Opinion | On Timothe Chalamet as Bob Dylan in A Complete Unknown

This is why I hate movies.No, I hate going to the movies.Because I came out with a streaky tearface blinking into the dingy realityof the sticky patterned carpet and carrying the coldnear-empty popcorn box with kernels and stalepieces rattling — came from his almost comicanti-chivalrous beauty and from the burnished depthsof his living in another being, so much that aftera thought or two about the useful Jewish nose,made bold by the tall hair and unseen makeup(I can say this, I have a Jewish nose),I forgot he was Timothée.And the striking of the guitar percussively,heartbeat of the bygone pounding and slappinglike it was the only thing on earthhe cared about, and made me care.The scenes flowering throughsongs, given as new though they’re oldto me, old like the grass of the field,I was born in 1965, that burning electric year.We go there with them, he made me go,to be cast out when the hours expire, slammedwith fresh-peeled grief onto the narrow sillof our own lives, my family clusteredin the particulate darkness, like love breaking apartinto a million pieces, and I’m not sure which piece is me.And my kids, his contemporaries in this cursed countrywe gave them after all our Peter Paul and Mary, demanding“Tell us why you’re crying so we’ll understand!”Deborah Garrison is a book editor and poet.The Times is committed to publishing a diversity of letters to the editor.We’d like to hear what you think about this or any of our articles.

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