Revisiting the Rose of Versailles - A Review

Spoiler Alert: This review contains detailed discussions of key plot points and character developments in both The Rose of Versailles' original and Netflix adaptations.

I was genuinely excited to watch this Netflix remake of a story that played a significant role in my childhood and helped shape who I am today. Lady Oscar, as we knew her from the Italian version, was more than just a daily feature on Bim Bum Bam; she was a way for me to learn about European history. She also served as a role model, embodying character, honour, and integrity while being relatable and vulnerable like the rest of us.

Riyoko Ikeda’s The Rose of Versailles (Berusaiyu no Bara) also stands as a seminal work in the evolution of shōjo manga, intertwining themes of gender, politics, and class within the opulent backdrop of pre-revolutionary France. Emerging in the early 1970s, a period marked by Japan’s burgeoning feminist movements, Ikeda’s narrative challenged prevailing gender norms through the character of Oscar François de Jarjayes—a woman raised as a man to serve in the royal guard. Oscar’s androgynous identity and navigating societal expectations offered readers a nuanced exploration of gender performance and agency.

The manga’s impact extended beyond its narrative, influencing the shōjo genre to embrace more complex storylines that addressed political and social issues. Ikeda’s work resonated with the sentiments of second-wave feminism, providing a medium through which readers could engage with ideas of women’s independence and societal roles.

The 1979 anime adaptation brought Ikeda’s characters to life with the distinctive artistry of Shingo Araki and Michi Himeno. Their designs encapsulated the elegance and emotional depth of the manga, with expressive eyes and fluid movements that became hallmarks of the series. Araki and Himeno’s collaboration set a standard for character design in anime, influencing subsequent works within the genre.

In contrast, I believe the 2025 Netflix adaptation seeks fidelity to Ikeda’s original illustrations, presenting characters with designs that closely mirror the manga’s aesthetic. While this approach pays homage to the source material, it also introduces a modern polish that enhances visual appeal. However, some nuances that Araki and Himeno’s expressive animation express are less pronounced in the newer movie, potentially affecting the conveyance of emotional subtleties.

A notable innovation in the Netflix adaptation is its musical format, wherein characters express pivotal moments through song. This creative choice, resorting to the device of anachronism through modern songs, probably draws inspiration from the Takarazuka Revue’s theatrical renditions of The Rose of Versailles, known for its all-female casts and musical storytelling. The integration of musical numbers serves to convey characters’ internal states and advance the narrative within a condensed timeframe. The singing voices belonged to the voice actors (Seiyū) themselves making the transition more seamless. The background music soundtrack however, is nowhere near as dramatic as the 1979 orchestral backgrounds that were an interesting crossover between romantic modern ballads, baroque themes, and epic concertos.

While these sequences offer a fresh perspective, their frequency and stylization may detract from character development. The reliance on musical montages can lead to a superficial treatment of complex relationships, as seen in the portrayal of Oscar and Marie Antoinette’s bond, which lacks the depth established in the 1979 series. It is definitely part of the price that had to be paid to adapt such a rich and complex story into a 2 hour drama with songs.

Visually, the Netflix adaptation is a feast for the eyes, with meticulous attention to detail and vibrant colour palettes that capture the grandeur of Versailles. The animation incorporates contemporary techniques to enhance the storytelling experience. However, certain directorial decisions fall short in delivering the emotional resonance found in the original anime.

Two scenes, in particular, exemplify this shortcoming: Oscar’s appearance in a white Grecian-style dress and her final encounter with Marie Antoinette. In the 1979 series, these moments are imbued with significant emotional weight, reflecting character development and thematic culmination. The Netflix version, however, presents these scenes with less gravitas, diminishing their impact on the audience. On the other hand the scene of the storming of the Bastille and the build up to it was very impactful, with Oscar’s (much more cruelly portrayed than in 1979) demise very effectively juxtaposed with the French populace defeating the regiment in the Bastille. The 1979 series also had a vast exploration of political themes and intrigue that the Netflix anime does not have the time to get into. The effect that events like the scandal of Marie Antoinette’s necklace had on the build up to the French revolution could not be appreciated but it had to be inferred. The switch from a population that adored Marie Antoinette to a population that wanted to behead her felt very rushed.

Netflix’s The Rose of Versailles offers a visually stunning homage to Ikeda’s work, introducing musical elements that align with the story’s theatrical legacy. However, the emphasis on style over substance results in a narrative that may feel overly rushed at times and emotionally underdeveloped, particularly for viewers new to the series. While it serves as a testament to the enduring appeal of The Rose of Versailles, this adaptation underscores the challenges of reimagining a classic without compromising its core essence. The manga and the 1979 anime are still there. We should be happy to be getting great Berusayu no Bara content in 2025 - but in no way should we assume that the 45 year old anime series cannot be revisited by today’s generation and Netflix should acquire the rights to stream it in HD, now that the movie has had such an impact.