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Timothée Chalamet is in New York while filming A Complete Unknown, a biopic based on the life of Bob Dylan, but when surveilling the on-set photos taken of this sullen guitar man—in his sage-green chinos and crumpled corduroy jackets with that 2-in-1 frizz around his head—Chalamet looks as though he could be playing an even more familiar character embedded into contemporary consciousness: that of a terrible man whose sensitive songwriting is almost as egregious as his romantic misdemeanors. A tortured artist with a bachelor’s degree in English literature and a rotation of short-lived Hinge dates.
This is the kind of person who will invite you into his apartment (with roommates) after espousing the various benefits of rolling tobacco—see: the baker boy cap—and generously educating you on a little-known thing called capitalism—see: the mittens—before running his fingers through your hair and saying something like, “When you love, love wholly, love unabashedly; give yourself. To suffer is right and if you are feeling, in any kind of way, shitty or bad when you’re suffering, or you’re in heartbreak, or grieving, you’re doing it the right way,” before dumping you in the most mortifying scenario imaginable and leading you to question how you could have fallen for someone who wears so much mustard in the first place.
I’m not well-versed in the lore collected around Bob Dylan, but I do know this man well, because there have always been men like this. He licks his wounds to The Smiths and gets ash all over his Moleskine and panics when a young child kicks a soccer ball in his direction. These photos of Chalamet, dressed in all those worn-in leather boots, amateur poet scarves and beige Levi’s jackets, will doubtless prove successful advertisements for this film – particularly if you happen to own an accordion – but to modern eyes they are perhaps also a warning of an entirely different kind.