It’s all R-rated sex and the characters keep their clothes on (their
passion is too urgent for undressing), but Fennell makes up for that by
having Heathcliff do quite a bit of licking—of Cathy’s face mostly, but
also of her fingers after he catches her masturbating on the moors
(which have undoubtedly seen worse over the millennia). It also rains
constantly, drenching the lovers mid-coitus—another “primal” touch added
by Fennell. The results are often risible. I enjoyed a good laugh when
Heathcliff and Cathy sneak up to a hayloft and peep through the
floorboards at two lusty young servants engaging in a bit of BDSM with
the horse tack. And a reviewer for the Hollywood Reporter remarked that
a shot of a shirtless, sweating Heathcliff stacking hay bales was “so
close to gay farmer porn I giggled.” Just in case we haven’t got the
idea, Fennel lays the sexual symbolism on extra thick during a scene in
which Cathy cracks raw eggs onto Heathcliff’s bedsheets, and another in
which we watch Cathy knead wet dough in slow-motion like she’s giving an
erotic massage.
But for most of the film’s running time, I was
bored. After about an hour, I began to wonder when, how, and if all of
this was going to end. Part of the problem is that for all their
strenuous exertions, there’s no chemistry between Elordi and Robbie at
all. Elordi is good-looking and swarthy enough, but he doesn’t have the
hammy charisma of, say, Laurence Olivier in William Wyler’s 1939
adaptation. It doesn’t help that, for the first third of Fennell’s movie
before he makes his fortune and cleans himself up into Hot Mr. Darcy,
Heathcliff resembles a stringy-haired, bushy-bearded hobo (like Charles
Manson, but a lot taller). Whenever he kissed Margot Robbie, much less
licked her fingers, I recoiled on her behalf.
And Margot Robbie is
comically miscast as Cathy. She’s a rare blonde bombshell who can also
act, and she’s a standout in spunky, high-spirited roles like Mrs Wolf
of Wall Street, Tonya Harding, Sharon Tate, and Barbie. But she can’t do
tragic period heroines well. Furthermore, Robbie was 34 when “Wuthering Heights” was
shot, which is much too old to play the part of Cathy. In the novel,
Cathy develops her crush on Heathcliff when she is fifteen, and dies
aged just nineteen. This is not necessarily fatal to the
adaptation—Merle Oberon was 27 when the Wyler version was shot—except
that Robbie had just given birth to her son when filming began, and her
postpartum-thickened waistline and maternal pheromones make it hard to
take her moor-romping seriously.
Nor is Robbie well-served by the
movie’s much-praised but actually ugly and unflattering costumes—the
handiwork of Jacqueline Durran (who also designed the costumes for Barbie).
Nearly every one of Robbie’s frocks features a tight-waisted bodice
that makes her look like an opera coloratura instead of a Yorkshire
ingenue, and a neckline (if it can be called that) cut to emphasise her
heaving cleavage (I don’t know whether it was push-up bras or nursing,
but Robbie isn’t that busty). On the Wuthering Heights farm,
she sports a revealing Oktoberfest dirndl outfit that looks like it was
copied from the St. Pauli Girl label. Once she marries into the
conspicuously consuming Lintons, there must be a hundred different
costume changes. But it’s all more of the same, except with even bigger
puffed sleeves and skirts so voluminous that when Robbie is running
across the moors in long shot, she looks like a bowling ball. A crimson
bowling ball specifically, since Durran apparently decided that Cathy’s
sensuality required her to almost always be dressed in red. Red garments
with their bloody connotations seem to be de rigueur these days for the tempestuous heroines of female-directed movies (cf. Hamnet).
There
is no character development in Fennell’s film because there are hardly
any characters. Fennell has ruthlessly stripped away most of the ones
that Brontë created, including an entire second generation of
Heathcliff’s and Cathy’s offspring (not by each other). She’s by no
means the first Wuthering Heights adapter to lop off the
novel’s second half; William Wyler did the same, as did many of those
who followed him. After all, it’s not easy to make a movie version of a
book work when the A-list female protagonist dies long before the story
is over. But in Fennell’s version, the amputation means there’s hardly
any story left at all. (Read more.)