Mark Reviews Movies: REBECCA (2020)

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Review by Mark Dujsik | October 15, 2020

Eighty years is surely enough time between two cinematic versions of a well-known, highly regarded story. That's the case with Rebecca, director Ben Wheatley's interpretation of Daphne du Maurier's 1938 novel of the same name. A film version followed two years after the publication of the book, and there's really only one thing to point out in regards to any kind of blanket comparison between the two movies: Even with an eight-decade gap, there's little denying that Alfred Hitchcock is a tough act to follow.

Hitchcock's Rebecca was a grim, visually distinct and inventive Gothic romance and mystery. In his first American film, the soon-to-be master of the filmmaking craft was starting to finalize his command of tone, suspense, staging, and striking composition and editing. Sure, some changes to the source material were necessary, given Hollywood's moral code of the day, but it remains a complex and haunting tale of subverted expectations—in terms of its central relationship, its moral flexibility, and its refusal to provide a clear-cut resolution to the assorted conflicts established throughout the story.

In theory, a new interpretation of du Maurier's novel isn't necessarily a bad idea. As beloved as the original film was and as etched as its status as a classic may be, there's plenty of room for a filmmaker to create clear visual and tonal distinctions from the Hitchcock version.

Wheatley's movie—written by the trio of Jane Goldman, Joe Shrapnel, and Anna Waterhouse—certainly makes some distinctions. It's in color, for one. A few nightmare sequences lean into the concept of a more literal ghost story, in order to emphasize the tale's notion of the haunting nature of experienced or learned memory.

The major twist is left intact from the novel, with the story's central death being the result of a direct act instead of a rage-induced accident. There's a bit more sex, which is to say that there actually is a bit, and our protagonist, unnamed until she takes a new surname through marriage, becomes an active participant and the key player in the third act's final unraveling of the big mystery.

It all, though, feels so superficial. Wheatley seems so certain about the fact of the material—that a story as fine and challenging as this one doesn't need much help to succeed—that his movie feels as if it's content in simply presenting the story. There's little verve and no heart, neither romantic nor haunted nor wounded nor angry, behind this interpretation. It exists, seemingly for the sole reasons that it can and that the filmmakers wanted to prove they could make it so.

Our unnamed heroine, who is only known as the second Mrs. de Winter (Lily James), dreams of Manderley one night—the walk of the great manor's driveway becoming illuminated blood red. That dream brings forth the memory of Monte Carlo, being the paid companion of the petty Mrs. Van Hopper (Anne Dowd), and meeting Maxim de Winter (Armie Hammer), the man who, after a whirlwind romance, becomes her husband.

From there, the story moves forward through the past, with the woman moving to his English estate, trying to fit in as an aristocrat from her meager origins, and coming into conflict with Mrs. Danvers (Kristin Scott Thomas), who runs the house and constantly sizes up the new Mrs. de Winter with unblinking stares. Like Wheatley and his movie, the second wife has a tough act to follow: the stunningly beautiful social butterfly Rebecca, who died when her boat capsized off the coast near the house.

The rest of the story proceeds as we likely already know it. Mrs. de Winter fears that she'll never live up to her predecessor. Maxim is put into a state of distress whenever his late wife's name or memory is revived, and Mrs. Danvers, who knew Rebecca since the dead woman was a child, becomes more and more obvious in her attempts to sabotage the marriage and, more specifically, the new Mrs. de Winter.

Even while putting comparisons to the 1940 film aside, this version never quite develops a personality, tone, or style to call its own. The overly bright sun of Monte Carlo gives way to the equally sharp, if dimmer, veneer of Manderley (It's a series of striking sets that seem underutilized for drama or atmosphere, such as during a confrontation in a space filled with angled mirrors, in which the staging refuses to take advantage of the set). The haunted dream scenes stand out, if only because they're something new and different.

In terms of performances, James is convincing enough as a naïve young woman who seems certain love will carry her and her husband through it all (The decision for her to make that happen when the past gets in the way is intriguing). Hammer is blandly charming, which does the character no favors as his dark side becomes more apparent. Thomas' low-key interpretation of Mrs. Danvers is appropriately, nefariously threatening.

None of them elevates the interpretation of the material, though, and that, unfortunately, is exactly what this Rebecca needs. The movie is too timidly complacent to get the job done, and as a result, it doesn't.

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