Ever since I heard that Emerald Fennell, director of “Promising Young Woman” and "Saltburn,” was adapting “Wuthering Heights,” I was intrigued; as an English major, it’s practically a requirement for me to love the Brontë sisters. And though all the press releases over the past six to eight months made it clear that it would be a very loose adaptation, many people have been criticizing how far it strays from Emily Brontë’s novel. But even without the surface-level references to its source material, ”Wuthering Heights” stands on its own as a horrible movie, directionless and themeless, that meanders on until the very last moments.
I was one of exactly four people in the theater, which should have been my first indication that it was not going to be a fun time. I was also required to show my ID before heading to the theater, though I genuinely don’t know how this earned an R rating, as most of the film could have been aired on network television after 8 p.m. Fennell earned a reputation for filming incredibly shocking scenes, but despite everything, “Wuthering Heights” feels extremely restrained. There is some gross imagery in this film, particularly regarding the food, but compared to Fennell’s other outings, it’s incredibly chaste. This would not necessarily be a problem if the majority of the marketing around the movie referred to it as a “scandalous” adaptation.
Fennell’s writing also doesn’t really lend itself to the historical writing style. She seems to have originally written the script in modern vernacular and then ran her dialogue through a thesaurus in a crude attempt to make it sound more ‘old timey.’ But credit where credit is due, it’s a very pretty movie. The sets of both Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights look beautiful. Along with the West Yorkshire moors, which look incredible, Fennell clearly knows how to shoot in a way that shows the dark majesty of the English countryside.
The costume design is not bad, but it’s trying to get as far away as possible from the Victorian era it’s supposed to represent. Margot Robbie is also put in a very ill-fitting push-up bra that would make Sydney Sweeney blush. The only truly interesting performance is that of Isabella Linton (Alison Oliver), and only because she is the only one who doesn’t seem completely detached from the project. Jacob Elordi and Margot Robbie don’t seem interested in half of what they’re saying, most of which is whispered. Oliver feels like the only one giving any energy to this project, and after nearly a full hour of listening to Robbie and Elordi whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears, hearing her put some intention into the way she said things was a breath of fresh air. But other than that, there really isn’t one interesting performance among the other three leads. Robbie tends to spend most of her time over-acting with her face, and Elordi can’t seem to open his mouth enough to get any lines out.
“Wuthering Heights” is a wannabe “Romeo and Juliet” that is simply not an adaptation of its source material, aside from the names Cathy Earnshaw and Heathcliff slapped onto its leads. Not only that, but it also fails to be a compelling romance, whose actors tend to putter around beautiful sets with very little to do. When they are doing things, it’s not even that interesting. It’s a failure on all levels of cinema, and the only enjoyment I could find out of going to the cinema to see it was the popcorn and snacks I had while watching it.
