





































 Two young men pause their summertime 
bike ride through the Italian countryside to speak to 
an old woman sitting outside a farmhouse splitting 
peas. Dressed in Memphis-Group-inspired shorts 
and a Talking Heads band shirt, the younger of these 
fellows asks the woman if she could fetch them 
glasses of water. While she’s inside, he reaches into 
the bowl where the woman has been sorting her 
split peas and grabs a fistful. His companion slaps 
his hand, smiling, unable to admonish the younger 
man for munching on his new-found harvest. After 
receiving their water, the men peddle off, leaving 
the woman to go on pea-splitting, oblivious to both 
the produce stolen from her as well as her role in 
sustaining a homosexual romance. 
 The scene above is representational of the 
large part food plays in facilitating the sensual, 
exploratory world of Call Me by Your Name. Besides 
earning an Academy Award nomination for Best 
Picture and launching Timothée Chalamet’s career, 
the 2017 film adaptation of André Acimen’s novel 
has been ground-breaking in its mainstream recep-
tion of a queer relationship. While almost every

Life’s a Peach: 
The Convergence of Sexuality and Class in 
Luca Guadagnino’s Call Me by Your Name

Allen Warren, Ball State University 

reviewer has had something to say about the infamous “peach scene” (which itself was toned down from 
the source material) and similar symbols of lust and love in the film, few have focused on how food 
overall—its production, presentation, or consumption—functions in Call Me by Your Name. Fewer still 
have chosen to interact with the working-class characters who not only dot, but paint the lush backdrop 
of Elio and Oliver’s interactions and who provide for the main characters’ romance through food produc-
tion. With these two lenses missing, we have been unable to understand this piece of cinema for what 
it suggests: for these men to have come together romantically, there needed to be a space, such as the 
Perlmans’ villa, where they could escape normative messaging around sexuality without stressing about 
the fiscal demands required for a fulfillment of the necessities—in this case, eating. According to this in-
terpretation, love must transcend the body to exist; for that to happen, you need someone underneath to 
serve you. I propose food as a mechanism by which we can assess this movie’s romantic leanings as well 
as its reliance on class divisions to kickstart any meaningful realization of queerness. With this under-
standing in mind, we can begin to gather a better sense of Call Me by Your Name’s class-consciousnes

Call Me by Your Name (2017) became famous for its 
“peach scene,” though the orchard around the 
Perlmans’ villa where this fruit thrives could not have 
grown on its own. Distinctions of class and a parasitism 
by the most affluent of their workers cultivate the par-
adise where director Luca Guadagnino sets the blos-
soming romance between Elio and Oliver. Apricots are 
a clear metaphor for desire here, yet their prolificacy 
is only possible through the invisibility and silent in-
tervention of other food items, from peas to latkes to 
water. Critics have pointed out the beauty of the Italian 
setting and its use as a temporary escape from heter-
onormative surveillance, as well as the way domestic 
workers flow in and out of scenes almost wordlessly. 
What these critics have missed is the connection these 
occurrences have in explaining how the working class 
have built (but do not benefit from) this heaven on Earth, 
where the young male lovers may permit their bodies 
to act without restraint. While queer and class theories 
inform this discussion, my primary vehicle for interpre-
tation will be food, both for its prominent place in the 
movie and for the ways it parallels the class structure at 
the villa. I find the film quietly reflects on the levels of 
economic privilege and exploitation needed to experi-
ence the paradise it depicts, with the usurpation of food 
in many scenes helping to remind the audience of the 
inability of this space to be wholly subversive. 

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83 | Warren



and reckoning with economic forces that, on the surface, suggest entering a capitalistic elite to even 

clandestinely undermine heterosexism; however, these views ultimately bow under examination to show 

the inability of any space built on such a hierarchy to funnel out oppression.

 Cartoonist Olivia de Recat lampooned the popular excitement around Call Me by Your Name 

through a 2018 series for The New Yorker entitled “Timothée Chalamet Made Me Do It.” In it, obsession 

over the film, and Chalamet in particular, manifests as a collection of indulgent admissions, such as this 

one from twenty-two-year-old “Fiona” of Portland, Oregon, whose face is broken out in a rash: “I started 

eating peaches again, even though I’m allergic to them.” This unashamed love coupled with the resulting 

mythology around Guadagnino’s production are reflected in most published critical reviews. Writing for 

The New Yorker as well, Anthony Lane hailed Call Me by Your Name as “an erotic triumph,” suggesting 

that “a gratifying cameo by a peach . . . merits an Academy Award for Best Supporting Fruit.” Besides 

being “far and away the best movie of the year,” Call Me by Your Name was, for Christy Lemire on Roger 

Ebert’s legacy site, a “sensitive adaptation”: “A feeling of melancholy tinges everything, from the choice 

of a particular shirt to the taste of a perfectly ripe peach.” A messy soft-boiled egg excited Manohla 

Dargis in The New York Times: “Mr. Guadagnino almost can’t help making everything look intoxicating.” 

No written discussion of the film seems to escape a discussion of its food, first among them the peach, 

which serves as a masturbatory tool while Chalamet’s character, Elio, waits in a barn loft for Oliver, 

played by Armie Hammer. That Elio discovers the fruit’s erotic potential undoubtedly fueled much of the 

movie’s public interest: today’s texters code the same reference in the peach emoji (Murray), though, 

as food studies critic John Varriano notes, wide-spread sexual interpretations of produce have existed 

for much longer, pointing to painted and poetic examples from the Italian Renaissance—some of which 

feature a peach in an explicitly homoerotic light. This popular discussion indicates that while not form-

ing the basis of the movie, food cannot be removed from the emotional and critical connections which 

audiences form with Call Me by Your Name.

 The film’s mythology manifests through other cinematic choices as well, including the story 

itself. Oliver is a graduate student who has come from America for the summer of 1983 to work under 

Professor Samuel Perlman, an expert in classical culture. The opportunity introduces Oliver to Elio, the 

professor’s son, a seventeen-year-old who makes a hobby of notating and re-interpreting Bach pieces 

and who can switch with ease between English, French, and Italian depending on the situation. Guided 

by the languid gazes of the professor and his wife Annella, the two young men swim, study, and simmer 

beneath the fruit trees of this expansive rural villa. As Anthony Lane writes, the film is “‘Somewhere 

in Northern Italy,’ and “Such vagueness is deliberate: the point of a paradise is that it could exist any-

where.” In fits and starts, Elio and Oliver form a bond that starts as a distant intellectual respect for one 

another before becoming, by the film’s midpoint, a romantic one. Director Luca Guadagnino is faithful 

to author Acimen’s pacing of the novel by resisting expediting the tract of this relationship, instead allo-

cating generous amounts of time to shots of fields, forests, and low-hanging apricots.

 These apricots are seminal to the start of Elio and Oliver’s rapport. We are introduced to their 

grove as forming “Annella’s trees,” delineating a claim of ownership to them as well as to the cherries, 

pomegranates, and peaches, despite us never seeing Professor Perlman’s wife pick a single fruit—though, 

by some miracle, apricot juice abounds. A few scenes later, when Annella brings some of this juice to

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the professor’s study, she offers a glass to Oliver, who laps it down without pausing for a breath. Seeing 

this, the professor proposes a trajectory of the word “apricot” into English from Arabic that Oliver count-

ers, situating the word’s origins in the Latin praecocem meaning “precocious” and “premature.” This last 

addition is directed at Elio, who has been watching Oliver behind a book while sharing smirks with his 

mother. They both know the father is testing his assistant’s etymological skills, so when Professor Perl-

man declares Oliver has passed with “flying colors,” Elio can’t help but interject: “He does this every 

year” (Call Me by Your Name). As Anna Harvey of Screen Queens observes, Elio has become “intrigued 

by this newcomer’s confidence,” a growth that prompts the young Perlman to elicit Oliver’s attention in 

this scene. It also attests to Roland Barthes’s belief, stated in “Towards a Psychosociology of Contempo-

rary Food Consumption,” that “food has a constant tendency to transform itself into situation” (29); be-

yond giving sustenance, food is a symbol of the social predilections of its user/s, a truth that strengthens 

as the item’s necessity as sustenance wanes. The philological sparring Elio witnesses resonates for him 

precisely because a physical attraction towards Oliver has already begun to form, characterized by this 

discussion of the sources of the succulent apricot.

 In his negative review for The New Yorker, Richard Brody points to this scene as an example of 

how Guadagnino supplants intimacy and emotional development for having Elio and Oliver “post their 

intellectual bona fides on the screen like diplomas.” Through this analysis, Brody fails to appreciate the 

extent to which these interactions with food express the development of the boys’ relationship where 

words cannot be spoken. In his analysis of contemporary food advertisements, Barthes notes that adver-

tising “eroticizes food and thereby transforms our consciousness of it, bringing it into a new sphere of 

situations by means of a pseudocasual relationship” (27). This relationship, which starts out as formal-

ly-structured, removed, and (in advertising’s reliance on “[m]otivation studies” and other psychologies 

of the consumer) intellectual, dips into a more personal connection “connoting a sublimated sexuality” 

through the eventual association by the individual of specific foods with erotic images (Barthes 27). 

Barthes’s description of French marketing schemes also proves insightful into Elio and Oliver’s budding 

bond. This interpretation contends the notion that an eroticization of food requires the intervention of 

corporation images: as Varriano points out, we symbol-seeking animals need no incentive to link our 

world to our sex, particularly when these links help to code social transgressions.

 To that end, many of Elio and Oliver’s interactions with each other involve food or drink such 

that these items enwrap themselves into, and become, the conversation. At one point, Oliver, for exam-

ple, uses a request for water after playing volleyball as an excuse to knead Elio’s shoulder. Elio does not 

respond well to this touching because he mistakes it for teasing from a heterosexual man—with others 

around, Oliver cannot correct this misunderstanding. The presence of girlfriends for both characters 

complicates being explicit about any homosexual feelings. However, at breakfast one morning when Elio 

declares to Oliver and his father that he and his girlfriend Marzia “almost had sex last night,” Oliver uses 

the opportunity to opine that “it’s better to have tried and failed,” glancing up from Elio to Prof. Perlman 

then back down at his soft-boiled egg (Call Me by Your Name). This egg’s destruction starts the scene, 

with shots of the cracking of its shell, the spilling of the yolk, and the spooning out of its contents. It’s a 

delicate but messy process, necessitating Oliver’s focus as well as the audience, and sets up this discus-

sion among the men of a sexual duty to pursue despite the possibility—or likelihood—of failure.

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 Food becoming its own language in Call Me by Your Name follows Pierre Bourdieu’s observation 

from “Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste” that “[t]he sign-bearing, sign-wearing 

body is also a producer of signs which are physically marked by the relationship to the body” (35). So 

close to the body that it becomes the body, food must serve here where words cannot. Apricots, water, 

and eggs have joined the ranks of, if not usurped, the typical signalling method of speech to account for 

social muzzling –thankfully for Elio and Oliver, little gets lost in translation. This fact suggests the erec-

tion of “a new regime of discourses”, founded to account for the fact that “[t]here is not one but many 

silences” (Foucault 27)—ironic for a film whose title promotes declaration. The extinction of words is 

necessary to conceal what is happening symbolically to the people around Elio and Oliver, who, if they 

did catch onto the code, could only ever become aware of a sublimation from strangers to lovers. 

 Since Oliver and Elio often must meet each other at mealtime (with Elio’s parents, if not more 

people, present), meals play a role in both obfuscating and deepening this relationship. On Oliver’s first 

night at the villa, a bell peels through the darkness: the Perlmans’ maid/cook, Mafalda, is calling the 

house to dinner. Despite Elio’s pressings,  Oliver is too tired to attend and asks Elio to make an excuse 

for his missing the meal. Skipping dinner becomes a habit of Oliver’s, a crass Americanism that Elio crit-

icizes later on to his folks. His parents have none of it, disappointing Elio. He cannot share why Oliver’s 

absence bothers him (if he knows why yet himself); this denial separates child from parents, though they 

are dining together. The elder Perlmans, it must be noted, are quite progressive for their time: they have 

gay friends, after all. Still, queer topics remain unpalatable at the dinner table, so it must be left to sim-

mer, cloche-covered. When Mafalda comes by to remove Oliver’s plate from the table, Elio scoots over 

to occupy the empty place, a way of “inhabit[ing] the body for which the space was reserved” (Harvey). 

This movement allows us to begin to understand, at the same time as Elio, how much he desires Oliver’s 

company, particularly when he is surrounded by others of the household through the rituality 

of mealtime.

 Mealtime, like everything at the villa, is cultivated and polished to a degree almost impossible 

for anyone outside the bourgeoisie to realize; human help curates the machinations of the Perlman 

mansion, for which they receive little in-world or on-screen recognition. Manohla Dargis sees the villa’s 

“miles of bookshelves, its velvet sofas, scattered Oriental rugs and tastefully arranged antiques” as a sign 

of how Guadagnino makes “even a busy breakfast table and the fruit on a tree . . . seem art directed.” 

In the film’s universe, these aesthetic decisions are instead aided by a pair of domestic workers: Mafal-

da and the handyman Anchise. Both are involved in the production and service of food. Besides being 

the Perlmans’ cook, Mafalda seems to be in constant expectation of the family’s need for food: at one 

point, a milkshake she has prepared for Annella is waved away while she intervenes to show Oliver how 

to properly crack open a soft-boiled egg on his first morning there. Anchise, on the other hand, is more 

involved in the collection of food, such as picking the fruit from the orchard. A large fish he caught 

serves as amusement for Elio, who makes faces at what will likely be part of dinner that evening. Elio 

can take breaks such as this from his music transcription (done with a Walkman, no cheap product in 

1983) because he did not have to involve himself in the fish’s retrieval; because he did not have to blend 

the apricot juice he drinks; because the villa greets those with enough socioeconomic privilege to enter 

it with the sustenance for their academic, leisure, and sexual pursuits.

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 The Perlmans and their guests are never wanting for food, nor do they ever lack someone to serve 

them, a fact that they take as natural and therefore unnecessary to examine. Whether at home or at a 

café, they are always able to secure service. Annella makes appearances in the kitchen on the pretense 

of some female bonding with Mafalda; we learn later that Annella had inherited the property, and it is 

possible she and the maid have had a long relationship as employer and employed. However, when you 

only step into the kitchen to remove a tart from the oven so it’s ready for a guest who just arrived, or, in 

a particularly weird sequence, look square in the eyes of your hired help while sticking your finger into 

another tart to have a taste, it doesn’t suggest a strong bond. Nor does it suggest much awareness of the 

social stratification that might make Mafalda’s presence at the villa a generational venture. 

 Oliver is not exempt from this lack of class consciousness; while his financial bearings are tech-

nically unknown despite his ability to travel abroad to further his doctoral candidacy, we cannot over-

look how easily he adapts to having someone crack his eggs for him, or how he can bear to wave away a 

hot meal almost nightly. If you aren’t having to make breakfast, you can stomach skipping dinner. When 

it comes to collecting to food, we see a Perlman—Elio—attempt this only thrice: once, when he steals 

the peas from the country woman; twice, when he gains Oliver’s attention by shoving Oliver out of the 

way to pick a peach; the last time, when he picks another peach, which he inverts and converts through 

onanism, refusing even Oliver the chance to eat what remains. Each instance indicates a commodity 

comfort through its view of food as cost-free and arousing entity that stands on the shoulders of low-

er-class labor.

 These initial observations of food in the film has led me to conclude that Call Me by Your Name 

imagines the fulfillment of same-sex desire only as an effect of capitalism that not only can the workers 

of the world never expect to realize, but the bourgeoisie might experience this luxury while still being 

unable to disclose it. Homosexuality can manifest only in the spaces as allocated for swimming pools, 

orchards, and private displays of antique sculpture; moreover, such manifestations must remain hidden, 

both to the property’s owners and to the property’s up-keepers. Besides being problematic, this world-

view is pessimistic, albeit lining up with the film’s sad ending. Contesting this original conclusion are 

certain elements of the story—subtle, clever, the largest of which happens at lunch—that allude to social 

change as a remedy for the social ill (heterosexism) which ultimately brings down Oliver and Elio. This is 

all to say that Call Me by Your Name is not, as I first thought, ignorant to the class distinctions described 

up to this point.

 On the contrary, the film is aware of the political-social context, and while we see posters in 

town advertising the Communist and Socialist Parties, as well as Annella and the professor laughing at a 

televised satire of the newly-minted Socialist prime minister, the most thorough in-film examination of 

contemporary politics interacts with food. Over lunch one day following the national elections, friends 

of the Perlmans bicker about the incoming prime minister and the new “historic compromise” with leftist 

political parties. In part due to their friends’ bombastic style, but surely as well from the topic at hand, 

Prof. and Ms. Perlman look uncomfortable throughout the scene, hardly touching their food. Per usual, 

Mafalda comes in and out of the scene, replenishing what food has been eaten and taking empty dish-

es away. However, because the Perlmans wish, through their glances, for some distraction, their maid 

comes more in focus for us—as does Anchise, who is off sitting alone in the grass, chuckling to himself

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and shaking his head. The camera highlights the workers for their roles in facilitating the villa’s orches-

trated, daily outdoor lunches, making sure food and its production remain in the middle of this political 

conversation—although Oliver and Elio are only there as observers, sitting beside each other but silent.

 Having said this, it may become easy to overestimate the political winds of change rippling 

through Italy; we cannot forget how singular the villa is even within the immediate vicinity and how, 

despite its origins and structure, it has permitted something unusual to flourish. The scene from the 

opening paragraph of this essay encompasses more than I first described; while Oliver and Elio are wait-

ing outside for the elderly woman to return with water for them, Oliver points out the portrait hanging 

above the front door of her house: “Il Duce.” “Popolo italiano!” Elio replies, impersonating Mussolini. 

The two regard the portrait a second longer, leading Elio to resign: “That’s Italy” (Call Me by Your Name). 

His linkage of the country with its fascist past—and, as this encounter shows, the persistent penchant for 

fascism among the Italian working class—stands in contrast to what historian Charles F. Delzell in 1988 

called “[Italian] citizens’ tolerance of regional and economic differences, . . .  their ability to cope with 

the inefficiencies of democratic government, . . .  their pragmatic acceptance of human foibles—and, 

most of all, . . .  their appreciation of the rich texture of everyday life” (135). Rather, it is a sign that the 

political theories that endangered Jewish and queer Italians during World War II are still extant, in oppo-

sition to the atmosphere of liberality which the Perlmans sponsor (an anomaly their non-Jewish domestic 

workers appear to accept). Elio introduces to us, then, right at the start of his and Oliver’s sexual in-

volvement (the beginning of the end), an awareness that whatever rapport the two of them will develop 

cannot sustain itself outside the walls of his parents’ mansion—even if there is always someone who will 

fetch something for them to drink. What these two men share will only be watered if it remains 

in the shade.

 More than once will Elio have to wrestle with this fate. Elio and Oliver decide to travel around 

Italy together before Oliver must head back across the Atlantic. One night during this vacation, after 

the two have become drunk, Oliver finds a male-female couple dancing to the Psychedelic Furs’ “Love 

My Way,” a song that Elio had seen Oliver dancing to with his local girlfriend earlier in the film. Oliver 

dances with the woman here; Elio watches for as long as he can before throwing up the night’s reverie. 

Vomiting, argues Jude Agho, along with other modes of scatology, can be employed by artists “not as 

ends in themselves, but as means to an end; that of criticizing the prevalence of corruption, oppression 

and dehumanisation in society” (196). Speaking of the work of the Nigerian Biyi Bandele-Thomas, Agho 

comments on how portrayals of vomiting show that the writer “wants the reader to see his own feeling 

of shame, rage and disappointment at the way things have become in post-independence Nigeria” (205). 

We can link this interpretation with the violent ejection Elio emits in witnessing something as unappetiz-

ing as his man dancing with a woman to this song. When food has defined so much of their involvement 

with each other, we suddenly see a rejection of what can be considered Elio and Oliver’s last supper, 

and the prediction of Oliver’s eventual betrayal for hetero-conformity readable through Elio’s self-purge.

 In the film’s final act, we see the villa in winter, blanketed in snow: a beautiful traditional veneer 

for this time of year, albeit with an acknowledgement of how the cold prevents the arbor from bearing 

fruit. Phoning in from America, Oliver reveals to the Perlmans that he is engaged; this knowledge hurts 

Elio to hear as much it hurts Oliver to convey. Still, despite Elio’s belief that his parents “know about”

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his relationship with Oliver, neither seems willing to fight the matter, which can be attested as much to 

the legal and social abhorrence to homosexuality as much to the boys’ religion.

 Elio and Oliver’s acceptance of their separate fates and resignation to social dictates develops as 

does Elio’s exploration of his Judaism. Inspired by Oliver, Elio begins wearing a Star of David necklace 

in opposition to his parents’ stance that they are “Jews of discretion,” bringing Elio closer to a moral 

quandary, since his faith is opposed to gayness. In a food context, Judaism’s consideration of pork as 

unclean may have been a result of considerations of holiness (Douglas) or, more likely, cost and care 

of swine in biblical Israel (Harris), though neither explanation supplants Judaism’s mandate on rever-

ence. Thus, even if  “religions gain strength when they help people make decisions which are in accord 

with preexisting useful practices” and “God does not usually waste time prohibiting the impossible or 

condemning the unthinkable” (Harris 65), Orthodox Jews still “insisted that God’s purpose in Leviticus 

could never be fully comprehended; nevertheless the dietary laws had to be as a sign of submission to 

divine will” (61); the effort against futility wracks its head on homosexuality. Elio and Oliver need no 

reference to Leviticus 18:22—the religious expectation of compliance on that matter is in conversation 

with the dietary dictates elsewhere. The reminder of this for Elio is that, upon the conclusion of the 

credits roll, he is called to the table for latkes—another meal, another form of silence, even at the villa. 

An ocean apart, Elio and Oliver can eat this traditional marker of Hanukah yet no longer consume each 

other; to that, they must consign if they are to be in conversation with the law, the land, and their faith.

 For a brief summer, though, they were able to evade these concepts for a discovery of the flesh. 

The reality that they were never going to permanently transcend society’s fury at their relationship 

speaks to what Michel Foucault wrote, that, for the heterosexists who would look to find some sign to 

condemn homosexuality, Elio and Oliver’s romance would be “a secret that always gave itself away” 

(43). Their reliance on food to communicate to each other speaks as much to the subliminal nature 

of what they were doing as to the need to be a member of the bourgeoisie to say it. While this sexual 

search contested the two’s gender scripts and social cues, it is not accurate to say they failed if the plea-

sure of the peach shall linger with them and the viewer: “Pleasure and power,” wrote Foucault, “do not 

cancel or turn back against one another; they seek out, overlap, and reinforce one another” (48). Indeed, 

the lasting message of Call Me by Your Name is not to resign to louder, more normative messaging, but 

to better understand the link between what we govern and what governs us.

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