
“You live in a flat off the Archway Road and think you’re Virginia Woolf?” says disgraced teacher Cate Blanchett to colleague Judi Dench, on discovering through the latter’s spiteful memoirs how much a part she has played in her very public downfall. Adapted from Zoe Heller’s 2003 Booker-shortlisted novel, Richard Eyre’s film could be accused of having similar delusions of grandeur. Indeed, for all its Oscar-winning stars, forbidden desires and Hitchcockian music cues, this is a rather more mundane affair than a story involving betrayal, blackmail and sexual obsession might suggest.
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