A classic of 19th century literature, Emily Brontë’s book has been reimagined for generation Z. The modus operandi of the work on this occasion isn’t to translate the text, as much as it is to reincorporate the carnal energy director Emerald Fennell experienced when she discovered the novel as a teenager. Judging by the banality onscreen, it seems what many consider to be a gothic masterpiece is cheap chick lit for the filmmaker.
Margot Robbie stars as Catherine Earnshaw, an upper class woman who finds herself drawn to Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi), a man scandalously below her station in life. Temptation lingers, bringing the duo closer, shaping a shared imagination based on lust. Though they can never truly be together, Cathy and Heathcliff desire one another; all to a pop soundtrack spun by Charli XCX.
Elordi acquits himself nicely to the role of Heathcliff, a role previously fleshed out by luvvies Timothy Dalton and Laurence Olivier. The character’s ethnic background has always been ambiguous, and a future iteration could be performed by a black or Asian actor. Nonetheless, Elordi is fairly sensual as the lovelorn hero. Robbie, by converse, is wooden at best and dreadful at worst, simpering and sighing in place of genuine acting.
What Fennell has put together is closer in tone to Fifty Shades of Grey (Sam Taylor-Johnson, 2015): cheap, tacky and badly-written torture porn. Many camera shots are drenched in innuendo, discarding the intelligence and gothic underpins that cemented the source text. The director may not have constructed Wuthering Heights with fans of the book in mind; it’s doubtful audiences unfamiliar with Brontë will enjoy the movie considering how stilted Robbie is in the lead. There’s no buildup between Cathy and Heathcliff, no witty rejoinder or set-up. The protagonists meet and their lust becomes unbearable.
Charli XCX’s score is vivid, inventive and deeply spontaneous, facets missing from the movie itself. Occasionally a synth will emerge in the hope of pushing the plot forward; such is the plodding nature of the work, the songwriter has no hope of salvaging it. Cathy’s interest in Heathcliff seems to be physical, given his stature, height and body. Elordi steps up to the plate, yet the chemistry is non-existent between him and Robbie. Instead there are grunts, moans and highly suggestive imagery. Cathy wears a red dress that would have been impossible to stitch during the 19th century; if this is post -post modernism, it’s time to re-tailor the script.
There has been very little evidence to date that Robbie can truly act; even something like Barbie (Greta Gerwig, 2023) depended on her ethereal blond looks to lift the movie. In time honoured tradition, Robbie fails to deliver in Wuthering Heights, bringing furrowed brows and sighs to a script that calls for introspection and small facial gestures. Shazad Latif and Martin Clunes beef out the cast as Linton and Mr.Earnshaw respectively; they are given precious little to do but stand as ornaments. Focusing on the two lovers, Fennell conveniently forgets about world-building or development.
No book is sacred, and a filmmaker’s vision is theirs alone. With that said, the feature deviates so completely from the base that it’s virtually unrecognisable. This iteration of Wuthering Heights is desperate, keen to arouse the viewership without giving them cause to embrace an internal sexual voyage with the heroes onscreen. A story of lust and desire needs core performances that elecit emotions from the viewers: fragile, minute moments that lead to an impressive climax as the narrative unfolds. Fennell focuses on the obvious, making the picture obvious, and anguished. Indeed, sex is about more than orgasms; it’s about connection.
Wuthering Heights is in cinemas on Friday, February 13th.
