A review by orionmerlin
Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

challenging dark emotional mysterious reflective slow-paced
  • Plot- or character-driven? Character
  • Strong character development? It's complicated
  • Loveable characters? No
  • Diverse cast of characters? No
  • Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

3.25

Characters: 6/10 
Everyone in this book needs a therapist, a slap, or both. The narrator is one of the most frustrating protagonists I’ve ever encountered—she’s not just insecure; she’s a void of personality who passively floats through the plot like a damp sock. I don’t care if her lack of identity is thematically intentional. It’s tedious. Watching her flail in her own inferiority complex for 300 pages felt like emotional waterboarding. Maxim de Winter? Brooding man-child with a murder confession that somehow doubles as a romantic gesture. And we’re supposed to swoon? His only charm is that he’s rich and haunted. Mrs. Danvers is creepy, yes, but also a flat caricature of obsessive devotion—less "deep psychological antagonist," more "Gothic Scooby-Doo villain." Nobody feels three-dimensional. They’re all melodramatic chess pieces in a story about people who can’t communicate like normal humans. 
Atmosphere / Setting: 9/10 
Sure, the atmosphere is the book’s strong suit—but at what cost? Manderley is gorgeously oppressive, I’ll give Du Maurier that, but after the seventh paragraph about ivy and shadows and the scent of ghost-Rebecca’s lingering perfume, I felt like I was drowning in a bottle of Victorian air freshener. Yes, it’s moody. Yes, it’s haunting. But there’s such a thing as too much gothic flourish. The setting became so overbearing it started to feel like set dressing trying to distract from the characters doing absolutely nothing of interest.  
Writing Style: 6.5/10 
Du Maurier can turn a phrase, no doubt. But this prose is like being stuck inside the head of someone who catastrophizes every social interaction for 400 pages. The writing is relentlessly internal, cloyingly detailed, and obsessed with introspection. She can’t just describe a room—she has to psychoanalyze it, write a metaphor about how the furniture reflects her emotional inadequacy, and then cry. Half the dialogue is swallowed by internal spirals that sap all momentum. It’s beautiful in a “please admire my sentence structure” kind of way, but it’s also exhausting. If someone described a dream to you with this much intensity, you'd fake a phone call to escape.  
Plot: 6/10 
There is a plot... eventually. But it spends the first half buried under layers of moody ambiance and social awkwardness. The entire beginning is a stretched-out exercise in emotional masochism, with the narrator practically begging everyone to hate her so she can be proven right. When the plot finally kicks in—Maxim’s Big Murder Reveal—it’s shocking, sure. But then it’s like Du Maurier panics and shoves the rest of the story through a keyhole. The pacing is all wrong: glacial buildup, rushed climax, and a limp, unsatisfying ending that evaporates with all the weight of a misty morning. For a book about murder, obsession, and identity, it sure goes out with a whimper.  
Intrigue: 5.5/10 
I wanted to be hooked. I expected to be hooked. Instead, I found myself sighing and checking how many pages were left in each chapter. The suspense is smothered by the narrator’s neurotic self-flagellation. There’s no real sense of danger—just constant anxiety about what the servants think of her breakfast habits. The central mystery (what happened to Rebecca?) is decent, but you have to slog through 200 pages of psychological mud to get there. By the time the courtroom drama hits, I was more invested in how Du Maurier would wrap things up without fully uncoiling the mess she’d made. Spoiler: she kind of doesn’t.  
Logic / Relationships: 5/10 
Let’s be real: this entire story hinges on the idea that a woman marries a much older man she barely knows, moves into his massive haunted house, and is then so psychologically fragile that she spirals into despair because the maid gives her the wrong breakfast plate. The relationships are either wildly imbalanced or emotionally vacant. Maxim’s idea of love is silence and vague threats. The narrator’s idea of love is worshipping a man who openly says he hated his first wife—after killing her. And Mrs. Danvers’ obsession with Rebecca? No backstory. No nuance. Just blind, unhinged loyalty. The characters aren’t navigating relationships; they’re acting out a gothic fever dream of insecurity, control, and codependence.  
Enjoyment: 6/10 
Reading Rebecca was like attending a very long, very uncomfortable dinner party where no one talks directly and everyone hates each other. I appreciated the atmosphere and the moments of psychological intensity, but enjoyment? That’s a stretch. I kept waiting for the book to reward my patience, and while there are payoffs, they’re buried in molasses. This isn’t escapism—it’s emotional trench warfare with rhododendrons.  
Final Verdict: 
Rebecca is a novel with literary teeth, but it spends too much time gnawing on its own insecurities to be truly gripping. It’s atmospheric, yes, but also emotionally stunted, narratively sluggish, and frustratingly opaque. Final score: 6.2/10. I get why it’s a classic—but not every classic deserves a free pass.
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