Wuthering Heights

Once upon a time, two romantic heroes competed for the hearts of women across the land. One was a brooding, secretive gentleman, those close to him running the risk of being bitten under the cover of darkness. The other was an animalistic and violent being whose true love – a bratty brunette – loved another.
No this isn’t Team ‘Ooh Look, Something Shiny!’ Edward” and Team ‘OMG I want to have your puppies!’ Jacob. This is Rochester Vs. Heathcliff. But by presenting Emily Brontë’s Byronic hero as a charmless, cursing, animal-abusing stalker, Andrea Arnold has guaranteed that the blind bigamist with the wife in the attic has nothing to worry about.
Displaying her uncanny understanding of teenage infatuation previously seen in Fish Tank, the innovative way Arnold portrays the savage Heathcliff’s (Solomon Glave) obsession with Cathy (Shannon Beer) is simply breathtaking. Using intense close-ups and often shooting from Heathcliff’s point of view, the camera – and so the viewer – is caressed by Cathy’s hair and tickled by her tongue. All the while, the untameable beauty of the moors is shown in all its uncompromising splendour, as the winds constantly howl and rain beats down.
It’s not only visually spectacular, but incredibly sensual, and the dark overtones of Heathcliff’s obsession – and his character – are perfectly realised. A violent, self-harming abuser, his love for Cathy isn’t kind, or tender, or articulate, but rather predatory and animalistic; a possessive sexual imprinting. (Another Twilight term, god help us).
Likewise, as the already sparse script becomes laden with “fucks”, “cunts” and “n****rs” that I’m pretty sure Brontë didn’t pen, the adaptation proves a forceful attempt to de-romanticise not only the iconic romantic hero, but his world.
However, as Cathy and Heathcliff become estranged, the second half falls into the trappings of arbitrary melodramatic tropes. The actors fail to engage, and as every other scene sees Heathcliff taking to the rain-soaked moors, the film loses pacing, becoming dull and repetitive.
Impressive more for its visuals and tone than its content, Wuthering Heights is initially seductive but quickly proves overlong and overwrought – which, in a way, makes it a damn faithful interpretation of Brontë’s novel.