My Cousin Rachel (1952)
Directed by Henry Koster

Film Review

Of the many screen adaptations of Daphne Du Maurier's abundant literary works the only one that can be said to be definitive is Alfred Hitchcock's Rebecca (1940), the one film that is totally steeped in the oppressively tenebrous atmosphere of the author's distinctive world.  Hitchcock's subsequent The Birds (1963) and Nicholas Roeg's Don't Look Now (1973) are utterly inspired re-workings of two of the writer's most memorable short stories but neither of these quite matches the creepy poetry, sustained tension and haunting background malevolence of a lesser Du Maurier's adaptation - Henry Koster's My Cousin Rachel.  The film's main claim to fame is that it was the first in which the British actor Richard Burton had a starring role, and what a remarkable debut it is.  More than anything, it is Burton's desperately tortured portrayal of a man at the mercy of his passions - paranoid suspicion locked in mortal combat with amorous obsession - that makes it such a compelling and devastating piece of film drama.

Oddly, considering how faithful it is to her original novel, Du Maurier loathed Nunnally Johnson's screenplay for Koster's film - and so did the creative giant who was originally slated to direct it, George Cukor.  Burton only signed up for the project to work with Cukor, so production got off to shaky start, not helped by the lead actor's extremely poor working relationship with his co-star Olivia de Havilland.  At the time, the German-born Koster was best known as a director of light comedies and musicals - inconsequential but popular fare such as Three Smart Girls (1936) and Spring Parade (1940) - but he was an accomplished technician and had many impressive titles to his name, most notably the lavish Biblical epic he was to direct the following year - The Robe (1953).  Later, he would direct Bette Davis and Richard Todd in the polished historical drama The Virgin Queen (1955), and James Stewart in the popular comedy Mr Hobbs Takes a Vacation (1962).

My Cousin Rachel belongs to a cycle of beautifully crafted Gothic melodramas, most produced by Twentieth Century-Fox, that provided a badly needed counterpoint to the two dominant Hollywood formats of the time - gritty noir crime-thrillers and modern age woman-centric melodramas (the classic 'weepy').  Whereas the latter genres seem to be targeted at male and female audiences separately, the Gothic melodrama appealed to both sexes and had elements of both kinds of film - sentimental drama filmed in an atmosphere of noirish oppression and mystery.  Sumptuously photographed in moody black and white, with mesmerising performances from its two well-matched lead actors, Henry Koster's slick Du Maurer adaptation easily deserves its place alongside other similar Gothic melodramas of the time - from William Wyler's Wuthering Heights (1939) to Robert Stevenson's Jane Eyre (1944) and Joseph L. Mankiewicz's Dragonwyck (1946).  Whilst Koster won far greater acclaim in his lifetime for his subsequent cinematic triumph The Robe, My Cousin Rachel is arguably a more interesting and worthy film, outshining many other Du Maurier adaptations - including Hitchcock's botched Jamaica Inn and Richard Eyre's somewhat tepid 2017 remake (in which lead actor Sam Claflin fails to match up to Rachel Weisz's startlingly enigmatic Rachel).

Admittedly, Nunnally Johnson's overly conventional screenplay doesn't come close to capturing the rich complexity of the original novel - one of the author's most compelling and imaginative - but this is amply made up for by the sheer artistry of the art design and Joseph LaShelle's brooding cinematography, both of which capture the unmistakeable aura of mistrust and paranoia that pervade Du Maurer's gripping page-turner.  The raw wave-beaten Cornish setting is effectively evoked by some technically flawless use of back-projection which, helped by Franz Waxman's bleakly ominous score, constantly highlights the tempestuous nature of Burton's dangerously impulsive character whilst suggesting that darker elemental forces are at play in guiding Philip and Rachel to their doom.  The shadowy interiors of the old Ashley residence have a House of Usher-like sense of a lingering ancestral menace that constantly mirrors Philip's changing moods, reaching a crescendo of abject darkness when the hot-headed romantic finally gives in to a murderous impulse on Rachel's refusal to marry him.

The genius of Du Maurier's novel lies in the fact that, since the story is told in the first person, from the perspective of someone who is clearly not a reliable narrator, we never know for sure exactly who Rachel is or what she is capable of doing.  She could just as easily be an innocent victim of circumstance as a scheming money-hungry opportunist, perhaps even a cunning murderess.  Our inability to divine Rachel's true nature is the result of Philip's own muddled feelings about her, which are the result of intense feelings of lust, jealousy and guilt - the extent of which are not apparent until the drama has run its course (thus making a second viewing of the film essential).

Koster's film makes a reasonable stab at capturing the essential ambiguity of the source novel, but in this it is somewhat inhibited by the conventions of film melodrama and limits of cinematic expression of this era, which tend to favour a coldly objective approach to storytelling.  More than anything, it is the sheer power of Richard Burton's performance that propels our continually shifting opinions of the titular heroine, forcing us to see her as Philip sees her as his mood oscillates between intense loathing and crazed obsessive desire.  There are more than a few moments when Burton attains the dizzying heights of his greatest screen performances - in such films as Tony Richardson's Look Back In Anger (1958) and Peter Glenville's Becket (1964) - and throughout this dazzling histrionic tour de force he is ably matched by his co-star - a stunningly beautiful, utterly beguiling Olivia de Havilland.  Burton could hardly have hoped for a better start to his Hollywood career.  Acclaimed by the critics, he received the Golden Globe for New Star of the Year and his first Oscar nomination (as Best Supporting Actor), with the film also nominated for Academy Awards in the categories of Best Art Direction, Best Cinematography and Best Costume Design on a black and white film.

In contrast to Burton's wildly tempestuous Philip, de Havilland's Rachel has such a level of measured restraint that you just can't help suspecting her of dark ulterior motives.  She says and does nothing to justify our suspicions and yet we cannot stop ourselves from reading malevolent intent in her all too obvious attempt to claw back some money after her husband's sudden demise.  (It is interesting to note that de Havilland's sister Joan Fontaine had played the reverse role to Rachel in Hitchcock's psychological thriller Suspicion (1941), being the woman who suspects she is going to be murdered by her seemingly devoted husband - a surprisingly inscrutable Cary Grant).  It is only in the final reel of the film that we begin to realise we may have completely misread Rachel, so easily have we been led astray by her tormentor's paranoid delusions.

With two Oscar wins already under belt, Olivia de Havilland had reached the summit of her art by this point in her career.  After establishing herself in the 1930s in a series of cute ingénue roles, she gravitated to much more complex and controversial characters in the 1940s, culminating in her Oscar-winning performance in William Wyler's proto-feminist masterpiece The Heiress (1949).  In the wake of this rip-roaring success de Havilland was perfectly positioned to take on more ambiguous roles and the heroine of Du Maurier's Cousin Rachel was tailor-made for her.  With Burton doing his damnedest to steal every scene, giving free rein to his surging Welsh passions at the least provocation, his co-star still continues to hold our attention (if not our sympathies) with a performance of remarkable subtlety.  At no point in the film does de Havilland allow us to reach Rachel's inner soul but there is just a fleeting glimpse of the Machiavellian fiend she would go on to play a decade later, in Robert Aldrich's southern Gothic melodrama Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964).

Film Synopsis

Southern England in the 1830s.  In his early twenties, Philip Ashley lives on the large Cornish estate of his cousin Ambrose whilst the latter, his guardian since childhood, resides in Florence for health reasons.  Not long after Ambrose gets married in Italy, Philip begins to receive disturbing letters from him with the news that his condition has been worsened by both his physicians and his wife Rachel.  Philip's concern takes him to Florence, but he arrives too late.  He learns from Guido Rainaldi, a close friend of Rachel, that Ambrose has recently died and has bequeathed his entire estate to Philip.  Even though Rachel has inherited nothing from her husband, Philip is convinced that she murdered him for his money - ignoring the opinion of Mr Kendall, Philip's kindly godfather, that Ambrose most likely died from a brain tumour.

A few months later, Rachel shows up unexpectedly in Cornwall, appealing to Mr Kendall for financial support.  On meeting her for the first time, Philip sees her not as a scheming murderess but as an innocent woman cruelly dealt with by fate.  To make amends for his uncle's ill-treatment of her, he grants the impoverished widow an annual allowance of five thousand pounds, which he increases on learning that this is insufficient for her needs.  Mr Kendall's warnings that Rachel is sending large sums of money out of the country and has a reputation in Italy for loose living falls on deaf ears.  On hearing that Ambrose had intended leaving his whole estate to his wife, the now hopelessly infatuated Philip feels bound to hand over all that he has inherited to Rachel, on condition that the estate reverts to him if she subsequently marries.

The young man apparently has nothing to lose, believing she has given her assent to marrying him.  In fact, Rachel has no intention of wedding her infatuated cousin and this apparent rejection instantly revives Philip's mistrust of her.  As he recovers from a sudden attack of delirium, through which Rachel dutifully nurses him back to health, Philip is now certain of his cousin's intention of killing him, allowing her to marry her secret lover Rainaldi without losing her fortune.  Certain that he can find evidence of Rachel's malign intentions, Philip makes a thorough search of her room, not realising - or caring - that he has already sent his cousin to her death...