Rebecca, 2020, Netflix - Film Review

I distinctly remember ‘experiencing’ the iconic novel, Rebecca, by Daphne Du Maurier, for the first time, roughly about 25 years ago in college. Those were different days. Being a Delhi University student, and with access to British Council Library, at Kasturba Gandhi Marg in CP,  meant access to a much larger world than the everyday life we lived in. In those days before the Internet, and with limited funds, these almost-free-libraries were our most precious teleporting devices. Stepping into these sacred spaces was like space and time travel to any part of the world, at any time in the world. Reading Rebecca, was one such ‘experience’ for me, with space travel to England (which I had never been to till then) and time travel to the late 1930s (again, never been to!).

Not seeing the many movies made on this book since then, watching the latest 2020 version on Netflix, directed by Ben Wheatley, I couldn’t help being both excited at the idea of watching this book come alive all these years later, and being equally disappointed at the lack of experience the film creates. The experience, which was such an important part of the book. When a book from 1938 can create a more visceral sensorial experience than a 2020 film with all its tech and resources, it gives me two conflicting emotions. One, of despair - have we lost our ability to bring out a vision to life through story-telling that can move people to feel something? And one, of hope - we still have so much of shallow, meaningless story-telling in the world, that the really good ones can still stand out and make a difference. 

To be fair, the #RebeccaNetflix starts with a lot of promise. It has a good set of actors, with Lily James as the young and insecure Mrs de Winters, Armie Hammer as the suave-but-silent Maxim de Winter, Kristin Scott Thomas as the stern and disapproving matron, Mrs Danvers. Their characters are built well, the moments in South of France that create the circumstances for their wedding are portrayed beautifully, and the drama that is yet-to-unfold at Manderley is full of ominous promise. But alas, that’s where it ends. 

Once the new couple moves to Manderley, the film starts falling apart, just as much as Mrs de Winters herself does. The magic of the story that Daphne Du Maurier wrote was not in the events that happen, but in the psychological impact they have on a new bride from the working-class, who has suddenly found herself the lady of this lavish estate. Her overwhelmed state is only made worse by the looming shadow of the larger-than-life omnipresence of her predecessor, the earlier Mrs de Winters, the irresistible and famous, Rebecca. And by the passive-aggressive manipulation by the house matron, Mrs Danvers, a Rebecca loyalist. 

In the book, the real story happens in Mrs de Winter’s mind, but the film trivialises the internal suffering of the lead character and instead chooses to focus on the externalities of the different incidents that happen, making it about good guys and bad guys and the fights and the arguments. Not once, do we see what the protagonist is really feeling herself. She is reduced to someone who is being victimised by others, as she desperately tries to hold on to the love of her husband. The film makes it a black and white story, with no room for nuances or any shades. It’s a bluntly told story, where Mrs Danvers has to spell everything out in clear words about who Rebecca was, why she loved her, and what happened to her. No room for imagination in this story-telling. 

Apart from messing up the essence of the original story, the other fault I would lay on the film is a lack of vision. Any old book or movie that is made into a film in contemporary times, needs a vision. Hell, even Thanos, in Avengers, had a Malthusian vision! 

What is this 2020 telling of a classic meant to do? Is it about evoking nostalgia for a by-gone pre-war era? Is it a neo-feminist point of view in support of Rebecca? Is it championing the cause of inclusion and social mobility of the working class? Having a vision could explain (or excuse) a lot of the divergences that the film takes from the original book. But, without that, the film is doomed to just be a cinematic version of the book. And if that is the case, stick to the vision of the original, please. 

In many ways, you could say that Rebecca 2020 is more 2020 than Rebecca. It’s made for an audience that wants the answer in one google search, that wants the entire story in 15 or 60-second Tik-Tok or FB or Insta video, that wants the entire analysis in one 140 character tweet (oh wait, it’s a lot more now, whole 280 characters, sorry my bad). Clearly, not the audience that is reading this review (thank you, dear reader, for spending more than 1 minute on reading this). 

For that, it’s not a bad movie. It gives a quick whistle-stop tour of the world that Daphne Du Maurier created. In under 2 hours, you get the most important sites and milestones of the fictional Manderley, (most likely in Cornwall, South England) - the key characters, tick; the key locations, tick; the mystery, tick. If you’re into the 14-day package tour of whole Europe, kind of thing, then Rebecca 2020 is right up your alley. 

But, if you look for stories that transport you to another world, stories that give you emotions you may not be in touch with, stories that make you think thoughts that may not have occurred to you, stories that give you an experience, not just a mind-distraction, stories that make you smile, or cry, or ponder or get depressed, stories that make you feel something like a living breathing person, then I’d recommend forget the movie, stick to the book. 

After 82 years, it will still be worth your while. 

It’s not like you’re travelling to England any time soon, are you!

Book Review: Momspeak, Pooja Pande

Growing up in a home, where my sister and me, were raised as equals by our parents, I always took the notion of what I now know as ‘gender equality’ for granted. I could cook breakfast for both of us, when Maa was not at home, what’s the big deal. It was only as I interacted with the world as an adult, that I realised how special the parenting we had received was. How blessed had we been to have been given these values through the 70s and the 80s, which even today (in the next millennial!) are a fundamental struggle.

It is this value system that is taken forward, and expressed completely and evocatively, by my sister, author, Pooja, in her latest book, Momspeak. #proud

As soon as the book starts with asserting “How divinity and damnation are both rolled up into one, in the figure of a mother”, we are hooked onto a journey of discovery into the mind and the life of a mother.  Pooja does this by reflecting on the experiences of her own life, with astute observations of her feelings and of those around her. But equally importantly, she chronicles the emotional journeys of a diverse set of mothers that she has met, to weave a comprehensive narrative of motherhood, that is simultaneously thought-provoking and empathetic. 

Pooja’s writing has a flavour of activism, yet is grounded in compassion. It is both personal yet objective. 

Even as the book is deeply emotional, it maintains a rational argument that is extremely convincing. 

The book quotes scholars, writers, science, research, and at the same time references movies, TV, music and other pop culture. 

It is a contemporary book with a modern outlook that treats the reader like an adult. It’s not a self-help book. It raises questions and moves you to seek your own answers. 

With #Momspeak, Pooja achieves an extraordinary feat of having written a unique book, that speaks to both the head and the heart. 

Of course, it’s a must-read for mothers - who have been, who are and who are to be. For mothers, the book is a soul-mirror that allows you to see it like it is, say it like it is. It’s not good, it’s not bad. It just is. It’s cathartic and it’s real. 

It’s what every mother goes through, but is often not seen. And as the book argues, is deliberately not seen by a society that is deeply patriarchal. It’s not stuff that movies are made out of, but it’s the stuff that lives are made out of. 

It’s the beauty of the everyday. It’s the tragedy of the everyday. It’s the life we live. And that’s why it’s important.

But, more than that it is an important book that must be read by everyone, for the sake of the world we live in. 

Because at the heart of it, it’s about being a woman in an unequal world. 

It, purposefully, raises questions on social mores we take for granted or laugh away. 

It, angrily, forces you to sit back and question your own behaviour, making you ask yourself ‘have I ever willingly or unwillingly encouraged this inequality’ or worse, been blind to it. 

And most of all, it, openly, invites you into being part of this movement of building a gender-neutral world.

However, above all, it’s a book that while, on the face of it, champions feminism, as the final (and my favourite chapter) “Frenemies Forever: Feminism and Motherhood” lands beautifully - if there is any ‘ism we all should be a part of it is ‘humanism’. 

Because after all, that’s what being a mother is all about, isn’t it? 

Creating a life and then building a sustainable world that allows that life to thrive in. 

It is only by challenging existing notions and structures that prevent us from being human to each other, can we create a future that we can all call our family.

As a parent to a teenage boy, this book once again reminded me of my immensely challenging but equally rewarding responsibility. 

Of raising him to not subscribe to the unequal world he lives in, to not be restricted by gender norms that will be thrust upon him, to swim against the patriarchy blackhole that he may get sucked into as a boy, to not subscribe to the hate and the biases fed to him on social media, and to trust his inner humanist values. 

This book gives me the optimism to make this a reality. 

We need it in the world, now more than ever. 

If ‘motherhood is an emotion’, as the book suggests, then I feel happy and secure in saying that I am a mother.