Skip to main content

"Notes on a scandal" - movie review


“People have always trusted me with their secrets, but who do I trust mine with?” the old lady writes in her diary. She is the history teacher (played by Judi Dench). The movie’s background score and the general atmosphere are quite similar to “The Hours”-one of my favourite movies of all time. There is a sense of drama that awaits us, as indicated by the title and pouncing yet sublime background score. There is something in the opening scenes that points towards a tale that strangles you with its intensity. The arts teacher (played by Cate Blanchett) is new to the school, and I am already liking her. If not as powerful a character played by Nicole Kidman for Virginia Woolf in “The Hours”, Blanchett’s role is similarly intense, formidable and deep.

Ah! The background score is enticing. “One must make an effort, when one receives an invitation” the voiceover of history teacher in response to the arts teacher’s invitation for lunch at her place, the movie hides the scathing arguments for a later time. As of now, what we see is mere colloquial over coffee or lunch, but the background score sprays its urgency over every scene so much so that you begin to think if it is an action movie after all.

The old lady falls in love with the young one, she likes her “utter candidness” and thinks of her as “a companion”. In fact, Cate Blanchett is so befitting in the role that one wonders how anyone could resist but be besotted for her. She is shown as a mother of two, but awfully beautiful for her age and extremely adorable.

The older one saves the younger’s affair with a school kid for a future purpose which she anticipates would be lot more fruitful to her than the present benefit of ostracising her. The older lady deeply awed as she is for the younger one’s affairs, is also infatuated with her and feels an investment of love, a chasm of strength and relationship. “we are bound by the secrets we share”, the voiceover clarifies when the younger is shown exhausted lying by the side of her student on a decrepit and rusty old railway platform. The younger feels drawn towards her student despite the conscience that forbade her, mother in her that dissuaded her, wife in her that reprimanded her, a teacher in her that censured her and held her culpable of a heinous (yet delightful) action.

The movie tells a tale of love between the older and the younger ladies, with the older dreamily involved with the younger while the younger is confused and absently walks into a relationship – ones she would later regret, and the ones that she would later renounce.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

White Man's Diary

I have utter contempt for a man who is not passionate about the work he does; I am at loss for words to decipher the enigma of this world and its subtle nuances. Its really intriguing at the same time quite disturbing to know that there are people who consider the world a mundane place. It’s inconceivable to think that people are ingenuously assuming the shred of indifference. Permit me to feel flattered for being bestowed upon me the onus of enlightening the kind of people that were ostracized for centuries by the society of the enlightened, the kind that were never kind to themselves, the kind that wished to liberate themselves from all the desires that besieged them perpetually. History tells us that the people who managed to think beyond the obvious were invariably rewarded for having put up the act of thinking. People who lived on this planet earth 2000 years prior to now, had enough food for thought. An incredible amount of friction existed at every step they took in the evolutio...

Keyboard

In this land of square edges, people wear black square helmets with lines in contrasting colour drawn right at the top. With tapering stiff cloaks fattening at the bottom, we rest on this flat piece of charcoal Black Island. We stand tall, our bodies solid and inflexible, but the knees are lithe and give away. However, we are genetically designed to spring back up, stand tall and take the incessant knocking on our helmeted heads. Our life time varies; we hear news of islands, our contemporaries, wearing out with the frontline soldiers’ knees worn out of perpetual thrashing to their feet only to spring back and be knocked again. With a population of close to a hundred people, our island boasts a frontline soldier squad of 26. This squad is relentlessly battered; under a roar of stuttering knocks on the head, they are the ones who find their knees buckle before the rest of the population’s. More often than not, it is the ones who are guarding the left front, ones with ‘a’, ‘s’, ‘e’, or...

Pressure Cooker

Daubing the top of wicks, one by one, with drops of kerosene, J proceeded to rest her newly bought Hawkins pressure cooker on the stove. “Now, you wait for the whistle” said the wealthy neighbouring lady who assisted J that morning with the cooker. With an assumed indifference, J waited for the whistle to lift its bottom over the lid and dance in merry. The kerosene stove, she was told won’t do justice to the cooker; she needed a proper gas stove with sleek finish and hollowed eyes that spewed blue flames with the turn of a switch. The kerosene stove with its twelve tongues brocaded over the epithelial layer of its throat, strung into a circle, served her family since the time of marriage. Her son squatted beside her, giggled and found it amusing as J rubbed his cheeks with her hands warmed before the many tongued stove. In the forlorn house under the wooden roof that leaked, between the pale brown walls that flaked, over the grey rugged tiles that cracked, mother and son lent their t...