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Withering Depths

"Wuthering Heights" is a classic. Attempting a remake of a classic is at best a long-shot gamble. British director Andrea Arnold ("Fish Tank") has attempted to put a new spin on Brontë's book, but to say that this falls short of both the book and the original is too much of an understatement. The film is devoid of emotion in what should be a cauldron of emotion. Or, more accurately, it is a misguided at attempt at being gut-wrenching. It is closer to a bad case of the bloats.

Arnold's version is as down as down gets. At times it makes little sense, and perhaps worst of all, the acting is well below par. This presumes that it wasn't the script that was causing this monstrosity. I am not sure on whose shoulders the primary blame for this film belongs. Suffice to say, there is enough bad to cover all involved.

When the farmer's daughter, Cathy, meets Heathcliff, her greeting is to spit in his face. Years later, when they meet again, she heaps some more abuse on him. This is love, and while it has wandered all that far from the storyline, it feels incredibly false. Arnold is particularly captured by brutality in general, whether towards people or animals. After a while, revulsion mixes with boredom until it is difficult to know which reaction is stronger inside of me.

Arnold has also re-imagined Heathcliff (James Howson) as a runaway slave, an interesting spin on his being considered the outsider. I admit that I was initially intrigued by this, but Howson convinces me of nothing that he has been assigned to bring to the role. This does not mean that he is the sole weak link on screen, but he might just be the weakest link in a chain made of paper. Considering that "Wuthering Heights" is supposed to be a tale of all-consuming love, it is quite odd that this adaptation is passionless. This one is in the running for the bottom ten of the year. What more do you need to know?