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I returned to the Chateau Marmont, where I first met Emma on that magical night. I sat down in the same low velvet armchair near the terrace doors, watching the afternoon sun cut through the greenery outside.
The photoshoot crew had just finished wrapping their gear. Rebecca was leaning against a sideboard near the corner as she scrolled on her iPhone, probably on Pinterest.
The reporter from The Los Angeles Times settled into the seat opposite me. She adjusted her glasses, took a sip from a glass, and looked up at me with a usual smile.
"Ryan, I'm interested to know off the bat here, when you first saw Call Me by Your Name all put together after you had shot it and they edited it, what was your first reaction?" she asked.
I leaned in. "Actually, Luca sent me a copy to watch it with my family; hopefully, he won't get in trouble for that," I chuckled. "It was actually quite lovely; my mom, dad, and friends from New York watched the film, and they all loved it. Even though it was playing on this old plasma TV."
I continued, "But seeing myself in it—I mean, I got to be in a Luca Guadagnino film, and what that means to be in a boundary-less expression of an idea. The way I Am Love—Tilda Swinton has a very famous lovemaking sequence in the grass—this pure celebration of love where there are guys with guys and girls with girls. Although, treating it with the heartbreak that accompanies love and not extinguishing it, as Stuhlbarg's character says, but nurturing it and saving the experience for what it is."
"Was that too much?" I smiled.
She smiled back and continued from her notepad, "The movie's set in 1983. What's it like being on the set when you're reliving a timeframe that was long before you were even around?"
"Well, it was a responsibility for almost everyone from that time period—to fans of the book, to fans of the book that lived in that time period. And certainly as an actor, I'm not the biggest purist about these things. The parts of yourself as a human that bleed appropriately into the character, I think, are always fine.
But when you're doing a period piece, you do have to be careful about not doing anything too contemporaneous or that would strike—most importantly—somebody who lived through the '80s or a fan of the book as false or unreal."
"So, Ryan, what do you think about the audience reaction to your film?"
"I am completely shocked. I mean, I told Andrew that nobody would see this film except for the people that read the novel. I mean, the budget was less than four million dollars, and it has done better than anyone dreamed." I smiled at her.
"What has been your relationship with Andrew so far, got to ask?"
I smiled, "A great friendship. We first met on the set and have been friends since. He's an incredibly kind person and a terrific actor."
She looked around a bit, toward Rebecca for half a second. "How do you deal with the public criticism of your past relationship and move forward?"
I looked down. "As with every couple that breaks up, I move on. I wish Emma nothing but the best and look forward to her projects, like American Horror Story."
"Good luck at the awards," she winked. "Listen, thanks so much. Thanks for bringing us—you and Luca and everybody—such a great film for us to see this holiday season."
I stood up. "Thank you for showing it love. The desire is for it to be seen by as many people as possible, and hopefully it will."
The reporter clicked off her recorder and offered a warm, professional handshake. As the heavy bungalow door clicked shut, Rebecca approached me and said, "Sorry."
I smiled, "Anything for the Oscar campaign."
Rebecca was still harping on the issue. We were back in the car, and I leaned my head all the way up against the roof. Rebecca said, "God, why do they keep asking these relationship questions?"
I put on a grin. "That's what sells the movie tickets. How long?"
"Twenty minutes if traffic on Overland is nice," Rebecca said. She put on some red lipstick. "Thalberg Building. Doug Belgrad is hosting, but Michael Barker just flew down from New York to sit in."
The sleek black car cut through Culver City, eventually turning off Washington Boulevard through the gates of Sony Pictures Studios. We passed beneath the towering, ninety-foot rainbow installation that arched over the lot.
Rebecca looked at the rainbow. "Oh yes, I heard that they installed it last month. I believe it cost, umm, four million dollars."
I chuckled, "More than the budget for the film."
She nodded and kept looking at it.
Moments later, the double doors to the corner office swung open. Rebecca waited outside.
Doug Belgrad, President of Columbia Pictures, stood near the window in a sharp navy suit. Michael Barker, co-president of Sony Pictures Classics, who was much older than the other man, looked ecstatic to meet me. They both half-jogged over to me. Michael almost shouted, "My God, it's a pleasure to officially meet you. It's criminal we haven't met face-to-face."
I shook his hand, and before I could say anything, he exclaimed, "I saw your face—must have been a million times. To be honest, I was skeptical of Luca's choice; I mean, Looper was good," he chuckled, his Boston accent heavy, "but when I got it... damn, I have never been more wrong."
He laughed toward Doug, who said, "Come on, relax. Let him breathe." He approached me, and his footsteps were completely silent. "God, my wife loves the movie. And that car ride back home with him crying on her—she cried the whole day after that."
I could only say, "Thank you."
Michael said, "No, thank you. You did phenomenal work on Looper, but now with CMBYN," he continued, "nine million on eight hundred screens in mid-December. It's never been done before."
Michael let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Look, we're doing the full campaign for Call Me by Your Name. You already know that. But Doug and I didn't drag you here just to talk about Italy."
Doug leaned over the desk, gesturing toward the interior hallway. "We had Damien courier over an early digital assembly of Whiplash this morning. In fact, he's already inside setting it up. Refused to let us roll it without you in the room. Said you earned every single cut."
"Damien's here?" I asked.
"Thalberg screening room two," Doug said, offering a shark-like grin. "Let's take a walk."
We filed down the plush carpeted hallway to the private studio theater. As Doug pushed the heavy door open, I saw that down in the center row sat Damien Chazelle, hunched forward with a notepad on his knee, bouncing his foot with that restless energy.
Damien snapped his head around, his face lighting up with nervous relief. "Ryan! God, how many movies have you done?"
"Damien," I said, stepping down the aisle. I laughed, "You finished the cut already?"
"Barely slept, but yeah, we are the same," he said, waving me into the plush seat beside him. His eyes were wide and buzzing. "The sound mix is still a little rough around the edges, especially during the rehearsal rooms, but the pacing—God, wait until you see the finale."
"Don't sell it short," Doug chuckled, taking a seat a row ahead alongside Michael Barker. "Let's see what eighteen days in Los Angeles got us."
The theater lights dimmed to absolute black.
The studio speakers buzzed, and then the single snare began—tap-tap-tap-tap—accelerating into an enchanting intro.
On the massive screen, J.K. Simmons' face appeared, looming over me, wearing his signature all-black clothing. Watching myself as Andrew Neiman on a studio lot was an out-of-body shock. When the final, volcanic crash of "Caravan" slammed into silence and cut to black, nobody moved for a solid minute.
The overhead lights came up slowly. Michael Barker turned completely around in his seat, his wire-rimmed glasses pushed down his nose, his eyes wide behind them.
"Holy hell," Barker whispered, his Boston accent filled with awe.
Doug Belgrad slapped both hands onto his knees and stood up. He looked at Damien and laughed, "How much?"
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