If the British reviews are anything to go by, my rainy London tour bus ride was more stirring
It’s here, at last, the moment we’ve been waiting for: Wuthering Heights discourse! Officially released in the UK this Friday, Emerald Fennell’s movie adaptation of Emily Brontë’s novel features the biggest female star in the world (Margot Robbie), the second-biggest male star (I’m putting Timothée Chalamet ahead of Jacob Elordi, don’t fight me), and Fennell’s unique writing and directing style that gave us so many memorable moments in Saltburn. On Monday the flag goes up and we’re off!
Let’s start with the nice stuff; it’ll take less time. Still cleaving to the counterintuitive, New York magazine gave the film a thumbs up for being “smooth-brained”, “incredibly moist” and Fennell’s “dumbest movie”, which, the writer assured us, also happens to be – wah-wah – “her best to date”. The Hollywood Reporter judged it “pulpy, provocative, drenched in blazing color … and resonantly tragic”, while the Atlantic went for “a heaving, rip-snortingly carnal good time at the cinema”. Fennell cannot, after all, be held responsible for bad writing from her reviewers so we’ll put down to coincidence the fact that every critic who liked the film was having an off day.
