Sunday, September 18, 2011

entering manderley



AFTER THE STARCHED white capital letters of the opening credits have appeared and disappeared over a sequence of black-and-white forest scenes decorated with whirling flutes, Hitchcock’s Rebecca begins in earnest. A full moon, tiny in the center of the screen, stands still as it’s sliced diagonally by charcoal strands of mist pulling the sky apart. “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”
     You hear the voice of a woman as the image of the torn moon is replaced by a tall iron gate dripping with shadows and vines. The camera zooms in and you hear her remembering her dream out loud, how she arrived at Manderley’s massive gate and was unable to get through, how at first her passage was barred.
     The gate looms larger and larger on the screen and you feel like you’re the one who’s being drawn toward it, like you’re the one who’s dreaming and it’s you who can’t get through. Beyond the vertical bars a distant band of enchanted light threads through black tree trunks invitingly, but the gate is sound and solid.
     The camera gets so close to the gate you think you’re about to bump up against it. Then the gate becomes fuzzy, losing its sharp focus as you pass through a narrow opening between the bars — at least that’s how Hitchcock made it seem — and you arrive on the other side.
     Once you’ve melted through, you wind your way down a tree-lined drive carpeted with snaking cushions of mist. Woozy, you weave side to side with the graceful curves of the lane and also up and down. You’re floating in the air of her dream.
     Of course, you’re not floating. You’re sitting on a sofa eating coconut ice cream. It’s the camera that’s doing the floating. But you’ve adopted the perspective of the camera as your own, so you feel as though you’ve dissolved, as though you’ve permeated a fictional fortress.
     Hitchcock’s trick is so seamless and so magical you never notice you’ve been fooled. It’s as though the distance between you and the screen has collapsed, erasing the glass coffee table that stands between you and the television, the one you’re resting your feet upon. You feel like you’ve been plugged directly into the movie, like you yourself are floating toward Manderley again.