Many will tell you that there is truth in the idea that the movie is never as good as the book it was adapted from. After all, a page can be more expansive, internal, allowing you to visualize worlds that can be far more majestic in a single sentence than a movie in a full hour. The creativity of prose is impeccable, and it’s what has allowed certain titles to inspire filmmakers to continually try to make these pages into a cinematic masterpiece. While some understand the formatting better than others, there are those who will misconstrue meaning whether in narrative or even set design. For two particular titles, it’s also the challenge of being a modern, 21st-century take of a 20th-century classic – themselves complete with existing noteworthy film adaptations already. You have to ask: what do they have to say about our modern times?
For Netflix’s latest Rebecca (2020), director Ben Wheatley has taken on the thankless task of adapting Daphne du Maurier’s 1938 bestseller. Even from the minute the trailers dropped online, there was concern that it wouldn’t be the big Oscar hit that the streaming service was hoping for. After all, how could you compete with the Best Picture-winning version from Alfred Hitchcock? There was some hope, but a few things were out of whack from the very beginning. The most noteworthy was that Wheatley’s vision would be shot in luxurious colors, costumes so elegant, and a house design that inspires the imagination. The issue is that the mansion, Manderley, serves as more of a symbolic ghost story, full of Gothic undertones and weeds sprouting everywhere. How could you turn it into something so vivid and celebratory?
For the most part, you can argue that Wheatley does a faithful job of telling the story of Mr. and Mrs. de Winter as they frolic on beaches and throw lavish parties. The story of Ms. Danvers is also effectively used. The only issue is that those who great up adoring the Hitchcock version and its commitment to a more sinister mood will likely be confused why this feels so joyous. Sure, there’s symbolism and the house is rich with small details that allude to darker pasts. It’s just that Wheatley shoots it more like a fragrance commercial than this winding mystery that slowly unveils the sense that Mrs. de Winter feels like an imposter, unable to feel like she belongs at Manderley. After all, how could she compete with the recently deceased widow Rebecca?
What’s brilliant about du Marier’s prose is that Rebecca, like Manderley, is and isn’t a character. There is a constant obsession with this deceased woman, whose legacy hangs over the mansion like a sense of dread. Mr. de Winter is stuffy enough that you buy into his manipulative nature, this sense that something uncomfortable is exiting just below the surface. The audience is constantly being encouraged to have their eyes peruse, even if certain aspects are diminished by a lack of Gothic flair. It’s too luxurious, feeling like the story is more about wealth and happiness than the misery that Rebecca’s death has bestowed on these people. In some ways, it doesn’t feel like this is a major concern of Wheatley.
Though if there’s an issue, the acting feels a bit confusing not only compared to Rebecca (1940), but to the characters themselves. Mr. de Winter may be charming, but unfortunately, Armie Hammer doesn’t bring enough to the role that makes him feel charismatic. Lily James as Mrs. de Winter is supposed to be way less attractive than Rebecca, and yet there’s an applicable reason to argue that she has a radiance that is unbelievable. While the actors do great work with their material, it’s hard to argue that this fragrance ad of a movie is capturing the important subtexts of the film by moving into color and having an unbearable amount of sexiness in every character and clothing decision. It’s nice to look at, but how is it supposed to be ominous?
Given Wheatley’s track record of making movies that are experimental and strange, it’s disappointing to see him fail to capture much of anything. Films like Free Fire (2016) – his first collaboration with Hammer - commented on gun violence with humor and excessiveness. Others like A Field in England (2013) exist as this hallucinogenic exploration into history. In some ways, the Wheatley who made that film should’ve made this one, able to make something instinctually confusing even as you are captivated by every scene. Then again, it feels like he’s had studio interference this time around, realizing he couldn’t make the crazy adaptation that would’ve made this, if anything, worthwhile.
If one wants to talk about a perfect director-to-material, take a trip over to Baz Luhrmann and The Great Gatsby (2013). In theory, he is a more incompetent filmmaker, often accused of style over substance, and yet I feel like this is the perfect marriage. The whole idea of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1925 novel was how empty luxury was, that chasing a dream that’s passed by will only end in tragedy. His symbolism is richer than that, but it’s the core of why Luhrmann’s decisions were actually a lot more brilliant than they got credit for. Add in Jay-Z to curate the soundtrack with one of the most idiosyncratic soundtracks of its time, and you get an interpretation that may not be for everyone, but it definitely recontextualizes the familiar into something modern.
Rebecca suffers from not having anything interesting to say. The Great Gatsby meanwhile feels like it’s overwhelmed with details that shouldn’t work. Want to see people do exaggerated dances to Fergie’s “A Little Party Never Killed Nobody”? That’s definitely here. Want a scene where Jay Gatsby is introduced with fireworks while holding out a drink? That’s pretty much a meme now. There are moments here that are so specific that you can’t help but admire the audacity to take the story in a totally new direction.
Anyone wanting faithfulness may end up disappointed by the soundtrack alone. However, Luhrmann gets it on an instinctual level. Protagonist Nick Carraway observes the world around him, staring in awe. This is going to need to reflect that by having the most breathtaking recreation of Flapper gowns and tapestries that hang from the ceiling of the biggest, most expensive mansion imaginable. Everything about this film feels excessive, even if you can recognize how much feels shot on a green screen. There’s an artifice to it, but you can’t deny the charm that it gives off. It’s a layer that is not unlike Gatsby’s backstory: lush on the surface, but hollow underneath.
It also helps that The Great Gatsby has one of the smartest casting decisions of any film adaptation. Gatsby as a figure is supposed to be the greatest showman, able to convince you of his magic. Nobody can do it better than Leonardo DiCaprio, a born movie star whose relationship to the public by that point made you believe there was some authenticity to this decision. Like everything else, there is a falsity to his performance with sayings like “Old sport,” but it only makes you want to learn more. He has this way of smiling while raising an eyebrow, letting you in on a secret. He hides any sorrow very well, and he can do it with a stare. As far as charismatic performances go, Luhrmann nailed it.
That is a major difference. While both adaptations feel a bit askew from their source material, The Great Gatsby is at least aiming to comment on the substance in ways distinct to Luhrmann’s career. He knows what excess is because his whole career is built off of it. What is lucky is that he’s able to pull away far enough and comment on his own career while doing so. He’ll drop a song cue from Lana Del Rey to turn a scene of overwhelming joy into this subliminal commentary of growing old. There is a subtext here, even as Gatsby throws shirts of every color into the air. The audience is captivated, buying into his magic even as you recognize his frailty fading away.
Of course, there are more subplots in The Great Gatsby that can be expanded upon to make for a satisfying narrative. Even at 150 pages, the novel is packed with information that has kept scholars talking for a near-century now. Meanwhile, du Maurier’s novel has the distinct honor of never being out of print. There are smaller plots that could be explored, such as the divide in social class as well as subliminal lesbianism in Ms. Danvers’ narrative. However, it doesn’t feel like Wheatley’s as invested. He’d rather just go for the main story, expecting everyone else to pick up the assumptions.
Among the major differences between the book and movie adaptations is one crucial framing device. In both cases, there is something that purists will find offensive in simply how the story’s told. While Rebecca is largely more straightforward, down to Mrs. de Winter’s narration of the opening paragraph, the finale is especially jarring and frustrating. Given that everything before feels like it’s just going through the motions, the famous burning of Manderley that ends the film is abrupt but even that is disappointing when compared to those pages it’s based on.
Anyone who has read the book will know how vivid du Maurier writes this experience. Much like the architecture and garden scenery, she writes its destruction with a wealth of details that make you compelled by the destruction. If anything, it’s the sole reason that you’d want to shoot it in color. The way that the sky is colored, how the clouds move across the skyline is an artistic dream. Instead, Wheatley cuts away from the shot before it can resonate, leaving the audience with the sight of the ocean. It’s apt to the plot, but it feels like the final misunderstanding of this whole affair.
Meanwhile, The Great Gatsby’s narrative difference is arguably goofier, and yet it works. Nick is narrating the story, at times his words appearing across the screen as he writes them out. It’s revealed that he’s writing it from a mental asylum, writing as a form of therapy. He calls it “The Gatsby” before writing GREAT in giant cursive letters. It’s goofy, but given that the novel is about Nick’s fading sense of jadedness, it makes sense. He’s coming to terms with what he’s discovered, criticizing the wealthy for their delusional obsessions. It’s a way to tell the story without questioning why Nick is narrating over everything.
At the end of the day, Luhrmann is trying to do something new and clever with a novel that may look a bit dated to a younger generation. While this feels like a Millennial Gatsby, it’s sticking true to the substance of the novel underneath, exploring Fitzgerald’s intent in such a way that it emphasizes the points clearer. It almost needs to have a sense of foolishness behind it just to fully capture Gatsby as a character. Luhrmann is the perfect pick because, in some ways, he probably holds those guilts inside of himself.
Meanwhile, Wheatley is treating Rebecca like an Oscar ploy, some attempt to get accepted by a more prestigious studio system. While it’s wildly different from any other film he’s done, it’s his least ambitious or exciting. There’s nothing here that speaks of something personal, just that this was an assignment he needed to complete. You don’t get a younger perspective on Rebecca that might make it accessible. It’s just a movie version that looks really nice, but in looking so bright and sunny it misses the point a little bit. Who knows if this could’ve ever been something more than a bad call. Still, if Wheatley made it more like A Field in England, even that would’ve been more of a compelling read on the novel than reminding you of fragrance ads. You don’t care about people in those ads. They probably smell nice, but like the perfume, any lasting impact will fade. That’s the Millennial Rebecca for you.
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