最新《以你的名字呼唤我》观后感英文版

　　The Cam was crowded with punts. I handed in my paper in the morning， so I suppose summer officially begins now， and this might be the last time I meet with my classmates. It was the only time that we ever punted together. Alex kept saying that we should do this again， maybe sometime before the graduation ceremony. We never did.

　　It was an impeccable sunny day in Cambridge. The flock of summer tourists have not arrived， so we student-civilians still have the river most to ourselves. We slid past the golden-hued castles of old colleges and marvelled at their majestic beauty； occasionally our punt would bump into another， and everyone would be waving their arms in different directions amidst kind laughter， and the boat would just spin around， blocking more passengers. Yet no one seemed agitated. The term was over， and we had all the time in the world. I could take in each of your faces， fellow punters， as we passed by each other in slow motion， and I would raise my champagne glass to you.

　　We ran into a group of drunk undergrads next to the Bridge of Sighs. They had to be undergrad kids. One of them dangled a bottle over the till and kept chanting “Kiss the punt！”， like a dare， or a tease—I couldn't quite tell—while the others giggled， peddling messily and splashing water onto their friends. Ducklings and cygnets flocked to their boat as one of them so generously shared bread crumbs with the birds. Sunbeams perched on their flushed faces， fluttering as the punt rocked languorously. We mature grads just stared in uniform silence， secretly relieved at the departure of our infamously insatiable feathered friends. I imagined that I could smell the wine in their hiccups， but perhaps it was just the scent of the scene—sweet and intoxicating and just a tad aggressive. No matter， it would slither away in the next moment， and in the next moment it would slacken and succumb to Time. Crazy kids， Jamie muttered， feigning exasperation. Yeah， I nodded. The young Dionysus they are， basking in the glow of what we once had but had never realized that we had it until this very moment. “And we'd want to call it envy， because to call it regret would break our hearts.”

　　This is how I'm going to remember this particular afternoon at Cambridge. It tapped on my shoulder， I turned back， and it smiled at me， this piece of memory， as I was reading Call Me by Your Name in the quiet of the night.

　　It's not a sophisticated story. Summertime Italy， 17-year-old Italian boy Elio falls in love with 24-year-old American postdoc Oliver who's invited by Elio’s professor father to work on his manuscripts at their house. Elio pines for Oliver for weeks， recording every conversation， glance and touch he shares with the guest， hoping and fearing that the person of his desire might return his passion. And when Oliver eventually does， it is almost time for him to return to the States. They spend three dreamy days in Rome， and it abruptly ends when Oliver leaves. 15 years later， they meet again in the States. Oliver is married with children while Elio's love life seems opaque and blurry. Neither forgets that summer that now only resides in a parallel universe. It's essentially about a first love that lasts only six weeks but takes years to get over with. Or to not get over with.

　　I came across this book when I was writing my dissertation on Kerouac who loved Marcel Proust who is loved by the author of Call Me by Your Name， Andre Aciman. I wasn't much of fan of the Proustian style because there seemed no heat behind those excruciating details—or maybe I was just younger and unappreciative. After all， what's to reminisce about， if you are rushing toward the train station of great expectations， unware of the hard times ahead?

　　Like an ekphrastic poem of youth and desire， Call Me by Your Name draws your attention to the corporeality of the words which， as if by magic， take on different shades of colours and inflections that resurrect those faded pictures of memory with vividness. The reading process took longer than usual because I kept re-visiting particular passages as the journey went on. The narrative temporality seemed insignificant—time seemed insignificant. I was happily paralyzed in the endless proliferation of descriptive details by the narrator， Elio， who， as I was reading， seemed to sit right next to me， watching Oliver play tennis， swim in a red bathing suit， dance and read. In the first chapter， 'If Not Later， When?'， nothing much happens except for morning jogs， book parties and occasional lazy gatherings at the beach， yet in Elio's mind volcanoes erupt when Oliver so much as casts a glance:

　　[…] and his eyes， which， when the 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. […]—all these started the summer Oliver came into our house. 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 that 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.

　　Both long to take a step forward， to express how they really feel about each other， but they are also afraid of the rejection， the shattering of fantasies and the day of departure. I read it inthe way just as they approach each other—with trepidation， with an ominous feeling that it will end， and the end is upon us:

　　Did I want him to act? Or would I prefer a lifetime of longing provided we both kept this little Ping-Pong game going: not knowing，not-not-knowing， not-not-not-knowing? Just be quiet， say nothing， and if you can't say "yes，" don'' say "no，" say "later."

　　"The trick to love is to never let it find you，" someone once sang ruefully. Unfortunately， Elio and Oliver， who find each other， are compelled to graduate from this summer spell. I was saddened， but revived somehow by the powers that made every heartbeat and breath a memorable event. Spend a few hours with these two orphans of love and desire， and perhaps revisit moments of youthful languor in your life， and tell yourself—"We had stars， you and I. And this is given once only."