Asher Luberto
Emerald Fennell’s adaptation of Wuthering Heights is a rip-roaring, bodice-ripping romance that centers on differences in class structure, gold diggers, marital abusers, and two of the most reprehensible characters in movie history. Happy Valentine’s Day, folks! Marketed as “the most romantic story ever told,” it might very well be the least romantic. As Emily Brontë wrote (with wonderful prose) of her immoral lovers, whatever their souls are made of, they are made of the very same thing — judging by these self-centered twats, that thing is mold.
Brontë’s novel has been the subject of controversy dating back to 1847 — banned in schools, panned by critics — so it makes sense that one of cinema’s most controversial directors would tackle such a controversial novel. With smut, yearning and opulence, Fennell uses Brontë’s rain-soaked vessels of physical beauty as decor rather than people. Their relationship is easy on the eyes yet tar on the heart.
(Courtesy of Warner Bros. Pictures)
Partially because Fennell only uses 10% of Brontë’s original story, focusing on the toxic tug-of-war between Cathy (Margot Robbie) and Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi), forgoing the side characters that surround their lives, this Wuthering Heights gives the protagonists a lot more space for venomous debauchery. It starts with Cathy’s father bringing home a young boy, who is introduced to her as her new “pet.” She names him Heathcliff, and the two share a playful banter as children, but grow to have feelings for one another. Over the years, their mansion withers immensely as her father gambles away their fortune, forcing Cathy to marry into a rich family instead of to her childhood crush-turned-beautiful-hunk.
As Cathy becomes a gold digger, Heathcliff flees the countryside only to reemerge with revenge and some kinky sex on his mind. They stumble into each other amidst lush fields, light mists and castle ruins that resemble their broken dreams and fertile new beginnings, staring at each other from a distance, unable to say a word for such a prolonged period of silence that I nearly shouted at the screen, “get it on already!” That they do. Trading childhood bonds for corset bondage, they rekindle their old flame until Cathy’s husband blows their flame back out.
It’s at once remarkably tepid yet explicitly raunchy for a Wuthering Heights affair, trading Brontë’s controversial ideas on colonialism and race (Heathcliff was far from white) for scenes of graphic sex that play like Georgian cosplay. This may very well be the most expensive soft porn ever produced, and with nothing nearly as outrageous as the bathtub slurping in Saltburn, there’s not much here that’s actually shocking. Fennell’s adaptation amounts to something oddly shallow and staid. Heathcliff, known for his primal rage, is played with one-note drabness by Elordi, who certainly looks hot while picking up Cathy by her velvet red strings, but is about as bland as unseasoned porridge. He’s mainly just here to get teenage girls in the theater.
(Courtesy of Warner Bros. Pictures)
Robbie is much better as Cathy, nailing her character’s bored, vindictive scheming that eventually marks the downfall of these deranged lovers. For the most part, they have zero chemistry, though there were some scenes of lens-melting body-licking, sweat-trickling-down-the-corset eroticism that had me thinking otherwise. Even less cohesive is the pop art style, which looks like a fairy tale book meets a corny romance novel, an MTV music video meets a Cinderella wonderland. Linus Sandgren’s cinematography offers spectacular color to the film, and some landscape compositions are ripe for museum comparisons, but there’s still the unmistakable sense that we’re watching nothing more than erotic fan fiction, as all this glamour is merely a backdrop for Robbie’s sexual punishment.
Fennell’s provocations are certainly pleasing to look at, but her scripts haven’t been up to the task since her breakout film, Promising Young Woman, in which Carey Mulligan’s heroine took a knife to the throat of rapists — that I can get behind. What I can’t get behind is Barry Keogan’s social climber in Saltburn, who literally has sex with a corpse, nor could I find myself rooting for these self-destructive debutantes. Wuthering Heights is a psychedelic fever dream of scintillating passion, but my goodness, I couldn’t wait for these sad-sacks — and the movie — to finally climax.