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I sensed a lot of potential for the new Wuthering Heights to be a good film. There was hope for it even with the odd casting choices. Margot Robbie may be too old for a depiction of Catherine, who dies still a teenager, but she is a fine actress and capable of capturing the heroine's angst. I see people complaining that Catherine is played by a blonde, but I seem to recall Catherine being described as being fair-haired. And in Britain at the time the Brontë sisters, someone described as "dark" could have been someone with black hair from Wales. So Elordi as Heathcliff is not badly cast. But casting Shazad Latif as the pallid Edgar Linton is bizarre. Shazad should have been Heathcliff, who is often labelled as being like a "gypsy." It is a shame that Emerald Fennell appears to have been influenced by Fifty Shades of Gray. From The Independent:
ShareWuthering Heights is getting the Saltburn treatment – with shock tactics and more-is-more aesthetics replacing any real substance. Frankly, the trailer is every devotee’s worst fears come to life, soundtracked by “Everything is romantic”. It is, as one X (Twitter) user rather scathingly put it, “the matcha Dubai chocolate labubu of film”, a strange farrago of on-trend components (Jacob! Margot! Charli!) that seems to have been perfectly calibrated to rage-bait the internet rather than, you know, actually do any justice to the original.
Why does it feel like such an affront? After all, bad film adaptations of literary works aren’t exactly rare. And, in theory, Wuthering Heights is “just a book”, as the film’s casting director Kharmel Cochrane put it when defending her choice of lead actors earlier this year; the decision to cast Elordi as Heathcliff, who is described in the book as “dark-skinned”, has proved to be another major point of contention, one that some reckon will flatten the nuances and complex dynamics of the original.
But calling Wuthering Heights “just a book” underestimates just how strong a grip Brontë’s story still has on readers almost two centuries on from its publication. It’s a novel that inspires a rare kind of devotion, especially among female fans. There’s a cult around Emily’s one and only book that vastly exceeds the fervour inspired by her sister Charlotte’s most famous novel, Jane Eyre, and certainly outstrips the fandom for the underrated Anne. And with that adoration comes a protectiveness over this bleak marvel. (Read more.)


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