Film Review II - Rebecca (1940)

Ash Smith
Film and Writing

Rebecca: A Study in Mental, Physical, and Emotional Loss
Its a gray day, the kind where the road, sky, and trees seem to mix together in some sort
of ambivalent palette. So begin the opening visuals of Hitchcocks Rebecca, which is similarly
nuanced, both physically and figuratively. The film does not assume a black-and-white
perspective on love and loss, either a blistering passion or a soul-crushing tragedy but instead
occupies a middle ground, a gray, a reality, with startling authenticity. The sophistication of
Hitchcocks direction extends the film beyond the physical depiction of loss, and weaves a
complex psychological portrait of not only loss of innocence, but of agency, and ultimately,
mind.
Situated in the oppressively large residence of Manderley, Rebecca revolves around an
insecure and unnamed female protagonist (Joan Fontaine) who is swept away by the brooding
Mr. de Winters (Laurence Olivier) but is left alone to navigate marriage and Manderley under the
constant shadow of his first wife Rebecca.
Though slightly verbose, the film relies on the physical skill of its actors to conjure a
range of complexity that highlights the themes of the film, the end of innocence being one.
Fontaine, possibly the most naturally emotive actress in the film, plays the role of a displaced
women to a T, giving her character the perfect amount fragility and childlike purity, through
her consistently sloped spine and overly-fidgety hands. However, the passivity and innocence of
Fontaines character is threatened by her interactions with Mrs. Danvers (Judith Anderson). For
her part, Anderson retains a placid, nearly indifferent faade, under which lies a great
expressivity that emerges in conversation with Fontaines character - psychosis. The actions
which reflect her devotion to Rebecca, such as laying out her clothes and keeping her items
organized, create a palpable tension that seeps into every frame, escalating throughout the film in
synchrony with Mrs. de Winters increasing paranoia - to the point where Fontaines character is
nearly convinced to commit suicide. In those moments, their on-screen chemistry really reveals
itself as genuine and compelling. Fontaines tensed shoulders, upon Danvers entry, feel natural
and powerful, and when Mrs. Danvers strokes her cheek gently with Rebeccas coat, Fontaines
character vibrates with physical discomfort. Its through those small interactions that the film
reaffirms its motif of the corruption of purity and becomes utterly believable, as Danvers and the
second Mrs. de Winter finally seem to establish an unwavering connection not through
language, but via a deeply felt connection to another (deceased) human being.
That connection is the most disturbing aspect for both Fontaines character and the
audience, as the second Mrs. de Winter is perpetually haunted by the past, to the point of
physical consumption. This theme of the loss of agency and of self is developed through the
simultaneously general and highly detailed nature of Hitchcocks direction. In his long shots, he
establishes Manderley as totally imposing, and Fontaines character as a dwarf in comparison to
its oversized doorways and halls. And through liberal use of shadows and demarcated lines, the
second Mrs. de Winter appears as a prisoner within her own home. Hitchcock further alludes to
the loss of identity within the forbidden bedroom sequence when Ms. Danvers holds up
Rebeccas sheer nightgown. In a beautifully framed medium long shot, Mrs. de Winter stands in
the foreground, clothes veiled by mottled shadows as though she too were wearing Rebeccas
lacy gown. It is this meticulous attention to detail with a careful exploration of domestic interiors
and mobile camera work that characterize the film and emphasize its major themes.
Despite Rebeccas carefully orchestrated visuals, the films narrative arc falls short
within the last 30 minutes as the focus shifts from the second Mrs. de Winter to Maxim and his
declaration of innocence. The sudden need to resolve who (or rather what) killed Rebecca, feels
out of place and detracts from the narrative of Mrs. de Winter, turning the film from
psychological thriller to a dull whodunit murder mystery - complete with soporific pacing and a
verbose and contrived monologue. Here Hitchcock is absolved from some blame, as the events
leading up to the ending were clearly subject to the strict censorship laws ensuring that the
murderer had to be prosecuted; it seems as if the only way to keep the film in general alignment
with the novel, as Selznick desired, was to absolve Maxim of the crime, which does nothing to
enhance the ideas or quality of the film. But despite its structural flaws, Rebeccas initial
greatness exists virtually untarnished; aided by Hitchcocks outstanding technical control over
the camera, the film teems with extraordinary life, suspense, and terror.
That being said, I hesitate to call Rebecca a horror film, considering how many films
delight in cheap emotional manipulation and pointed direction, but Rebecca truly is the most
horrific film Ive seen in recent years not because it relies on contrived circumstances, but
because it is utterly believable. The films refusal to become a clich of perfect love or tragedy,
while exploring the gray in-between of hesitation, expectation, and insanity, creates a realism
that pervades until the final frame. Both an exercise in psychological manipulation and an
exhibition of psychological deterioration, Rebecca remains one of the most chilling and
unsettling films in Hitchcock and film historys repertoire.

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Ash Smith

Film and Writing

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