IN 1938, Daphne du Maurier’s melodramatic novel, Rebecca, became an international bestseller, and Hollywood producer David O. Selznick acquired the film rights for $50,000. Also in 1938, Alfred Hitchcock, then a noted director of British-made suspense movies, signed a contract with Selznick and was soon named to direct the screen adaptation of the novel. Thus began the making of Rebecca (1940), under Selznick International Pictures and United Artist. The monetary value of the contract between Selznick and Hitchcock is not indubitably known; however, it was Myron Selznick—David’s brother and Hollywood agent—who brokered the deal. Myron had first approached RKO on Hitchcock’s behalf with an offer of 16 weeks of work for $60,000. When RKO turned this down, Myron went to his brother, who paid more, although how much more is not known.
In the end, Hitchcock—at least for sixteen weeks in 1939—belonged to David O. Selznick, and Rebecca would mark the first film that Hitchcock made in Hollywood, the first he made with Selznick, and the only Hitchcock film to receive a Best Picture Oscar. Perhaps more importantly, it was the first of very few films Alfred Hitchcock ever made that he was not involved in all aspects of the creative process, and as a result was immediately dissatisfied with David O. Selznick’s controlling form of “producing,” the status quo for this period of the studio system.
Indeed, the relationship between Hitchcock and Selznick would prove tumultuous at best, and this relationship—one of the director “belonging” to the producer—is essential in understanding the aesthetic and creative power of producers over their films during this time. Before Rebecca was cast, both Alfred Hitchcock and David O. Selznick wanted Ronald Colman for the part of Maxim de Winter. Colman, who had just found much success with Columbia Pictures and their 1937 film Lost Horizons, turned the part down because he thought his public wouldn’t like him as a murderer, and because he feared Rebecca would emerge as a “woman’s picture.” Selznick then turned to his second choice, William Powell, who was under contract with MGM, and L.B. Mayer—MGM’s head and Selznick’s father-in-law—who would only loan Powell at a cost-prohibitive price. Laurence Olivier, Selznick discovered, could be had for $100,000 less than Powell, so it was Olivier to whom the part was offered, despite the fact that Hitchcock had apprehensions about Olivier, which proved valid during principle photography as Olivier continually sabotaged the pace of the film to make his role seem larger. Still, the producer, Selznick, was the creative boss, and Olivier was hired. After Laurence Olivier signed to play Maxim de Winter (for $50,000), he campaigned to have Vivien Leigh, with whom he was in love and would marry the following year, cast as the second Mrs. de Winter. When Leigh agreed to audition for the part, Olivier broke with tradition by personally playing Maxim during her screen test. Leigh was but one of many actresses under contract to Selznick who were considered for the part (including Ingrid Bergman and Joan Fontaine). When Vivien Leigh did not get the part, Olivier made no secret of his disappointment. Joan Fontaine, for her part, was the sister of Olivia de Havilland, 21 years old, and relatively unknown when she was cast as the second Mrs. de Winter. Rebecca ultimately propelled her to an Oscar nomination and stardom. Indeed, with the release of Suspicion (1941), Fontaine became the only actress to win an Oscar in a Hitchcock film. Despite the fact that the story is set in England (and Monte Carlo), and that Laurence Olivier and many of the other actors were British, the film was shot entirely in California. Locations included Big Sur, Palos Verdes, Point Lobos State Reserve, and, of course, Selznick Studios. Bravely, Selznick and Hitchcock also insisted that the film be shot in black and white. But the California locations and black-and-white shooting did not keep production expenses within Selznick’s liking. Selznick was in fact outraged when Henry Ginsberg, vice president and general manager, submitted a budget of $947,000, based upon the total estimates of all department heads. Calling it “a disgrace,” Selznick declared that any department head that didn’t stay within a sensible budget would be fired: “I am not going to have it thrown away through sloppy management.” Nevertheless, the final cost of Rebecca was reported as $1,288,000 (just under nineteen million in 2007 dollars)—extravagant beyond the imagination of the British studios with which Hitch and most of the actors were accustomed. The creative hierarchy that produced Rebecca was similar to that of other films of the time. As was typical for the period, the production of Rebecca saw an inexperienced director submitting to an omnipotent producer. Rebecca was very personal to Hitchcock, allowing him to explore as never before his deepest thematic concerns. But the film belongs as much if not more to its producer. Indeed, it appears Hitchcock took the film thinking that he would have the full control he was used to in Britain, that he could adapt the novel as he pleased, and that he could insert his usual touches of British humor. Hitchcock was immediately disappointed. Selznick insisted on the strictest fidelity to du Maurier that censorship laws would permit, and he oversaw the entire production, most notably asserting his contractual right to final cut. Selznick, in an interesting turn of justice, claimed the Best Picture Oscar; Hitchcock never did win one for directing. While Rebecca represented the status quo in being the child of an all-powerful producer, its content was quite radical compared to other films of the time. Rebecca is the story of a shy “lady’s companion” who’s staying in Monte Carlo with her stuffy employer when she meets the wealthy Maxim de Winter. Max is still troubled by the death of his wife, Rebecca, in a boating accident the year before. She and Max fall in love, get married and return to Manderlay, his large country estate in Cornwall. The second Mrs. de Winter meets the housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, and discovers that Rebecca still has a strange hold on everyone at Manderlay. What is not included in this summary, and what the Production Code apparently turned a blind eye to, is the insinuated lesbianism inherent in the Danvers–Rebecca relationship. The scene in which Mrs. Danvers shows Rebecca’s room to the second Mrs. de Winter is impossible to misread. While Hitchcock and Selznick were (presumably) brave enough to include the homosexual suggestion, they lacked the courage to allow Danvers to escape her “sin.” In the novel, Danvers neither goes crazy nor dies, and her burning of the estate can be read as revenge for Maxim’s murder of her only love. In the film, however, her immorality is pointedly punished. As for the actors and audiences of 1940, despite the first use of the Nazi pink triangle in concentration camps and Iceland’s much-publicized decriminalization of homosexuality (both in 1940), no one seemed to be aware of its presence in Rebecca at all! In fact, in a 1986 phone interview with Fontaine, a journalist asked her if she was aware of the current of lesbianism between Mrs. Danvers and the dead Rebecca in the scene where the housekeeper shows Rebecca’s underwear and translucent nightgown to the second Mrs. de Winter. Fontaine responded, “I wasn’t aware of it then, but I certainly am now.” Beyond its thematic progressiveness, Rebecca was also quite unique and risky commercially when compared to other films of 1940. The color animation from Walt Disney Studios and RKO, Pinocchio, was the top grossing film that year—the second highest grosser was more of the same, Fantasia. Three years before, it had been Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. The year prior (1939), Selznick had produced the top grossing picture of all time (at that point) in Gone With the Wind. All of these juggernaut films represent bold, colorful, hero’s stories; something Rebecca definitely was not. Selznick and Hitchcock were certainly daring (and perhaps a bit crazy) when they decided—in this color-rich fantasy-story market—to produce a black and white film about misogyny, lesbianism, and murder. Crazy like foxes, it turned out: Rebecca went on to gross six million dollars, ranking fourth that year behind the Disney animations and MGM’s Boom Town. When he received the Rebecca screenplay for approval, Selznick was shocked to discover that Alfred Hitchcock had allowed the original novel to be changed so that it was virtually unrecognizable. A furious Selznick wrote Hitchcock a blistering memo, one that nicely illustrates the producer’s ultimate creative control over the movie: “We Intend to Make Rebecca. It is my unfortunate and distressing task to tell you that I am shocked and disappointed beyond words by your treatment of Rebecca. … If there is going to be any extravagance in our picture-making it is going to be indulged in by me personally to improve the quality of my pictures.” Duke Greenhill is a freelance writer who has contributed to The New York Times, National Journal, Reason, Filmmaker, Cineaste, and many other publications.
