Ok so. The novel Rebecca ended ten years ago, the Second Mrs de Winter (hereafter SMdW) and Maxim return to England for Beatrice’s funeral. And then…they are in England for a bit. Um. And, as my sister says, the story part already happened, why would you want to read all this garbage? You do not, friend. They poke around in England for, like two hundred pages, and literally ONE suspicious thing happens (someone leaves a white wreath on Beatrice’s grave with a tall, dark sloping ‘R’ written on the card. Admittedly, this is pretty creepy since Rebecca is DEAD. It’s creepiness is totally not capitalized on). SMdW conveniently runs into both Jack Favell and Mrs Danvers, but you knew she was going to because everyone else from Rebecca is also dead and there were no other toys for this plot to play with. The next paragraph is all SPOILERS but you aren’t going to read the book anyway, so spoiler away, me hearties.
Shit-all happens, the end of the book is nigh, SMdW and Maxim throw a party. Mrs Danvers shows up and is all They used to live at Manderley, these two and everyone is all, Why did she say that so ominously? Danny leaves not having said anything super-incriminating, the party goes off without a hitch. Jack Favell shows up afterwards all, Damn, I missed the chance to totally humiliate you in front of all your friends and I’m like YES YOU DID! You have scuttled a decently dramatic if not totally unforseeable climax. Instead Jack is all *crazy words* and Maxim is all *cool dismissal* and it is exceedingly not unlike that exact same scene in Rebecca except that afterwards Maxim is like, Even though I sort of totally won that round, they will clearly torment me forever unless I give them justice. *vehicular suicide*
On the level of the story, then, thumbs down. But the WRITING, ha HOO ha. Rebecca is all about suspense and delayed information. Hill tries to replicate this effect in Mrs de Winter with just…fucking…asking you things. ‘There. I got out of the car and took a step or two forward. Looked ahead – there, oh, there, so near, I could go. Just beyond the rise. Why did I not? Why?’ Or ‘The questions that had chanted inside my head still ran on, but in whispers. Who? How? Why? Where had the wreath come from? Who had sent it? Or had it been brought and left? What did they want? They? Who? And why? Why? Why?’ Your questions are not suspense-making, they are just chapping my ass.
Enormous, put-upon sigh, my friends. Only riff on excellent books if your riff is going to also be excellent. Consider that my PSA for the day.