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The romantic, idyllic summer I spent in Italy was replaced by heavy rain and chilly winds when I stepped outside of the Naples International airport.
There was something so beautiful and ugly about Naples: the city sat in the middle of one of the most luscious bits of coastline in the Mediterranean, yet under these sublime views brought forth a monarchy of crime.
I was reminded of the gorgeous nature I saw in Crema, but through production I realized that with all human stories—sex, love, the difficulties faced growing up—there is much ugliness in the human spirit.
I was so jet-lagged that when I thanked the hotel staff for bringing in my luggage—my Italian was rusty—I fell asleep the moment they closed the door.
La governante called on the phone, "Salve Signor Stone, c'è una signora di nome Rebecca che desidera entrare."
"La faccia salire, grazie." My mouth was dry.
There was a knock on the door, and I looked at the time: 11 AM.
I saw through the peephole a familiar petite blonde woman wearing a two-piece suit.
I was still in my pajamas when I opened the door. Her voice was loud and American: "l thought Italy would be warmer, you have to get ready."
I put my hands on my face and sat on the bed. "Can you lower your voice, please. Your going to wake up the building."
"It's almost noon. You're also the first film, let me run through the schedule since we have Mr. Sleepy pants here," she said in a quieter tone.
"No, you—"
"So in an hour and half, you are expected to go on a ferry with the cast to the Marina Grande where they would be press, asking you questions, very low-key. Since you are the opening night film, there would be a large press conference asking you some questions and then the red carpet."
I nodded my head. "Where is my—"
She went outside and brought in a cart that had my suit.
"Thank you."
I rubbed my eyes and got up. "Ummm—"
"Oh, yes. I meet you outside, in the lobby."
When I was putting on my tie and button-down shirt, I was preparing myself to be asked a whole range of questions: some good and some bad. Ryan, your favourite thing about Italy? Ryan, who are you going to vote for in the election? We were in Italy for heaven's sake.
We drove to the parking lot of the ferry, where the grey waters of the Bay of Naples stretched. Beyond the port, the city rose behind us while Mount Vesuvius stood across the bay beneath the cloudy sky.
I almost sprinted to my friend. "Andrew!"
He turned around and his face lit up. "Ah! Are we both late?"
"I guess so."
"Hello, Rebecca. Still dealing with his shit?"
She nodded, the wind ruining her polished, doll-like hair. We both got on the ferry and I said, "So the crew is already at the place."
Other people hopped on—mostly journalists, not a lot of tourists—and we went straight indoors next to a cafe.
"Ohh, should l get something? Still jet-lagged," he said.
"Me too." I went up to the register. "Salve, posso avere un caffè americano, per favore?"
We both sat down with our coffees, and Andrew asked, "How was your Thanksgiving or break?"
"It was great, I caught up with some old friends. How was yours?"
"I'm British."
"Ahh."
He leaned in closer. "You made some new friends too." I looked straight at him. "What do you mean?"
"You and Katniss? Emma told me y'all was cracking on by the bar, during some party."
"Wow, cracking on? No, she's going to play Skylar in the movie l told you about."
He had a bright, cheerful laugh. "Don't tell me, l'm going to be on set to you two giving each other the eyes."
"Shut up, is that espresso tequila?"
"Better than your's," he put on a New York accent, "caffe americano."
"You want me to spill it on you?"
We eventually reached Marina Grande, and it was magnificent even under cloudy conditions. Colorful buildings rose along the hills surrounding the harbor while dozens of fishing boats, yachts, and small motorboats bobbed in the water. Even through the mist, one could see the steep green cliffs that surrounded us.
"Wow, this is pretty," Rebecca said. We stepped outside to a slew of photographers wearing linen shirts and fedoras; they looked like the complete opposite of the paparazzi that I knew.
"Signor Mr. Garfield and Mr. Stone," his English was good, "one photo of you in front of the Marina, please."
Rebecca went off to the side, and as we took the photo, the wind whipped our suits around while the shutter rattled off a dozen times. The photographer nodded and Rebecca swooped in, already walking. "We are going to Da Gemma, the rest of the cast is there."
The street was barely wide enough for a single car and the pastel buildings leaned on each other; we turned a corner and there it was: Da Gemma, tucked into a corner of the piazza.
Through the front windows, I could already see them—my heart leaped a bit, how long had it been?—seated at a long table near the back.
Rebecca pushed the door open and the chatter dipped when we entered, but behind me Andrew almost yelled, "La mia famiglia!"
Michael Stuhlbarg and Amira Casar stood up to greet us. "Its been too long, can't believe its time."
Luca looked the same, but once in Italy, he transformed into that warm figure from old Italian folklore, a true Papa Gatto—stepping forward to give us a hug. "Andrew told me that you did another film. Amare alla follia il proprio mestiere." (To love one's craft to the point of madness.)
"Anything for the money," I said.
We sat down and I introduced Rebecca to everyone. Andrew said, "I know, how can you afford an assistant?"
The cast laughed, and it was as if I had returned back to Villa Albergoni. Amira said, "I am not lying, the movie is my favorite that l been apart of."
"It's because I am here," Luca smiled.
The lunch fell into a comfortable rhythm and we ate: buffalo mozzarella stuffed with shrimp and lemon tartare, passed around on a large platter; a caponata with tuna and green olives; fresh crudi prepared from the day's catch, glistening with olive oil.
Someone ordered the fritto misto, Da Gemma's signature, and a basket of golden fried shrimp. The atmosphere was warm and unhurried; I forgot about the press and journalists behind me and all my upcoming duties. Luca raised a glass for a toast: "Alla nostra famiglia del cinema." (To our film family.) Eventually, someone raised a glass, mimicking Luca's accent, and the table erupted in laughter.
As with all pleasant things, I dreaded the ending. Walking out of the restaurant, I pictured TMZ or Hollywire waiting there, their DSLRs capturing a dozen frames a second.
Instead, it was eager cinephiles and people from the festival taking us to the Auditorium di Capri, where there was a restrained but excited energy. Unlike American junkets with the revolving roundtable and breathless fifteen-minute timers, there was a long, draped table stretched across the platform, with name cards.
Behind our chairs was a simple blue panel with the festival sponsor and the Capri Hollywood insignia. Luca took the center seat, I took his right, and Andrew sat on the left next to Amira and Michael.
The moderator tapped his microphone twice, cleared his throat, and opened the floor in quick Italian and then said, "This is Luca Guadagnino's third feature film, and the second of his "Desire" series, we are pleased to have Ryan Stone and Andrew Garfield, the two leads, and Micheal Stuhlberg and Amira Casar who play the parents of Elio. We are excited to have this film be the opening night premiere especially for this Sicilian director."
The room went silent and the first question began.
"Buonasera," a young volunteer said. "Having seen the screening this morning, the film carries an extraordinary sense of intimacy. How did you, Ryan or Andrew prepare for that?"
I leaned toward the mic. "We immediately got comfortable with each other. We approached the same way with every other romantic role in the past, and Luca–on our first day–made us make out and we rolled down the hill together. And Luca already left."
Andrew mimicked my accent, "It was an incredible environment and safe, felt like family."
The cast broke into laughter and a few more questions followed—Michael discussing the philosophy behind Mr. Perlman's quiet wisdom, Amira reflecting on the warmth of an Italian household, and Luca speaking with grand, sweeping gestures about sex and youth.
When the moderator finally checked his watch and thanked the press, the applause was polite.
We stood up, the chair legs scraping softly against the stage floor. Rebecca materialized at the wing door, already holding our overcoats, though the rain had miraculously broken into a cold, clear island night.
Stepping onto the red carpet outside was an immediate burst of adrenaline. The crimson runner stretched along the damp stone walkway, bordered by polished silver stanchions. Across the barrier stood a tight wall of Italian photographers in heavy wool jackets, shouting in a rapid-fire chorus: "Ryan, qui! Andrew, un sorriso! Luca, guardami!"
Andrew threw an arm around my shoulder, leaning in with a quick laugh as the shutters rattled off like guns. We signed a few glossy program booklets for the cold fans pressed against the front row, Rebecca gently steering our pace until the usher swept open the auditorium's glass entrance.
Inside, the warm velvet darkness of the main theater swallowed us whole. The chatter died down as the packed house settled into their seats, our cast lined up along the center row.
The festival director gave a brief, gracious introduction in Italian before the lights faded completely to black.
The heavy hum of the projector kicked in, casting a beam of soft light over our heads. Across the massive screen, the golden imagery of Crema came to life, and the title emerged in white letters: Call Me by Your Name. Somewhere In Northern Italy.
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