Grudgingly, I fell for him again.
People who love movies and performers go through this time and again. In 2017, I had never seen anything quite like Timothée Chalamet in Luca Guadagnino’s Call My by Your Name, as an awkward, sensitive teenager who falls in love with his father’s 24-year-old graduate student. He came off as a real, believable lovesick kid, but he was also channeling the spirit of something elusive, the feeling of both floating and dog-paddling through an experience you’re not equipped to handle. Then he made a superb snotty-winsome Laurie, another lovesick boy, in Greta Gerwig’s Little Women; I couldn’t believe anyone could equal Christian Bale’s portrayal in Gillian Armstrong’s 1994 version, yet Chalamet had, capturing both the character’s headstrong petulance and his capacity for steady loyalty. But around the time of the dual Dunes, well-made, earnest movies that nonetheless belonged to a universe I couldn’t fully invest in, and especially in Guadagnino’s cannibal meet-cute Bones and All, I began to grow weary of Chalamet, in all his simmering broodiness and his springy sincerity. He was giving his all, I could see that. But the amount of work an actor puts into a role isn’t an invoice, a chip he can trade in for some specified fraction of our affection. Whatever it was Chalamet was doing, he was no longer doing it for me. It’s all well and good to say you love actors, but it can also turn you into a mini tyrant, a Roman senator observing the action in the ring and saying, “Prove yourself!” again and again.
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What brought me back was Chalamet, in James Mangold’s A Complete Unknown, playing some version of the elusive Bob Dylan, a performer and a persona I, along with millions of others, love with the crazy fierceness of a million suns. Whatever it is Chalamet is doing here, bringing some half-truth, half-fantasy version of early-1960s-era Dylan to life, it feels true to me in a place beyond words, the forest where all great acting takes root and grows. If Chalamet, at 29—an age where you can still call yourself a kid, but barely—declares that he wants to be one of the greats, as he did when he accepted the Screen Actors’ Guild award for his Dylan performance on Feb. 23, that’s as it should be. The opposite of bragging, it was an expression of humility, an acknowledgement not just of the work he had put into his Dylan performance (more than five years’ worth, including preparation, multiple interruptions, and actual filming) but of whatever work lies ahead. Especially in an age when young people (and older ones) chase after often unearned and usually fleeting fame on Instagram and TikTok, setting yourself up for more and harder work because you revere the people who came before you—Chalamet cited actors Marlon Brando, Viola Davis, and Daniel Day-Lewis, as well as athletes like Michael Jordan and Michael Phelps—is simply a commitment to discipline. No wonder most people, if social media is any indication, loved the speech.
Admittedly, to anyone not in Chalamet’s camp at this moment, that speech might have seemed self-aggrandizing, a kind of boy-king entitlement. Then again, that image only brings me back to another Chalamet performance I loved, that of Shakespeare’s bad-boy Prince Hal in David Michôd’s underappreciated The King. And the truth is that nothing great can happen without ambition; very few people just stumble into it, and if they say they did, they’re lying. Chalamet is not a stumbler. You can see how much he wants it all, and how willing he is to go for it, in a YouTube video of him performing as a kid at New York’s LaGuardia High School, in 2012: as the persona he’s created for himself, Timmy Tim, he springs confidently through a dance-and-rap number, perhaps knowing it’s a little silly, especially the name, but pouring his all into it anyway. He must have been a tremendously annoying teenager—but then, the spirit of enterprising kids often spills into the margins. Learning to channel it takes time and discipline.
Read more: Greta Gerwig, Bradley Cooper, and the Strange Curse of Ambition
That’s also part of the work of being a star, especially in the runup to the Oscars: Chalamet has been nominated for his work in A Complete Unknown, and his SAG award, which came as something of a surprise (The Brutalist’s Adrien Brody had seemed to be the favorite), only intensifies the Oscar fever around him. I don’t quite understand the ads appearing in entertainment-civilian media (as opposed to trade publications, like Variety and the Hollywood Reporter, which are targeted for people in the industry) touting this or that Oscar candidate “For Your Consideration.” Who, me? What does my consideration have to do with it? Promotional campaigns are nothing new—the studios of old Hollywood sure knew how to put their stars to work for them—but Oscar-campaign insanity is a fairly recent development. Performers and filmmakers have to make themselves visible in a way that will win over awards voters—not just Academy members, but those who fill out ballots for the Golden Globes, the DGA, SAG, and the BAFTAs—without, hopefully, becoming an annoyance. It’s an additional layer of work. Some actors take to it, and others don’t. We tend to assume actors always love attention, but some love it only when they’re in character. It can be charming to catch an actor’s shyness during an interview, often a thing they work hard to veil; it’s a reminder of how self-protective a big star needs to be, especially if they seek to preserve any sort of private life.
In the months and weeks leading to the Oscars, Chalamet has given interviews, particularly a relaxed yet seemingly honest one with Anderson Cooper on 60 Minutes. But he has also sought other channels of self-promotion that feel less like advertising than simply joyful, if occasionally perplexing, expressions of who he is. He showed up in a hot-pink puffer coat to talk football with the hulky bros of ESPN College GameDay and fit right in, reeling out stats and insights that had them laughing amiably, ready to accept this slim elfin figure in a wispy mustache as one of their own. On Saturday Night Live, he appeared as both guest host and musical guest—his version of Dylan’s “Tomorrow Is a Long Time” tapped the song’s deep well of wistfulness, though the high point of the show might have been a skit in which he played an eager yet curiously inert Gen Z barista-in-training unclear on the concept of how to sell coffee. Chalamet is fantastic at comedy, and he knows how to skewer certain personality types. But he does it with love; there’s more goofiness than malice in how he sees the world.
Read more: A Complete Unknown Celebrates the Dazzling Unknowability of Bob Dylan: Man, Legend, Jerk
More delightful ridiculousness: on Instagram, a tiny Chanel bag slung across his Raiders jacket, he pranced on a Paris patio, the Eiffel Tower looming behind him, while lip-syncing to Edith Piaf’s “Non, Je ne regrette rien.” Most astonishing and weirdest of all, though, was a late-December Instagram live performance in which he strummed a guitar and sang “Blind Willie McTell” in a dimly lit warehouse space, with larger-than-life images of Dylan, at all ages, projected behind him in slow-motion. When he’d finished the song, he smashed the guitar, Pete Townshend-style. Then he launched into a freestyle interpretive dance that included a series of random, nutso leaps and pirouettes, rinsing his head with water from a nearby sink, and executing a Donald O’Connor-style floor pinwheel (Chalamet is a marvelous dancer, as he proved in the otherwise wearisome Wonka). He also fired a confetti gun in an unmissably phallic display. Meanwhile, made-up or possibly even real accolades (“well done timmy,” “impressive—to say the least,” “good luck with your future”) flashed across the screen behind him, some of them containing careless misspellings, as one well-wisher after another rushed toward him to interrupt his dance with hugs and, presumably, more compliments.
What? Why? Even some fans were confused, expressing bewilderment or even disgust. It’s one of those things you either get or you don’t, and plenty didn’t. “Cringefest,” typed one Reddit user. “A cry for help,” said another. But others found succinct and viable ways to defend this feat of expressive, if oblique, release: On Instagram, one fan described it “as an entertaining and sexy way” for Chalamet to celebrate being able to finally “move on after dedicating more than 5 years of his life to Bob Dylan and ACU.” Or as a Reddit user said: “Finally, a celebrity is being a harmless weirdo in public. This is the content they should all be making. One person dance party, no rehearsal. Just being a freak in a warehouse.”
Though people seem to enjoy Oscar season, it can also be a rather grim time, a slog of performers and directors promoting their projects into a who-cares? oblivion, while prognosticators track the infinitesimal ups and downs. It’s easy to lose sight of why those movies may have mattered in the first place. Also, face it: some of the people and movies nominated are just not that good. Everyone has their favorites, and often the performances we love best are the ones left by the wayside. But Chalamet, an already rather well seasoned young actor who will keep striving for greatness, who enjoys a good, old-fashioned Edith Piaf lip-sync on a Paris patio, who knows his way around a Dylan ballad, is living in this moment and enjoying it as well as anyone can. To watch him take pleasure in it is pleasure itself. One-person dance party, no rehearsal: this is how you win Oscar season, even if you don’t bring home the actual prize. Confetti gun optional.