Wuthering Heights

So...this is the story that people have been swooning over for about a hundred and eighty years? From the start of this picture it is perfectly clear that this is a tale about some truly wretched people; one wonders how it can be that that fact has little bearing on how the story is perceived. That is, unless you cut through the dross about so-called love and words like doomed and tragic being tossed around and acknowledge what it’s all really about: rutting. Then things start to become much clearer. And perhaps that explains the film’s unusual—and probably unintended—appeal, for once I acknowledged the unpleasantness of everyone in the story, once I started laughing at much of the proceedings—and said proceedings do contain generous amounts of the genuinely comedic—the whole movie became substantially more entertaining. One even dares to suggest that, though the producers may not have made the movie they thought they were making, they did in fact succeed in making a film that holds the interest all the way through its running time. Further acknowledgment should be given to director Emerald Fennell's visual style, which is strong and artful in scene after scene. As for the tone of the movie, which runs a gamut from grim to horrible (when you’re not laughing at any given moment), I must suspect that the tone reflects less the realities of life on the 19th century moors and more the landscape inside the heads of the current cohort of people who infest the world—a group that, admittedly, old men like me take a dim view of. Generation AA has been a target of my criticism before, and this flick is probably more evidence that these creatures simply can’t see anything except through their own oddly skewed eyes. Bottom line: if you’re looking for tragedy and something to cry about and dote upon, I don’t think this movie works; but if you want an unexpectedly funny film experience, these miserable bastards have got you covered.