His latest film, Secrets of a Scandal, echoes threads from many earlier works—including Poison (1991) and Carol (2015)—while exploring desire, pressure, and the thin lines between truth, memory, and public perception. In a manner reminiscent of Safe (1995) and Far From Heaven (2002), the film presents a traumatized woman rendered with a striking, nuanced intensity. It sits alongside showbiz portraits like Superstar (1987), Velvet Goldmine (1998), and I’m Not There (2007).
During conversations, he notes that narcissism and public ridicule often blur the meanings of normality, truth, and morality. The film drew inspiration from controversial real events, including the case of a teacher who faced criminal charges connected to a relationship with a minor, a saga that reverberated through public discourse and personal lives alike.
What about the true story sparked the filmmaker’s interest in turning it into fiction?
What captivated him most was the chance to examine the lives of those involved more than two decades after the scandal that turned them into tabloid fodder. He wanted to understand how they endured, what walls they built to defend themselves, and how easy it is for people to cling to choices that may be harmful in retrospect. He believes people routinely resist questioning their own decisions, clinging to relationships and family ties even when happiness remains elusive.
The subject of whether to include perspectives from those directly involved was also discussed. The filmmaker emphasized a deliberate distance from the real subjects, arguing that storytelling is inherently subjective and driven by creative instincts. One of the film’s aims is to challenge assumptions about whether truth can be measured or universally agreed upon. Who owns truth? Who gets to define the official version of events? These questions drive a provocative, ongoing conversation—one that the film invites viewers to interrogate.
Would the case have provoked the same level of attention if circumstances had been different?
He acknowledged that questions of gender and power shape public reaction. Society often rates men’s sexual transgressions with far more tolerance than women’s, a discrepancy that reveals how morality is judged unevenly. He also notes how laws vary by region, with some jurisdictions allowing relationships involving minors under certain conditions, while others impose stricter restraints. Such contradictions fuel debates about fairness, accountability, and duty.
Frame stills from Secrets of a Scandal accompany the discussion, captioned with the film’s title, underscoring its thematic focus on the ambiguity surrounding truth and memory.
Secrets of a Scandal also marks a departure from the director’s earlier emphasis on female protagonists. Where Safe (1995) and Far From Heaven (2002) center on women who submit to circumstances, this film shifts toward characters that defy expectations and exercise autonomy, even when their choices unsettle other characters.
It is an ongoing belief that cinema should normalize stories about women who are not easily categorized, and challenge the notion that female behavior must fit a male-defined template. Recalling a golden era of Hollywood when actresses like Bette Davis could play morally thorny yet magnetic roles, the director argues that such representations remain essential for cultural progress and equality.
The film’s ambiguity and moral complexity create a sense of unease. The characters resist neat classification, inviting audiences to confront discomfort rather than seek tidy conclusions.
Today, audiences are used to films that confirm their preconceptions about right and wrong. Yet Secrets of a Scandal aims to push viewers toward moral ambiguity, leaving them unsettled. From an early age, the filmmaker absorbed a love of cinema and a curiosity about human identity, and those influences echo in the work. The result is not merely entertainment but a prompt for reflection and conversation.
Is filmmaking a source of fun or a painful process?
It is a painfully exhilarating endeavor. The director describes standing at the edge of a creative cliff, aware that a misstep could be costly. Yet that fear of falling is precisely what makes the craft compelling. What would life be if risks and new ventures were not embraced?