By ROSIE WATERLAND
Okay so last night I got drunk and watched The Notebook. I debated whether or not to admit to you that I was drunk, but once I read back over my (literary genius-level) notes, I realised it was probably for the best that I be upfront about it. I fell in love with a vodka bottle called Vladimir. I really need to get out more.
Here it is:
So we open on some nursing home. It looks like one of those big plantation houses from 12 Years A Slave, which is kind of a coincidence since it’s filled with over-worked black staff looking after rich old white people.
It looks like we’re focussing on an old white couple but I’m too drunk to remember their names so I’m just going to go with Old Dude and Old Lady. Old Dude seems legit – still has a functioning brain etc. Old Lady does not – she’s all: “Where am I? Who are you? Why are we paying the black people?” etc.
Old Dude seems really keen on getting into Old Lady’s pants. But he’s a gentleman, and her brain is like mine after 8 vodkas (ie right now), so he’s trying to romance her first by reading her a story. She likes the story. We know this because she keeps staring blankly out the window and saying, “I like this story.” (To which Old Dude is thinking, “Yeah. But not as much as you’d like SEXY-TIMES, amiright?” Oh god. I’m drunk.)
So because nobody wants to see old people hook up, the movie cuts over into the land of the story that Old Dude is reading. It’s 1940-something. I didn’t quite catch the exact year but all the guys are wearing braces with their pants and all the girls have hair-roller hair, so use your detective skills and do with that information what you will.