One becomes ordinary and marries; the other’s romantic fate is vague but seems to be more patchy. They meet again, 15 years later, and they’re not tragic; all they are is older. The fully adult Elio thinks, “This thing that almost never was still beckons, I wanted to tell him.” They “can never undo it, never unwrite it, never unlive it, or relive it. ... Going back is false. Moving ahead is false. Looking the other way is false.” In a book that seems to wear its heart on its sleeve, this openhanded, open-ended gesture is also its most knowing, challenging moment. That the city of desire is a scrim, all “dream making and strange remembrance,” Aciman seems to say, doesn’t mean it would be any less false not to walk into it. And if the novel is mourning this city, it is also, brick by brick, rebuilding it before the reader’s eyes. In his essay “Pensione Eolo,” Aciman writes, “Ultimately, the real site of nostalgia is not the place that was lost or the place that was never quite had in the first place; it is the text that must record that loss.” In other words, Elio and Oliver might give each other up, but the book that conjures them doesn’t give up either one. In fact, it brings them back together, reunites them, for a glorious endless summer. In the book, the river can be revisited. The closing words echo the title: a phrase simultaneously of elegy and of invitation. Stacey D’Erasmo’s most recent novel is “A Seahorse Year.” 特地贴上纽约时报书评，楼主自己看。我很喜欢这篇书评。

... florabenbenben

还有，我非常讨厌卖弄学识，卖弄知识的人。以为自己知道很多就非常了不起，还问我知不知道纽约时报？excuse me？

赞来自豆瓣App

2018-01-05 19:28:48 florabenbenben

电影的创造，是非常忠实于原著的，这是看过原著的书粉的共同感受。当然，视角是有变的，小说全程是Elio的视角，而电影是不同的。
在他们的宣传访谈，包括17年3月，他们参加电影节，已经率先看过的人里面，无一例外提到的是，忠实于原著
对于一个已经有那么多人看过原著的改编小说电影来说，忠于原著，就是最好的
所以我的观点是，从来不用追问为什么没有在一起，作者的写作意图从来不是这个，电影导演当然也从来没有想追问这个为什么，想表达的是，一份爱的过程，就是如此而已。
甚至，这都不是一个同志电影，不是一个同志小说
作者说这不是一个关于LGBTQIA的故事
导演说“爱”不是这部电影的主题
寓意简单哲理深厚

而现在你可以把这部电影或小说理解成一个美丽而又富有哲理的寓言故事。导演也承认想把小说拍成适合全家人一起观看的电影。其实小说的初衷也是写给各个年龄层看的，尤其是作者三个未成年的孩子们，不然也不会少女心的在主角们互做bareback的时候突然插入一段关于个人卫生健康问题的尴尬对话。导演在看到初版剧本时十分不满，直接删掉了做爱前中后的大段对话，后来干脆连做爱的剧情也删了，只留下了前戏后戏和一棵大树的镜头，毕竟要拍出个适合所有人口味的“家庭片”。“Amor ch’a null’amato amar perdona.” 在故事的一开始，Elio在来访者的简历里看中并向父亲推荐了这位来自美国的英俊硕士生Oliver，后来Oliver因为书中的这句“ 爱，让每一个被爱的人无可豁免的也要去爱.” 被Elio的迷恋所吸引。因为Elio的拖延症以及Oliver的意志薄弱，两人同时错过了机会，没能走在一起。最终，两人只能依赖重温当年在一起时的美好点滴来获取幸福感。是的，作者说过Oliver的口头蝉“回头再说”就是用来隐喻Elio的拖延症。而两人最终没在一起才会使寓言的寓意变得如此深刻。

导演Luca在一次采访时提到，与美国电影不同的是，欧洲电影不会在创作时受到电影类别的约束。而如今令他头疼的是大多数观众把该片理解为一部同志题材作品，这违背了原著的灵魂。所以第二部电影将淡化“同志”情节

2018-01-05 19:36:37 小楷

电影的创造，是非常忠实于原著的，这是看过原著的书粉的共同感受。当然，视角是有变的，小说全程

电影的创造，是非常忠实于原著的，这是看过原著的书粉的共同感受。当然，视角是有变的，小说全程是Elio的视角，而电影是不同的。在他们的宣传访谈，包括17年3月，他们参加电影节，已经率先看过的人里面，无一例外提到的是，忠实于原著对于一个已经有那么多人看过原著的改编小说电影来说，忠于原著，就是最好的所以我的观点是，从来不用追问为什么没有在一起，作者的写作意图从来不是这个，电影导演当然也从来没有想追问这个为什么，想表达的是，一份爱的过程，就是如此而已。甚至，这都不是一个同志电影，不是一个同志小说作者说这不是一个关于LGBTQIA的故事导演说“爱”不是这部电影的主题寓意简单哲理深厚而现在你可以把这部电影或小说理解成一个美丽而又富有哲理的寓言故事。导演也承认想把小说拍成适合全家人一起观看的电影。其实小说的初衷也是写给各个年龄层看的，尤其是作者三个未成年的孩子们，不然也不会少女心的在主角们互做bareback的时候突然插入一段关于个人卫生健康问题的尴尬对话。导演在看到初版剧本时十分不满，直接删掉了做爱前中后的大段对话，后来干脆连做爱的剧情也删了，只留下了前戏后戏和一棵大树的镜头，毕竟要拍出个适合所有人口味的“家庭片”。“Amor ch’a null’amato amar perdona.” 在故事的一开始，Elio在来访者的简历里看中并向父亲推荐了这位来自美国的英俊硕士生Oliver，后来Oliver因为书中的这句“ 爱，让每一个被爱的人无可豁免的也要去爱.” 被Elio的迷恋所吸引。因为Elio的拖延症以及Oliver的意志薄弱，两人同时错过了机会，没能走在一起。最终，两人只能依赖重温当年在一起时的美好点滴来获取幸福感。是的，作者说过Oliver的口头蝉“回头再说”就是用来隐喻Elio的拖延症。而两人最终没在一起才会使寓言的寓意变得如此深刻。导演Luca在一次采访时提到，与美国电影不同的是，欧洲电影不会在创作时受到电影类别的约束。而如今令他头疼的是大多数观众把该片理解为一部同志题材作品，这违背了原著的灵魂。所以第二部电影将淡化“同志”情节

... florabenbenben

你错了。搞清楚我问的问题，别评论错了地方。你继续忠实于你的小说我继续我的天马行空。

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