Warning: slight spoilers!
Coming from the director of Saltburn – and she makes that clear – Emerald Fennell demolishes Emily Brontë’s novel, and glues it back together with lust, fog, and red (yes, the colour), also forgetting half the pieces. Featuring none other than a mismatched Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi in the lead roles, there is much to be said about the film.
There is nothing wrong with an adaptation that places the story years in the future and with modernized elements; Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet did so perfectly. The themes, emotions and intentions are the same as the original source, yet in “Wuthering Heights”, so much is completely disregarded. The title is intentionally put in quotation marks, and has been clearly marketed as a modernised adaptation – but what is really the same? It’s almost as if the only thing taken from the book are the characters’ names, not even their traits. A whole generation is written off along with several key individuals. Major themes, including the crucial one of racism, and the horrid darkness and gothic style of the novel, are stripped away. Is it then right to adapt the novel in such a way, even for artistic expression?
An imperative quality that often stands out in good films, is the ability for the director to sustain a consistent thematic, cinematic, and aesthetic outlook in its creation. This is a feature which “Wuthering Heights” lacks to an enormous extent. It is as if Fennell could not decide whether or not to let the Victorian era prevail, or go full-out on the met-gala resembling looks and aesthetics. The opening scene, which is disturbing in more ways than one, is set in a seemingly realistic town square – ignoring the erotic events taking place. We follow young Catherine through the crowd of dirty tunics, and for the first 15 minutes or so this seems to be the vision, before we set foot in her home and it’s onto a chessboard floor. But wait! The next room is once again built with realism in mind.
There is something to be said for the film having a cinematic and aesthetic vision – yet it fails to fulfil its potential. Cinematographically speaking, “Wuthering Heights” has some adequate features. Certain shots are composed wonderfully, with the mis-en-scene contributing to a satisfying capture of a moment. That said, it is just that – for a moment.
The introduction of the Linton household includes the new setting of a mansion that resembles something from Wes Anderson or Yorgos Lanthimo’s film Poor Things. Both are brilliant directors with sets that enhance the wanted artistry, yet the replication is done poorly, if not completely for the wrong project. Manohla Davis, NYT Chief Film Critic fittingly describes it as “being force-fed candy.” Not only are the living room walls covered in icy-blue rhinestones, Fennell’s Edgar Linton has creatively plastered the walls of Catherine’s room with a sponge-textured wall resembling her skin; birthmarks and veins included.
It is wildly overstimulating; excessively and forcefully gruesome and carnal. So much action and constant turbulence, yet it was the longest 136 minutes I’ve been seated anywhere. The soundtrack could have been worse. It is too violent, and Charli XCX’s music – which isn’t necessarily bad, just poorly chosen, fosters the feeling that you really are going to die in this house. The comedy seems unintentional, yet so performative. Once again the film showcases inconsistency. At times, Fennell makes it a pure comedy, where Robbie embodies the “damsel in distress”, whereas other stretches are weighty passages of trouble.
I stand by my own Letterboxd review, that already Emmy-winning, rising star Owen Cooper was the best part of this movie. The film failed to push my (and seemingly many more around me) eyes to tears, until a flashback of young Heathcliff, and thereby Cooper, once more filled the screen. In the beautifully tragic ending – which, let us not forget, is Emily Brontë’s work, not Fennell’s, he is what stood out as the emotional force.
Some argue that what Fennell has intended, is to visualize the feeling which the book has given readers rather than put the gothic work of Brontë into film. That would be the perfect explanation if it were written as 2020 YA literature. One Letterboxd fan writes “Emerald Fennell to film is what Colleen Hoover is to literature.” I would call it an accurate analogy, and to those who know where the insult of this statement comes from – watch the film by your own choice.
It is one of those movies where your mindset going in will determine how you see it. There is some art to be seen in it, and the visual appeal is understandable – both in the set and actors, yet if you intend on watching it to get a visual representation of the celebrated classic, you are destined to be disappointed. I do not mean to be brutal, because artistic expression should never be criticised as art is personally expressed and received, it is simply that my reception happens to lean towards the negative.
The 1940 adaptation (one out of the over 35 film/TV adaptations made) received 8 Academy Award nominations, this one stands short with none. So while we wait for yet another Wuthering Heights film (for better or for worse), we have a lineup of Colleen Hoover books on-screen, or a Shakespearean, Oscar-nominated Hamlet to entertain us – whatever suits your interest.
