Rebecca occupies a peculiar place in the career of Alfred Hitchcock – it was neither his first major film, nor the one that can be considered his breakthrough. However, it was the first time he had made an American film, as well as his first collaboration with David O. Selznick, who is often considered the most powerful producer in the history of Hollywood (to the point where a couple of the films that he produced have been credited to him as much as it is to the director – but we’ll likely talk about that when it comes to arguably his most lavish production), and thus has to be considered a pioneering work in some regards, while still being a film made by someone who was immensely established as an authorial voice, but who almost single-handedly broke through as a major director following this film, which is celebrated as one of his early pinnacles. Based on the novel by Daphne du Maurier (with whom Hitchcock would develop quite an interesting relationship, having previously adapted Jamaica Inn and later helming a version of “The Birds”, another of his signature masterworks), Rebecca was a challenging film for a number of reasons – one only needs to look at the struggles Hitchcock endured in collaborating with Selznick to understand that this was a passion project for the director, and while it doesn’t have many of the same traits that would characterize his style later on, its still a thrilling and captivating work that infuses every frame with mystery, suspense and darkly comical humour in what is a very strange but deeply entrancing journey into the lives of these characters, who may exist at a distance, but who are easily enshrouded in the director’s trademark wit and tendency towards finding the darker side of even the most pleasant scenarios – therefore who better to make a film about the dangers lurking behind a seemingly perfect marriage than Hitchcock, whose entire career was focused on seeking ways to subvert conventions? Rebecca has its moments of pure brilliance, and it’s difficult to neglect the many ways in which the cast and crew brought this film to life with elegance and a sense of foreboding danger, both of which are integral components of this bizarre but alluring psychological thriller.

Something that the viewer notices quite early in Rebecca (especially those who are more acclimated to Hitchcock’s very precise style) is that this is quite an atypical film for the director – perhaps not in the way that some of his other works like Mr and Mrs Smith or the propaganda films he made during the Second World War (which were essentially complete departures from what he was known for, and simply products of his requirement to occasionally work as a director-for-hire), may have been but which still lacks some of the depth and nuance that he would go on to define his style and position him as arguably the finest director of his generation. There is an abundance of suspense in Rebecca, but it’s far more muted – it often feels as if Hitchcock was depending too much on the idea of crafting a melancholic romantic drama (or perhaps it was Selznick who was invested in the idea of making a melodrama out of this material, which is not at all analogous to what du Maurier committed to the page,) rather than a dark psychological thriller about human debauchery – but these elements do still exist, they simply aren’t as obvious. Another aspect of Rebecca that seems somewhat discordant is how it focuses exclusively on the aristocracy – it wasn’t the only instance of Hitchcock exploring the lives of the rich and affluent, but it does draw a lot of attention to their daily affairs, which can be somewhat disconcerting for many viewers. What often made Hitchcock’s best films so effective was their tendency towards being resonant, featuring material to which audiences could relate in some way. The use of an outsider in the form of the nameless protagonist does offer some passageway into this principle, but it simply isn’t enough – this is essentially the story of a spoiled aristocrat with supposedly murderous intentions, his naive bride and a gaggle of other eccentric characters, all of them circling around this dark and mysterious manor, which conceals many secrets – there is very little with which we can find resonance, which may not disqualify it from being an excellent film, but does make it seem much colder and more difficult to find connection in than some of his later works, which were much more focused on regular characters thrust into unexpected scenarios, which was where the director did his best work.

However, if all this seems too overly critical, it’s important to remember that acknowledging flaws is not designed to be a slight against a film, but rather a constructive conversation around a work’s cinematic legacy – and considering how much of the discourse that surrounds Rebecca draws attention to its existence as a major breakthrough for the director, it’s not surprising that there will be some slight pushback against those that consider it an unimpeachable masterpiece, especially if we look at it as a Hitchcock film (which is important – had another director made the exact same film, we’d have likely had a different experience). There are just as many merits to this film as there are shortcomings – in fact, the positive aspects far outweigh the negative, and it’s all a matter of tempering expectations and understanding the perspective. Much of this film was constructed from an artistic tug-of-war between Hitchcock and Selznick, who clearly had wildly different ideas of how to bring this story to life, with Hitchcock’s refusal to adhere to many of his producer’s bizarre requests causing an enormous amount of conflict, much of it emerging from the dissonance between how they thought was best to approach the material. However, this brought out many of the more intriguing aspects of the film, especially since Hitchcock had to adapt to these conditions while developing new ways to film it, and we can see many of his distinct characteristics being borne throughout this film, albeit out of desperation to have his vision realized (and essentially limit the extent to which Selznick could edit the film through only filming what was necessary – you can’t mangle a film without the footage to support the producer’s hackneyed vision), and through being one of the most steadfast critics of Selnick’s attempts to control the production, Hitchcock inadvertently created many techniques that he would continue to hone as his career went on, making Rebecca both a great film on its own, and a pioneering work of his distinct directorial style.

One of the benefits of having a producer like Selznick backing your production is that a director has access to quite a formidable group of actors. Hitchcock was known to choose his casts very well – he either made use of regular collaborators who he knew understood his vision, or he’d take on other actors that he genuinely believed matched his vision. Rebecca was made before he had enough credibility to actively make demands as to who he could cast, but he did manage to work well with the people selected for the roles, one of them actually going on to be a recurring collaborator in the form of Joan Fontaine, who would go on to work with Hitchcock in Suspicion, which is one of her greatest roles. Here she has the unenviable task of playing the nameless protagonist of Rebecca, the impressionable young woman seeking her happy ending, only to find that she has fallen into a situation where escape is nearly impossible. Fontaine is excellent, but the role is far too reactionary to make much of an impression, even when she is doing some very solid and meaningful work, which is important since it adds a sense of humanity to this otherwise very bleak film. Laurence Olivier plays the mysterious Maxim de Winter, the wealthy widower who seems charismatic and alluring, but who proves to actually be mildly sociopathic (or at least the film leads us to believe this to be true), and he is given the lion’s share of interesting material. Hitchcock had a tendency towards creating characters that were defined by a sense of secrecy, and De Winter conceals far too many insidious details of the past to not pique our curiosity. Olivier rises to the occasion, and successfully uses his debonair charm and deep complexities as an actor to construct quite a meaningful and compelling anti-hero. Finally, Judith Anderson plays the film’s insidious villain, the terrifying and sinister Mrs Danvers, whose obsession with the previous Mrs de Winter (the spectral Rebecca to whom the film’s title refers) is one of her most memorable, which is quite a statement considering her deity-like status as a performer who commanded stage and screen for decades around this time. Rebecca is a film that depends on its cast as much as it did the story to create the unsettling atmosphere, and while it is far from the best work of anyone involved, they d all rise to the occasion and bring out the hidden nuances in these characters.

My personal experiences with Rebecca are evidently quite mixed – this is certainly not a novel that is easy to adapt, and all versions of du Maurier’s story have tended to be somewhat bloated and often miss the more intricate details that made her writing so intriguing. However, these are all minor problems, especially when it comes to this adaptation, which does remarkably well in keeping the spirit of the novel alive as much as possible, since the translation from page to screen is not always easy. They execute it well, creating something that is both well-made and memorable, and finding the time to develop a story that captures the spirit of the original text, while still being a solid work of filmmaking in itself, so much that the viewer is not likely to lament on the changes made between the novel and the film, which is a fate far too many literary adaptations have suffered in the past. Rebecca is a very strong film, and even though some of the shortcomings that prevent it from being the masterpiece many assume it to be (and some have made several very strong points about its status, many of which simply can’t be disputed when considering the legacy left by this film), it manages to be a worthwhile effort. Gothic dramas and romantic thrillers are very intriguing, and while we have seen many works that perhaps capture this combination with more precision and dedication, the groundwork was laid by Rebecca, a film that is both spiritually and psychologically a complex character study that touches on themes of desire, revenge and the fact that marriage is not always the happy ending literature at the time wanted us to believe, and which was the aspect that du Maurier herself was most dedicated to proving. Rebecca earns its place in film history, and while it may be slightly bloated in its reputation as some sacrosanct classic, it is certainly not without its merits, which is vital to understanding the incredible appeal of such a film, and its place in conversations are very influential works that remain essential, even from a contemporary perspective.