Notes on a Scandal
Reviewed by Theo Michelfeld
Posted: January 29, 2007

Hollywood has long been accused by the gay and lesbian community of portraying homosexual characters as predators. I would say that accusation is a bit overstated, but on the other hand, overstatements are often required to budge society into a state of greater social consciousness. Basic Instinct and Dressed to Kill, with their sexually eccentric slashers, could be considered overstatements of homophobia, and deserving of some proportionate response from the gay non-serial-killer demographic. But Silence of the Lambs was a high quality movie that dared to examine the pathology of its transsexual villain. It would seem to have explored the theme responsibly. And yet the film inspired protests so loud that the director, Jonathan Demme, felt compelled to make amends by responding with the AIDS-awareness drama Philadelphia.

A storyteller without a social agenda would say that “gay predator” characters make intuitive sense to an audience, not because they are gay but because they are oppressed—because they are first and foremost victims of society’s taboos. What compels an audience is the tragic irony they embody: They have tried to “behave,” to forego their desires and obey social convention, and in doing so have deprived themselves of love, lost their humanity, and turned into monsters. This is the theme of Notes on a Scandal, a new film of great sensitivity that also delivers some good old fashioned heebie-jeebies.

The film is about two women, both schoolteachers, whose respective un-met needs lead to a very unhealthy bond. Judi Dench plays Barbara, a bitter, lonely spinster approaching retirement age. Cate Blanchett plays Sheba, a pretty and somewhat flaky younger woman who has taken up teaching as a means of escaping the dissatisfying elements of her marriage. As the story unfolds, Sheba quickly takes a liking to Barbara, and that’s all the encouragement the older woman needs to become obsessed with her colleague. The two women develop a complex and unstable relationship. Sheba needs a mother figure. Barbara craves intimacy. Each is in denial about what the other is seeking. Then, when Barbara spies Sheba having an affair with a 15-year-old boy, she hatches an emotional blackmail scheme. She uses the secret to weaken Sheba’s boundaries, and slowly bring the younger woman under her control.

The screenplay is a doozey, adapted by Patrick Marber from a novel by Zoë Heller. It is bombastically witty at times, at other times subtle, handing out clues to the characters’ motivations and hang-ups. Despite the disturbing nature of the story, there’s a really enjoyable streak of dark comedy through the film’s first hour. Barbara narrates, with passages from her diary, and her smug summings-up of the people around her are a real guilty pleasure for the audience. It’s a nifty narrative device—the self-unaware superior voice. Barbara is a walking, talking defense mechanism, totally cynical and loathing of others, and at the same time never daring to scrutinize her own pathetic opportunism. Sheba is well-written also, mostly naïve and trusting, but there’s a wonderfully scripted scene where she finally blows her stack. The film is loaded with juicy dialogue.

There’s a recurring theme of cross-generational seduction in this film. Barbara is twice Sheba’s age, but so is Sheba’s husband. And then there is the teacher’s fling with her 15-year-old student, Steven. This kind of affair makes real world headlines from time to time, but interestingly the naïve and manipulated victim of this movie is the one with the sexual power, Sheba. The film thoroughly dissects the damage Barbara does to Sheba. But it doesn’t show much sympathy for Steven, who seems to emerge from the affair unscathed, and not in need of sympathy. It’s a thought-provoking twist on the subject, and consistent with a film that dares to draw us into the confidences of a 60-year-old lesbian stalker. Anyway, moral conservatives beware. (Or is it rejoice?) Hollywood has tossed you another delicious hunk of bait.

Notes on a Scandal is not a perfect movie, although it could have come close. Few viewers will fail to notice a plot contrivance toward the end that completely breaks the film’s spell. Without revealing the outcome of events, suffice to say some of Sheba’s assumptions and subsequent choices seem unrealistic even for a flaky character under duress. The sad thing is that the film didn’t have to demand this leap from its audience. With such a relentless conniver in Barbara, the filmmakers had a perfect resource to keep Sheba in denial, and keep the plot on track. They simply didn’t bother.

Even more unfortunately, the film discards its narrator’s voice toward the end. The greatest strength of Notes on a Scandal is unquestionably the narration by Barbara. Furthermore, the director establishes Barbara as the story-teller and maintains her voice throughout. This is a contract, of sorts, with the audience. Yet toward the end of the film, the narration stops and the director takes over the story-telling duty. The action becomes dramatized. The contract dissolves. This might have been acceptable—perhaps it was necessary to adapt the story from novel to film. But we are never re-delivered into Barbara’s confidences. By the end, the narration has migrated permanently over to the director. It leaves the film feeling a bit out of balance.

These are not minor flaws, but this film is so good they barely make a dent. The dialogue alone is worth the price of admission. And I’d be crazy not to mention the acting. The two main characters are like forces of nature. Judi Dench becomes exponentially creepier without ever really losing our sympathy. Her Barbara may be added to the canon of heroic screen villains. And Cate Blanchett is just as good, no less wild a creature than her stalker. Her Sheba is intoxicatingly beautiful, and at the same time psychologically helpless. 

Notes on a Scandal really is a fun movie, but its tragic elements will also, no doubt, leave you feeling disturbed. There’s a particular scene were Barbara lets her guard down and describes herself to the viewer as “chronically-untouched.” In this scene you can feel her resentment for Sheba, a woman she can see right through, and who nevertheless is privileged with more intimacy than she can handle. This scene hauntingly illustrates an all-too-human pathology, one that has no doubt damaged us all in one way or another. It’s the voice of the predator, the stalker, hopelessly cynical and long-deprived of love, the voice of a woman who can get what she needs only through the manipulation of others.

Copyright © 2007 Theo Michelfeld