It seems I’ve only ever seen Judi Dench in her roles as a matron beyond reproach or royalty, as proper and as classically British as a bone China cup of tea at 3 p.m., so I was refreshed and alarmed to find her in Notes on a Scandal as Barbara, a literate, bitter loner with a pruny face and harsh lipstick. By day, she teaches history to a public school class of motley teens she hates. At night, she records her thoughts in a diary, stickering the pages with tiny foil silver and gold stars.
A lot of space and stars get dedicated to Sheba (Cate Blanchett), the school’s pretty young new art teacher, as Barbara becomes intrigued, taking the wispy, ineffective woman under her wing by describing herself as both mother superior and battle axe. After spotting Sheba shagging a young student in the school studio after hours, Barbara realizes she can blackmail her way into a deeper relationship. “You must inform me of everything,” she orders Sheba one night over drinks, her creeping lust barely suppressed. After Sheba bemoans how she’s compromised her marriage, family and job, Barbara reassures her, “Oh, you poor thing. I want to help you,” which is so decidedly untrue it makes the audience cringe. Once Barbara has confirmation of the affair (and later that it has continued in secret after Sheba swore she’d end it), Barbara worms herself deeper into the poor girl’s life and records more creepiness in her diary (“I always knew we’d be friends.”).
In short: deserved nominations for best screenplay and supporting actress for Blanchett. And an even better-deserved best actress nomination for Dench. Will she win the real deal since taking home best supporting actress for her piffle of a role in Shakespeare in Love? Will she square off against Helen Mirren, star of critic-favorite The Queen, in a battle of the Brits? Yes, I think so.
I did feel unsatisfied by the ending but since I can’t think of a better way the lose ends could have been tied, it’ll have to do for now.
About the score: Have I mentioned how much I hate Philip Glass? His composition for Notes on a Scandal is as blatant as most of his work, flush with strings and brass that alternately noodle and swell, steamrolling what’s onscreen instead of complementing or suggesting it, as a good score should. It’s as if every moment of action is a cliffhanger. A quarter of the way into the film, I was exasperated. I wanted to grab the metaphorical sledgehammer of a score and knock Glass in his literal nutsack with it.