I find it odd I stay up so late to
write reviews for a blog I don’t think anyone’s reading. If you’re here, give
me a, “Hey, gurl, hey. ;-D” (Just kidding, you can say whatever. Or nothing.)
I’ve come to something I probably
have no business reviewing because of its widespread admiration: a classic.
Now, I know you’ll probably skip over this review if you loved the book, but
that won’t stop me from writing it.
Part of me considered making this a
letter to the main antagonist of Rebecca.
I think that would have been interesting. However, it’s almost midnight, and I
don’t think my brain can function that way this late at night. And it would
probably come across more crass and sarcastic and mean than I would like it to.
I’d like to be objective, but when you’re
as opinionated as I am, it’s hard to keep your mouth shut about anything you
experience. And oftentimes you end up offending someone. Even if what you say is the truth.
Several points stood out to me while
reading Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier.
The first was the tagline on the top of the book, something about it being the
unsurpassed masterpiece of romantic suspense, or some bullcrap like that. Yeah,
I said it. BULLCRAP.
For one, I the romance in the plot
stood out not a bit, and when there was
passion between Mrs. de Winter and Max, it was in a time of crisis, which puts
the human instinct blatantly forward. The urge to hold someone when under an
immense amount of fear and stress usually overrides irritability and the fear’s
cold stone wedged between your heart and stomach, and you reach out to the
person you trust most. For Max, it was his wife. And while this could be seen
as romantic, I see it as desperate. If someone can point out the romance to me,
please feel free to do so.
Here’s my second problem with the
title: “suspense.” I find more suspense watching the Olympics (which, by the
way, I am highly enjoying). The
feeling that there’s more to Rebecca’s death than first seen is automatic, but
the overriding puke of unneeded detail and mundane niceties du Maurier jammed
between the pages dampens all prospect of being suspended in . . . well,
suspense. Not once did I beg for details to be revealed, and when the big
reveal did come (make that the two big reveals), I simply raised my
eyebrow and said, “Hmm.” Nodded a bit. Actually, I begged for the novel to be
over. The novel would have been MUCH better if Max had been found out, and if
Mrs. de Winter had been harboring a little love connection with Frank. That’s
what I thought was going to happen, and when du Maurier dragged us inch by
torturous inch through London traffic near the end, I wanted to scream with
frustration. Nothing that I predicted happened, and it was most disappointing.
Not because I was wrong, but because the novel fell flat with extraneous things
and unexplored territory. Again, if someone can please point out what was so
suspenseful about the novel, be my guest.
HOWEVER. I did find Rebecca to be a
most intriguing non-character, and the fact that she was present without being
present was really neat. I loved how she haunted Max in the most painful ways,
and her antagonism without her being physically present really was something I
myself would like to incorporate into my technique. Bravo for that, du Maurier.
Overall, I would never read Rebecca again. Nor would I recommend it
to anyone else. Not only did my above points make it drudgery to read, I hated
how the characters cursed God’s name so many times. That put burrs in my
blanket. Hot burrs. In fact, I was so non-impressed, I put Rebecca on paperbackswap.com and gladly mailed it to the next poor
sucker who wanted it. Maybe I should have attached a warning note: “The Not-So
Romantic or Suspenseful Non-Masterpiece of Romantic Suspense.” Something like
that. Three flipped pages out of Ten.
