Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights” is an ambitious telling of the classic 1847 Emily Brontë novel. Wrapped in a stylistic visual splendor, the filmmaker ratchets up the eroticism while steering this version towards modern audiences. What Fennell does with the project is occasionally interesting, but too many omissions and strange filmmaking choices ultimately bury the emotional power of Brontë’s work.
It would be a fool’s errand to compare Fennell’s film to previous adaptations. Laurence Olivier starred in William Wyler’s 1939 classic and time has crowned Oliver’s performance and Wyler’s film the definitive cinematic representation. Through the decades, actors from Timothy Dalton to Ralph Fiennes to Tom Hardy have tackled the role of Heathcliff. Their performances were matched by their respective “Cathys”; Anna Calder-Marshall for Dalton, Juliette Binoche for Fiennes, Charlotte Riley for Hardy, and of course, Merle Oberon for Olivier.
Each of these pairings were memorable, while the films kept the darker undertones of the story intact. Lest one forgets, this isn’t so much a romance, but a tale of doomed souls whose lives are destroyed by obsessive love.
Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights” keeps the more tragic aspects of the novel, but colors it all with misplaced moments of humor, a score that is a head-scratcher, and an unnecessary need to excise the entire second half of Brontë’s work.
The film begins with a black screen. The only sounds are grunting and creaking, as if someone is having sex. As the first images burn onto the screen, it is revealed to be the sound of a man being hanged in the town square. As the crowd of mostly women and children look on with glee, the deceased’s noticeable member (quite ridiculously) becomes a visual aphrodisiac to many of the onlookers. Bosoms heave and hands go under skirts as the devilishly sex-starved masses paw at one another.
If what I described to you sounds absurd, it is. The director wants to boldly announce how different her film will be from the text and from all previous incarnations. While the Ken Russell-styled opening will certainly grab the audience’s attention, this preposterous prologue makes it nearly impossible to take the following film seriously.
Fennell’s screenplay is full of mishandled (and laughable) erotic moments. Most of the “steamy” scenes are plain silly, as the filmmaker tries to make something sexual out of dough, eggs, grass, and even a snail. There are moments of “heat” between Heathcliff and Cathy where it looks as if the leads might burst into laughter at any moment. Finger sucking and long looks from expressionless faces as the wind blows on the moors cause more unintentional laughter than arousal. The picture is filled with an unbelievably childish view of what is erotic.
As the story goes (pretty much), Mr. Earnshaw (a hammy Martin Clunes) brings home an illiterate orphan boy (Owen Cooper). His daughter Cathy (Charlotte Mellington) names him Heathcliff and grows to love the boy. After a time, the two children become inseparable. As they get older, Cathy (Margot Robbie) still loves Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi), but is tired of being poor. Her father is a degenerate gambler and has ruined their finances. Cathy dreams of wealth and comfort: her sights set on rich new neighbor Edgar Linton (Shazad Latif).
Though their passion is undeniable, Cathy spurns Heathcliff, who leaves the house only to return five years later a rich man full of power and swagger. Cathy is now married to Edgar, but her desire for Heathcliff has never died and the tragic tale is set into motion. Well, half of it, and with many changes.
Brontë showed mastery in writing the dialogues between Heathcliff and Cathy. The characters said so much in the silence of the page. There were simmering emotions that rarely boiled over. In the novel, what was left unsaid contained the most profound emotion. Fennell feels the need to have her characters scream it aloud and if they aren’t pontificating they are making googly-eyes at one another while leaning and bending seductively as if they were sharing an intimate yoga experience.
Jacob Elordi takes some time to settle into the role. For a great deal of the first half, the actor mulls around the scenery while leering at Robbie’s Cathy. The character has been tweaked to bring in the teen audience and cash in on Elordi’s good looks. There has always been a sexual danger to his performances, but Heathcliff shouldn’t smolder. This is a broken, villainous, man whose fate was written long before he met Cathy. Brontë knew there was to be no redemption for Heathcliff, who spent the rest of his days haunted to the point of madness by Cathy’s memory.
Once Heathcliff returns, it is a pleasure to watch Elordi immerse himself in the wickedness of the character, but the film only scratches that surface. Fennell’s Heathcliff isn’t a villain, but a sad-faced, mean-spirited, broken heart. The film robs the actor by omitting the second half of the story where Heathcliff becomes obsessed with misguided revenge and lives an almost macabre existence, insisting that he is possessed by Cathy. The man is not to be swooned over. There was a darkness in him that could fit Jacob Elordi’s acting style. What could have been.
To quote another famous writer, “… perchance to dream.”
Margo Robbie is completely out of her depth. The actress has done some good work over her short career, but Cathy is far out of the range of Robbie’s capabilities. Perhaps this isn’t her fault, but the fault of Fennell’s script. Brontë’s Cathy was a good soul who was corrupted by (and died from) a broken heart. This film cast her as a hopeless romantic who gets burned by bad decisions. The simplicity in the portrayal is maddening as the character plays as a visual Cliff’s Notes Cathy. Robbie cannot successfully reach the depths of the character’s heartbreak and tragic path.
As for the supporting cast, Alison Oliver does very well as the infatuated Isabella, creating a layered performance of a shy social butterfly whose wings are clipped and whose soul becomes corrupted.
Hong Chau gives the film’s finest performance as Nelly, the housekeeper and former confidant to Cathy. The novel cast her as somewhat of an unreliable narrator, but here Nelly is a woman who watches the betrayal of those around her destroy their lives and, eventually, her own.
Isabella and Nelly are the only characters whose essence (while altered) survived this translation.
One of the film’s highlights becomes one of its biggest issues. Linus Sandgren’s cinematography and Suzie Davies’ production design are exquisite. The best moment where their work comes together perfectly is the visual homage to Ingmar Bergman’s repressed emotions masterpiece, Cries and Whispers. As the characters settle into lives they do not want and breathe the air of betrayal and heartbreak, Sandgren and Davies cover certain scenes in sharp red pallets. The lighting, the walls, and sometimes the sun coming through the windows give these moments a stunning look that enunciates the emotional hell of Brontë’s cast of broken souls.
These scenes have visual power, while others overwhelm or simply fall flat. There are too many uses of fake snow and obviously phony sets. Many moments are painstakingly rendered on actual UK locations, while other sets are so perfectly structured that one cannot tell the difference. Once in a while, Fennell and her team will shoot a scene that looks to be from a low budget feature, rather than a major production. Bad lighting on phony sets covered in artificial snow bring imbalance to the film’s aura.
Perhaps the worst sin is the score and songs(!) from Anthony Willis and Charlie XCX. The composer tries for sweeping old-school romantic tragedy, but doesn’t come up with anything memorable. Most of the music swells are obvious and Willis fails to produce a standout piece.
The songs are not bad, but the modern techno-soul-pop sounds are an insipid addition to such a story. The songs are used over a montage of sexual encounters that becomes nothing more than a music video. This sequence is one of the most offensively stupid movie ideas since Gus Van Sant decided to do a shot-by-shot remake of Hitchcock’s Psycho. Again, the director is trying to reel in the younger crowds. Not by dumbing it all down, necessarily, but by removing the depth found in the tragic arcs of Brontë’s characters.
The film collapses from the weight of such drastic changes. Writer-director Fennel felt the need to make her movie more “hip”; turning such a dark tale into a dramatically stagnant pop culture movie.
Gone is the brilliant Gothic prose. Gone is Heathcliff and Cathy’s supernatural eternal coupling. Gone is the danger in their desire and the darkness of their romance. Gone is the most powerful half of this classic tale.
With Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights”, gone is the soul of Emily Brontë’s masterpiece.
Wuthering Heights
Written by Emerald Fennell, based on the novel by Emily Brontë
Directed by Emerald Fennell
Starring Jacob Elordi, Margo Robbie, Hong Chau, Alison Oliver, Shazad latif, Martin Clunes
R, 136 Minutes, Warner Brothers Pictures, MRC Films
