Directed by: Ben Wheatley
Written by: Jane Goldman, Joe Shrapnel, Anna Waterhouse
Starring Lily James, Armie Hammer, and Kristin Scott Thomas
One of the most powerful—indeed, dangerous—inventions of humankind, as Ben Wheatley’s adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s novel of the same name demonstrates, is an idea. What begins as a simple thought in one’s mind can, especially with the aid of external pressures and the consequent breakdown of internal barriers, metastasise into an insurmountable force. For Mrs de Winter (Lily James), as the new and second wife of Maxim de Winter (Armie Hammer), it’s the idea of the eponymous Rebecca—of how beautiful, how popular, and how seemingly loved by Maxim she was—that proves to be her dangerous and insurmountable force throughout the film. The idea that Rebecca was first—that she was the perfect wife, woman, and Lady—haunts her, both literally and figuratively, and plagues her with doubt, ultimately making her believe that she isn’t worthy of being the new Lady of Manderley.
If Wheatley’s adaptation had stuck to this one core idea, the film could have presented a sensitive and nuanced narrative of psychological horror and decline set against the backdrop of romance, class, and womanhood. Many of the film’s moments—from a vestibule whose walls are made up of mirrors that infinitely reflect Mrs de Winter’s distress, to her nightmare-induced scratching, to a dream sequence (cut from the cloth of surrealist cinema) in which the floor she walks on transfigures into vines that ensnare and swallow her into the abyss—suggest that this was, in fact, Wheatley’s auteuristic vision for telling this story. But these moments, at the end of it all, are just that: moments. They are so few, so smothered by other unnecessary embellishments, and therefore so disconnected that they feel out of place. And that is the film’s overall issue: it presents, perhaps more appropriately, plagues itself with too many ideas and, what’s more, fails to establish solid, narrative coherency between them.
There is, first of all, the idea that Maxim and Mrs de Winter are meant to be together. Indeed, Mrs de Winter is nameless until she meets and marries Maxim, suggesting that she is made real and worthy because of her love for and marriage to him. But their Monte Carlo romance feels lacklustre. James plays Mrs de Winter one-dimensionally and always fragile, and Hammer’s casting, in fact, inadvertently invokes a comparison to the glory days of his previous summer romance in Call Me By Your Name, and ultimately renders this romance redundant, a knock-off trying to pass as designer.
Then there’s plot, which incorporates multiple secondary and tertiary characters and storylines that aren’t given the screen time or space to become fully realised. When Mrs de Winter, for instance, decides to reinstate the Manderley ball—an evening of costumes, drink, and society made famous by Rebecca—the film favours the build-up to the event rather than the actual event itself. Rather than allowing viewers to see how the de Winters interact with society, considering how many characters (like Mrs Danvers, played by the perfectly icy Kristin Scott Thomas) repeatedly suggest how reclusive Maxim (and Manderley, by extension) had become since Rebecca’s death, the film whittles down what should have been a climactic moment of decline in Mrs de Winter’s character to two seconds of public humiliation, and consequently surrenders the rest of the event over to period-costume visual pornography and empty conversation.
This alludes to the biggest idea that pervades the film and proves most detrimental: that this film is a decidedly a Netflix film, and Netflix with its signature luxury evident in set pieces, costumes, and locales, but a severe lack in substantive story or character reminds you of that fact in almost every scene.
It’s no secret that Netflix is now a leading industry in film and television, especially in a year that saw a pandemic and quarantine-related increase in subscriptions to the streaming service giant, so the studio undoubtedly has the money to produce grander and grander stories meant for littler screens. Similarly, however, to Netflix’s other recent releases (Ratched and Emily in Paris, most notably, come to mind), Rebecca’s exhibition of luxury, of glamour, of a big budget that can afford lavish costumes and filming locations seems to get in the way of, and even taking precedence over, the actual storytelling. Sure, cinematographer Laurie Rose paints a pretty picture of its actors and its English setting, and costumer designer Julian Day crafts bold and fashionable pieces, but that seems to be all that the film offers: glitter and gold and nothing digestible for the viewer, except for the occasional crumbs of horror.
The resulting impression left by this film ultimately goes no further than the superficial. The inevitable comparison to Alfred Hitchcock’s 1940 adaptation certainly does not help. Particularly when that adaptation—more than being made by the cinematic master of horror—with its nine Academy Award nominations and two wins (one of which was Best Picture), was evidently, historically, and lastingly beloved. Going in, Wheatley’s adaptation had the biggest shoes to fill. Not unlike Rebecca to Mrs de Winter, the ghost of Hitchcock’s film haunts this adaptation—indeed, the entire history of this story’s adaptation—as the reigning remake supreme.
