How does one adapt one of the greatest classic novels of all time into a film? Director Emerald Fennell has been clear from the start: what she’s made is her 14-year-old self’s interpretation of the book.
But if teenage Fennell was dreaming about the sort of stuff she’s put in Wuthering Heights, then we should perhaps all be slightly worried. This is a film that puts a rocket under the word maximalism; it is a LOT.
This is apparent from the off. In the opening scenes, the credits roll over the sound of gentle groans and creaking. Is it sex? No, it’s a man being hanged. Oh, but wait – he’s also got an erection. As he dies, he ejaculates, and the crowd goes mad.
The rest of the film continues in much the same vein. We open with a young Cathy (Charlotte Mellington), who spends her life running wild on a super-stylised version of the Yorkshire Moors with companion Nelly (Vy Nguyen). Then one day, her feckless father (Martin Clunes, bellicose and unrecognisable) brings home Heathcliff – a street child played here by Adolescence’s Owen Cooper.
You know the story, and Fennell sticks fairly close to the source material, lifting several passages straight from the book. As children, Heathcliff and Cathy profess their undying loyalty to each other; soon enough, they’re both implausibly gorgeous adults who are clearly in love but separated through cruel circumstance (aka, Heathcliff being poor, and Cathy being proud).
It’s less harsh a vision than the one in Brontë’s novel, and more wholeheartedly romantic. Fennell’s versions of the main characters have had the edges, erm, rubbed off: despite professions of being beastly and cruel, we rarely see them being either. Jacob Elordi’s Heathcliff is more of a sad-eyed puppy with a slightly dodgy Yorkshire accent than a half-crazed wolf. Margot Robbie, being 35, fails to entirely sell the idea of being a stroppy, sexually naive 17-year-old ingenue.
But on the flipside – boy, do they have chemistry. Yes, we get yearning, but we also get filth. Early on, Cathy watches two of the servants have sex using a horse bridle; soon enough, she’s masturbating on the moors in a leather corset and Heathcliff is licking it off her hand as the bass notes of Charli xcx’s soundtrack thunder in the distance.
Turns out, it’s not just these two who are freaks. When Heathcliff takes the sheltered Isabella Linton (Saltburn’s Alison Oliver) as his wife, he chains her up in the fireplace – apparently, she’s actually really into it. Something must be in the 19th-century water.
All this mad behaviour is perfectly matched by the costume and set design, which sidesteps historical accuracy in favour of unrestrained decadence. Ever wondered what Cathy would look like in see-through tulle on her wedding night? Now you know!
Thrushcross Grange is decked out with silver walls, red-lacquer floors and a sinister fireplace covered in white china hands. The Heights themselves are a study in black-and-white tiles, with hooks in the entrance archway that bring to mind a butcher’s shop. Even Cathy’s bedroom is covered in wallpaper that perfectly matches the shade of Margot Robbie’s skin, complete with pulsing veins.
The result is a sort of ultra high-camp version of Gone With the Wind, which veers between hot and heavy sex and manipulative string music whenever the sadder bits roll around.
It’s all wildly fun, a fever dream come to life, though it’s not without its flaws. As the film lurches towards its ending, the edges do start to fray. Several plot threads are left hanging; the dramatic finale feels unresolved, and Heathcliff’s fate is left up to our imaginations. After weeping copiously at the ending, I left dissatisfied. When the sexy sugar rush passes, what’s left?
In cinemas from February 13
