The Wildest Version of ‘Rebecca’ Starred a Maniac Diana Rigg
[Warning: Contains spoilers for the plot of Rebecca.]
Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca may be unfilmable. I know, it’s an odd thing to say about a novel that’s been adapted again and again for film (and once won the Oscar for best picture), for television, and for radio. But think about it: If any one of these productions had gotten it completely right, there would be no stampede for a remake. To the contrary, I think producers, screenwriters, and directors tell themselves that those previous versions missed the mark, and that they will nail it. And so the remakes continue, including a new Netflix version that’s so cautious and conventional that you wonder why anyone bothered.
What all the filmmakers ignore or feebly try to make us forget is that Rebecca succeeds as a novel because it’s in the first person. It’s subjective as only a novel can be, and by being stingy with her adjectives about the narrator—who does not even have a name—du Maurier encourages us to each make up our own image of the second Mrs. de Winter. And the harder you try to imagine her, the more you identify with her. Film on the other hand, is objective: “Me,” the narrator in the novel, becomes “her,” the actor on the screen. Even when the film tries to support her point of view, she’s a specific person with qualities all her own. You sympathize with her, but that’s as far as you can go, whereas for a reader, it is not a question of sympathy: You identify completely with the novel’s narrator because you’ve made her your own.