This month sees the release of the latest in a long canon of adaptations of Emily Bronte’s masterpiece ‘Wuthering Heights’. But, directed by Andrea Arnold and featuring an unusual cast of actors and non-actors alike, this film could not be further from the original. Opening with bizarre 1960s disco-style font and closing to Mumford and Sons, this film is a breath of fresh cinematic air coming down from the moors. The only problem is; it’s left me feeling the chill.
The film focuses on the first half of the novel only, and portrays the relationship between Cathy and Heathcliff as it matures out of childhood and into the more sinister world of sexual politics and unrealised desires. Sounding good so far? 5 minutes in and the hand-held camera shots Arnold (‘Advance Party’ and ‘Fish Tank’) is so keen on will give you a headache. That’s if the relentless intensity, sporadic and frankly inappropriate dialogue and general stiff awkwardness of the actors doesn’t get you first.
From the two main leads, Kaya Scodelario and James Howson, the director coaxes performances that are at best dull and inoffensive and at worst passionless and unconvincing, whilst Andrea Arnold fails completely to tap into the obvious potential of the young Heathcliff, Solomon Glave. But then, if you ask an obviously uncomfortable teenager new to the industry to open a scene with the eloquently put “F—k you, you c—ts”, that tends to happen.
With the admittedly beautiful and award-winning cinematography barely covering amateur performances by an untrained and muddled cast of actors and non-actors that can only be likened to that of a poor school play, ‘Wuthering Heights’ has a thin, rather pathetic texture to it that leaves the audience feeling they’ve been short changed on their way in at the box office.
Andrea Arnold’s interest in the natural world means that she manages, through strategically placing some shots of birds and insects, to communicate some basic themes of the story by using patronisingly obvious symbolism. Sadly, for the bewildered audience trying to cope with the almost incoherent and sparse dialogue (punctuated occasionally by inappropriate expletives designed to upset the middle-class audience who have come expecting another pleasantly traditional adaptation of a well-loved novel and wake up those on the front row who have been lulled into a coma by the slow monotonous pace), it helps very little in understanding anything in the film. For all those coming to the film as Bronte-virgins, Arnold kills what should be a life-long love.
And if all this doesn’t have you hurrying out of the cinema angrily clutching your copy of the book, the necrophilia scene between a distraught Heathcliff and Cathy’s pale corpse will probably do the trick.
Emily Bronte is not just turning in her grave. She’s spinning.