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The buzz of adulation followed me in my tipsy state that ended with a horrible hangover the next day. I took an Advil and a quick nap before my flight to Los Angeles that was somewhat dreadful: small middle seat, microwaved pretzels, and the man in the window seat had the smallest bladder.
Mark texted me that FilmDistrict and Universal would have a 500-screen release during early summer so that it could follow the success of Sundance and its popular male lead.
When I landed, I called Emma, "I survived, I need some good sleep."
"Are you heading towards the directors house nearby?" She sounded concerned, and the announcement repeated the same phrase: qui a Milano sono le otto di sera, grazie.
"Yeah, Andrew is coming to. I think the whole cast is coming"
"Great," her voice was smooth and silky.
"Okay, I have to go to get my bag."
It was not as warm as I thought being in Italy, but it was only March and the magnolias have not even reached their full potential: explosive clouds of white and pink petals.
I reached in front of Luca Guadagnino's 17th-century palazzo residence in Crema that perfectly suited the vibe of the film.
I saw Luca drift towards the door through the tall arched windows with a cup of coffee in one hand and another holding a remote.
"Ryan! How marvelous you look."
I smiled, "I came from a long flight, I doubt that."
He showed me inside and it felt like I went back into time. The first thing I saw was a salon that had beautiful navy blue wood paneling, and there were only the faintest hints of the modern world clawing back. There was a grand piano in the back.
I put my luggage — not much — inside a closet and sat down next to Luca on an old chair.
He leaned in and said, "You would play a great Elio." He paused, "but."
He looked inside his mug. "You seem to have an old soul. He's only 17."
My heart dropped. I said, "What?"
"It's not a bad thing, but can you channel that?"
"I think you're wrong." I leaned back. "Elio has an old soul and is no sheep. When Oliver shuts him down, he rides that bike yelling Andiamo l'Americano! That contrast of me looking young and Elio having that internal conflict will make this movie work."
Luca seemed to spring back to life. "The book was written in first person, and there would be no voiceover in the film. It's uncinematic and a bad thing to have in a movie. So your physical movements." He went towards a window and put his hand over his chin as he looked towards the moon.
He smiled, "You must be exhausted. I set you all up."
"Thank you."
Ryan woke before dawn, his body still heavy with exhaustion, but his mind was racing, and he wanted to impress everyone.
Two weeks to find Elio.
Ryan swung his legs out across the cold terracotta tiles and opened his laptop. But the video from yesterday, "HOW TO PERFECT YOUR ITALIAN—"
"Fuck." He lowered the volume.
He enunciated each Italian word with near-native fluency. He closed the laptop and saw that the sun was fully awake and headed towards the piano. The Bach piece was one of the most important parts of Elio; it showed his soul.
He sat down and played the opening bars and lost himself in it, and with each note came more confidence.
"Bravo!"
Ryan jumped. He spun around to find Luca grinning at him.
"I did not mean to startle you," Luca said, walking into the room wearing a velvet robe. "But I could not help myself. That was beautiful. You have been practicing."
Ryan let out a breath. "Yeah. I have been working on it for months. I wanted to get it right."
Luca settled into a nearby chair and fixed his hair. "The technique is excellent. But the feeling, that's the idea, perfetto. Elio does not play to show off. He plays to express what he cannot say."
Ryan nodded. "That is what I am trying to do."
"You're making me hungry with all of the energy producing. Ha."
The doorbell chimed. Luca went to answer it. Ryan heard voices in the hallway, then Andrew appeared in the doorway. He looked tired. His hair was messy, and his clothes were rumpled. He carried a small duffel bag.
"Morning," Andrew said. His voice was hoarse. "Sorry I am late. The flight was a nightmare. Delayed on the tarmac for two hours. The man next to me talked the entire time about his ex-wife."
Ryan smiled. "Sounds terrible."
"It was." Andrew dropped his bag and poured himself a coffee. He drank it in one long swallow. "But I am here now. Ready to work."
Luca gestured for them to sit. "Eat first. Then we have our fun."
They settled around the table. Andrew took a pastry and bit into it. He closed his eyes and let out a satisfied sound.
"This is incredible," he said.
"Best cornetti in Lombardy," Luca said. "I only bring the best for my team."
After they finished eating, Luca led them to the garden behind the palazzo. The magnolias were beginning to open. Their white and pink petals unfurled in the soft light. The scent of jasmine hung on the breeze.
Luca positioned them near the fountain. "We will rehearse the scene where Oliver first touches Elio during the volleyball game. Ryan, you are sitting by the table with the water bottles. Andrew, you come over after the game. You take the water, you drink, and then you put your arm around him."
Ryan nodded. He remembered the scene from the script.
"Ready," Ryan said.
Andrew walked to the other end of the garden. He was in character now. That confident swagger that was so perfectly Oliver. He approached the fountain where Ryan sat, his stride easy and unhurried.
Ryan looked up at him. "Good game."
Andrew nodded. He reached for the water bottle and drank. Then he put his free arm around Ryan's shoulder. His thumb and forefinger squeezed gently into Ryan's shoulder in a friendly hug-massage.
Ryan felt the touch and leaned into it for a moment. Then he wrenched himself away. "That hurts."
Andrew pulled back, looking concerned. "I did not mean to hurt you."
"You did not hurt me," Ryan said quickly. "I just... I am not hurt."
Luca called out from behind them. "Good. But Ryan, you pull away too quickly. Elio wants to stay in that moment."
They reset. Andrew walked back to the other end of the garden. He approached again, his stride confident and unhurried. He took the water bottle and drank. Then he put his arm around Ryan's shoulder.
This time Ryan let himself lean into it. He felt the warmth and confidence of Oliver's hand. He felt at peace.
"That hurts," he said.
"I did not mean to hurt you," Andrew said.
"You did not hurt me." Ryan looked at him and let out the smallest smile. "I am not hurt."
Luca nodded. "Better. Much better. Great."
They moved to the salon for the next scene. The one where Elio plays the piano for Oliver. Luca positioned Ryan at the piano bench.
"Andrew, you come in through the door," Luca said. "You watch him play. Then you approach. You ask him about the piece."
Ryan began to play the Bach variation. The notes filled the room. He heard the door open. He heard Andrew's footsteps. Then Andrew was behind him.
"Why do you play it that way?" Andrew asked. His voice was low and curious.
Ryan kept playing. "What way?"
"The way you played it," Andrew said. "That is not the piece your father asked you to play. That is something else."
Ryan turned and looked up at him. "I do not know," he said. "I just felt like playing it differently."
Andrew reached out and brushed his fingers against Ryan's shoulder. "Do not stop. Keep playing."
Ryan turned back to the piano. He played the variation again. He poured all of his longing into the melody. All of his confusion. All of his desperate hope.
When he finished, the silence was absolute. Ryan could feel the weight of Andrew's hand still on his shoulder.
"Beautiful," Andrew said. His voice was rough with emotion.
Luca stepped forward. "Perfect. Both of you. This will be my masterpiece."
Ryan and Andrew both laughed.
Andrew said, "Would we receive back-end bonuses then?"
"Hell no." He waltzed away.
Luca whispered to himself, "They are Oliver and Elio"
***
The sunset went down over the rooftops of Crema painting the palazzo in warm shades of rose as if the city were in a Canaletto painting.
Amira Casar and Micheal Stuhlbarg both walked in through the old, wooden door and everyone looked her way.
Micheal Stuhlbarg has become one of the most respected character actors in Hollywood. After years of acclaimed stage work, his breakthrough came with the Coen brothers' A Serious Man, earning him a Golden Globe nomination, and he had recently introduced himself to a wider audience through HBO's Boardwalk Empire, where his nuanced performances had made him a sought-after dramatic actors.
Amira Casar had spent nearly two decades building a remarkable career across French and European cinema. Known for moving between French, English, German, and Spanish-language films, she had become one of Europe's most respected actresses, celebrated for bringing intelligence to both independent films and international productions.
Amira and Micheal sat down after they both gave him a bottle of Barolo.
He responded, "Troppe gentile" (You're too kind.)
He put the bottles of wine on the table.
I said, "Hello, my parents."
Micheal smiled. He wore a wrinkled white linen button downshirt that almost camouflaged with his salt-and-pepper beard. He gave me a bear hug. "My son."
I chuckled. "How was your flight?"
"Too long."
He smiled with the obvious exhaustion of someone who had had a 10 hour flight, but the moment Luca brought the food with his vintage striped linen pot holders, it seemed to disappear.
Amira turned to me. "We were on the same flight."
Micheal said, "Thank God we can spend a month in Italy."
We all smiled, and Luca said, "Please, sentiti come a casa" (Please, make yourself at home.)
Amira tapped my shoulder. "Quel beau garçon" (What a handsome boy.)
I replied back in French, "Do you have any family in Italy, or is it just Paris?"
"You speak good French."
"I studied it in high school and brushed up on it with my Italian."
She smiled and said, "Isn't James Ivory's screenplay something else?"
I nodded my head. "It's probably the best script I ever read."
We both nodded as she put her things in the living room.
The ceiling was high, and the faded seventeenth-century frescoes remained visible through the soft candlelight underneath.
Luca disappeared into the kitchen and returned moments later carrying a steaming ceramic dish with his vintage striped linen pot holders. He set it gently in the center of the long wooden table before disappearing again to bring fresh bread, bowls of homemade tagliatelle with porcini mushrooms, roasted vegetables, and a platter of prosciutto with ripe melon.
One by one, we all took our seats around the table. Glasses were filled with Barolo, pieces of bread were passed from hand to hand, and for a brief moment nobody spoke as everyone scarfed down the food, and Luca could not have looked more pleased.
Andrew smiled as he looked around the table.
Andrew said, "What a delicious meal. Where did you get all of this stuff?"
Luca, after taking his first bite, smiled. "Among the hills d'Italia."
Micheal chimed in, "Probably the Familia Superstore down the street."
Amira propped her fork vertically against the flat edge of her plate and gently twisted a tiny bundle of pasta onto the prongs.
I chuckled and looked toward Amira, who so far exuded the politeness of classic European high society. But as the conversation reached a point of genuine curiosity and camaraderie, I realized that she was a fascinating person.
She smiled. "I finished two films last year. I played Dora Maar, this fantastic photographer—"
Luca chimed in, "I have one of her photos, the Double Portrait with the Hat, somewhere. I feel sometimes that I wear a lot of hats too."
I nodded.
Amira nodded too. "Picasso portrayed her as someone with shiny dark hair and had a sad nature. But it was un bobard. She said that: they're Picassos. Not one is Dora Maar."
Micheal, who had his face resting on his hand, said, "Sounds like fun playing that role."
Through the open windows drifted the last warmth of the Lombard sky. The scent of basil, olive oil, and baked bread lingered in the apartment while the neighbor slammed the door.
Amira looked straight toward the guests. "It was great fun. And wearing all those period outfits and corsets allowed me to really get into Maar's nervous breakdown."
"Must have been tight."
Andrew asked, "What was the other film?"
"A Turkish immigrant who feels displaced in Germany and helps this basketball coach but is misunderstood by the community."
My lips tilted slowly upward. "I'm sensing a theme."
Andrew said, "My roles don't compare."
I kicked his toe. "You're Spider-Man. You stop anything."
He chuckled. "I can't make a movie not become a flop!"
Everyone laughed. Andrew continued, "When I got that role I was so nervous. Strangest audition ever: some strange warehouse in Burbank, and I did my screen test right there with Emma Stone."
Micheal smiled. "Is that your sister?" and looked toward me.
"She's my more talented actor sibling."
Luca nodded with a thicker Italian accent. "So you're a nepo baby."
Everybody chuckled, and Luca held a glass of wine upward.
"La mica (my family), let this absolute dream of a film make sure it feels like one."
Everybody smiled, and we all cheered as our glasses clashed together.
Micheal reached across the table for another piece of bread. Outside, a Vespa buzzed through the narrow street before the silence settled comfortably again.
Andrew, whose British accent got sharper, said, "Wait, wait. Ryan, you can't drink."
Everyone giggled. Micheal patted my shoulder.
I responded, "The drinking age in Italy is 18."
Micheal said, "God, you have done so much for your age. When I was 20, I was still in acting school."
He looked toward Andrew. "What did you do at 20, Andrew?"
"Working at Starbucks. So fucking boring. There were no customers. Waiting for a job."
I said, eager in thought, "So what's the schedule look like tomorrow?"
"I think we should shoot the first scene first."
Then he looked toward me and Andrew. "Then you two could have some fun."
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