'WUTHERING HEIGHTS' IS A SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY MASSACRE

Valentine’s Day, a cinema full of spinsters, and a two-hour lesson in meandering, self-important, tone-deaf excess: critic Reda Belhadfa reviews Wuthering Heights and wonders if St Valentine’s stoning might be preferable to Emerald Fennell’s latest.

Courtesy of Warner Bros/YouTube

I am not entirely certain that we aren’t in purgatory. Certainly, with headlines of late, one might be forgiven for believing we are being divinely punished for our sins. And, after having sat through the entirety of Emerald Fennell's newest 2 hour 16 minute perfume ad of a film, I can honestly say my fear of God has been restored.

That’s right, I, an embittered spinster, spent the eve of Valentine’s Day watching Wuthering Heights. The one upshot of this particular plan is, as it would transpire, the only people who go to the cinema on the day of love seem to be other, more embittered (and slightly less attractive) spinsters. Misery loves company.

Courtesy of Warner Bros/YouTube (actual picture of author in the cinema)

Now, most critics would begin by moaning about how unfaithful the film is to the original text. And it is. Frankly if you told me Fennell only ever listened to the Kate Bush song (or perhaps even a club remix) and went from there, I would believe you. However, I’m never too pressed about that: frankly, I don’t necessarily believe that following source material is all that essential in making an adaptation. In fact, some of the best adaptations have but a whiff of the authors original story in them (Cabaret being one such fine example).

But Cabaret this ain’t. Though in many ways the dialogue is hilariously bad, if the riotous laughter in the theatre is to be believed, it does not quite rise to the level of camp, which I think could have been the only thing to save it. The film takes itself seriously, far too seriously in fact — as does its director I suspect, if past work is indicative of anything. The entire story seems randomly stitched together, the dialogue is needlessly clunky, and I never really understood the logical progression of film. The actors too, seemed to be delivering these unwieldy lines as though reading them for the first time. Particularly egregious offender in this regard is Jacob Elordi as Heathcliffe, who’s representation of the Brontë character can be summarised with poor accent work (I did not even remotely understand a word he said) and smouldering. Yes, he did the look to camera. Yes, everyday of living in this city comes being confronted by Australians with unfortunate accents. Yes, if you’re not laughing too hard to notice you may need to cross your legs. The whole thing is sexual, if not comically so.

Courtesy of Warner Bros/YouTube

While I can poopoo for a while on any subject, as any of my readers can attest to, I do like to occasionally give credit where it’s due. Which is to say (and I hate to admit it) but, well, the damn thing is pretty. The sets are pretty, the costumes (if not skewing weirdly Tudor or pirate-y at times) are pretty, and the people are pretty too. Massively historically anachronistic, yes, confusing, extremely, but beautiful at times. In an attempt to really ram home the prettiness of the film, the entire middle (montage style, indicative of cheap writing) plays like a 10 minute Charli XCX music video, featuring a series of increasingly fur lined gowns. The sets too were opulent, when not bizarrely and confusingly bleak. Particularly pretty to me was Margot Robbie’s bedroom, the skin room, wallpapered with silken scans of her skin (from where I shall allow you to guess). 

Courtesy of Warner Bros/YouTube

So, all in all, what can we take from this experience? Is it that substance is for those without style? That’s certainly Emerald Fennell’s belief, as without substance she requires all the style she can get. Or is it that the rich girl, hoisted by her own petard, is always the victim? That would also be Fennell’s belief: she clearly wrote this film envisioning herself as Cathy, tragically misunderstood, despite having the emotional depth of a puddle and the breadth of vision of mole. The tragedy of Wuthering Heights is that it is exactly what we have come to expect of Fennell: meandering, self-important and remarkably tone deaf. I think the lesson here is that money doesn’t buy you happiness, nor does it buy taste. And remember on this day that Saint Valentine was stoned to death, and know that this fate is only slightly more bearable.

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Reda Belhadfa is a London-based script writer and critic.