On the 82nd anniversary of the iconic Alfred Hitchcock film, I’d like to take a step back and revisit the gothic novel that the film is based on: Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier.
There is perhaps no worse feeling than being under constant scrutiny from people that you desperately desire to please. Daphne du Maurier’s gothic novel Rebecca cuts to the heart of this feeling as it tells the story of a young woman haunted by the talent and beauty of her husband’s first wife, Rebecca, who tragically died. This young woman must grapple with adjusting to a new marriage to the esteemed Maxim de Winter and a new role as the overseer of his household: Manderley. The story is an engaging tale of murder trials, ghosts, ship wrecks, and romance, but at its heart it speaks to a fear that so many of us share: being underappreciated by people you care about. The narrator spends her life judged by everyone who knew Rebecca and trying to live up to the expectations left behind. Rebecca’s hold over everyone, even in death, sets a haunting and anxious tone throughout the novel.
One of the most immediately noticeable aspects of the narrator is that she is never named, which places more attention on the ghost of Rebecca. Everyone at Manderley has glowing reviews of the parties that Rebecca threw, the clothes she wore, and the kindness she exuded. The narrator is always being judged in relation to how Rebecca would have acted, spoken, or conducted herself. Symbolically, du Maurier reflects this superiority contest by never having characters refer to the narrator by her name. The tension between Rebecca’s ghost and the narrator is high from the moment the narrator learns of Rebecca’s existence. Du Maurier’s choice to not include a name puts Rebecca on an even higher pedestal, with even more power. Rebecca’s name is whispered through every page, while the narrator’s lack of name shrinks any space that she does take up.
Because she is insecure about judgment, the narrator often tries to seem more mature than she is, wishing she was “a woman of about thirty-six dressed in black satin with a string of pearls,” working hard to please Maxim and seeking his approval above all else. This desire to be good leads to narration that is full of guessing: guessing other characters’ thoughts, desires, and actions, and worrying about their perception of her. If the narrator was impartial to everyone’s love for Maxim’s first wife, then the suspense of du Maurier’s story would fall flat. However, because the narrator has been constantly compared to Rebecca and because she wants to have whatever qualities Rebecca had that made her seem like “the most beautiful creature” to everyone she met, the subsequent haunting feels much more chilling and believable.
Du Maurier’s novel, while highly famed and loved on its own, also has a well known counterpart. In 1940, two years after the novel was released, Alfred Hitchcock released his film adaptation starring Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine. The Rebecca film won Best Picture and Best Cinematography at the Academy Awards, and is still regarded as an iconic example of Hitchcock’s work. The fame and general good reception of the film helped to elevate the status of du Maurier’s novel as a classic gothic tale.
Much of Rebecca’s strength as a novel lies in the suspense and thriller of the action-packed plot. It draws readers in almost immediately because of its romantic gaze on a dark and twisted story. However, the core of the story that seems to connect with people permanently is far more simple than haunted mansions set ablaze or unstable, manipulative housekeepers. The heart of Rebecca lies in the nameless narrator. The young woman who feels like she’s not good enough and is living in the shadow of a ghost is the one who leaves a lasting impression long after Rebecca’s truth unfolds. Her character often feels like the only real human in the entire story; all of her insecurities and naivety are refreshing while simultaneously adding to the high strung tone of the novel. The judgement and jealousy she experiences relentlessly in an unfamiliar environment are things that everybody faces in life, often shamefully. Her inner musings about “how many people… [continue] to suffer, because they could not break out from their own web of shyness and reserve” broaden the scope of the story, turning the gothic novel into something more intimate and relatable. The real magic of Rebecca comes not from the gothic elements that make an entertaining story but rather from the voice of the nameless woman that du Maurier artfully crafts, who walks us through a mystery while stumbling through her own scrutiny and insecurity.