Review: WUTHERING HEIGHTS: THE HOUSE OF THE DAMNED

 by Rob DiCristino

A literary classic, but make it #ScaryMovieMonth.

I was quite hard on Emerald Fennell’s recent adaptation of Wuthering Heights, a film that reimagines Emily Brontë’s gothic horror masterpiece as a series of steamy musings from a Millennial teenager’s LiveJournal. Don’t get me wrong; Fennell is well within her rights to make whatever sort of film she wants — no artist should be hamstrung by the blowhard pontifications of Some Internet Asshole, especially not one who’s seen Silent Hill as many times as I have — but as a fan of Brontë’s novel, I thought reducing a haunting tale of destructive obsession and generational trauma to a bodice-ripping soap opera was a bit misguided and, well, reductive (though I’ll admit I’m starting to share Patrick’s fondness for Charli xcx’s soundtrack). Regardless of my quibbles and complaints, though, art is meant to be remixed and reinterpreted over time to suit the sensibilities of changing audiences. I’ll probably never connect with anything in Emerald Fennell’s filmography, but that shouldn’t stop her from churning out gaudy, immature bullshit ‘til her heart’s content.

That prerogative extends to everyone, I suppose, even indie distributor Saban Films, the (in)famous powerhouse behind low-budget DTV endeavors like Kevin Smith’s The 4:30 Movie and Adam Riske’s beloved Cash Out series. Their latest offering is Wuthering Heights: The House of the Damned, yet another reworking of Emily Brontë’s timeless tale with a twist that’s tailor-made for #ScaryMovieMonth. The film begin in the traditional way: The amiable Mr. Lockwood (Ross Townsend-Green) has taken up residence at Thrushcross Grange, a Yorkshire manor owned by the mysterious Heathcliff (Sky Cheema, whose dark features make him the rare book-accurate interpretation of the character) After a trek across the moors to nearby Wuthering Heights, Lockwood is greeted by the crotchety servant Joseph (Gordon J. Miller) and the enigmatic young Cathy (Anna Coupé). Falling ill after his journey, Lockwood soon finds himself tangled up in the mysteries of Wuthering Heights, the tragedy that befell it, and the ghosts that still haunt its halls.

There are other similarities — large swaths of Liana Failla’s screenplay are adapted directly from Brontë’s novel, including the presence of major characters like Lockwood, Linton (Adrien Jieanu), and Hindley (Sam Rowlands), whom Fennell’s version elides entirely — but rather than frame Heathcliff’s fixation on the late Catherine (Elle O’Hara) in the past tense, The House of the Damned builds on the supernatural suggestions already present in the source material and turns the ruined lover into a kind of mad scientist: Not content to mourn Catherine’s loss for all eternity, Heathcliff tries to resurrect her through ancient rituals and blood sacrifices. He hacks and slashes his way through Wuthering Heights’ extensive roster of family, friends, and servants, using their bodies to reanimate Catherine in corporeal form. It turns out that Lockwood didn’t fall ill from the chilly weather; he was intentionally poisoned, and his wasting fever dreams — including a homoerotic fantasy in which Heathcliff wears Catherine’s dress — are all part of the plan.

It’s an inventive play on some of the subtler elements of the novel — certainly more inventive than “What if Catherine and Heathcliff fucked in a barn?” or “What if Isabella got really into BDSM?” — and while Yorkshire native Rebecca J. Matthews clearly knows her Brontë, the director lacks both the budget and the talent to go as crazy cuckoo banana pants as her horror-forward premise demands. Produced with the gentle austerity of a cheap BBC miniseries — I kept imagining this skeleton crew sneaking into English country houses to steal shots between setups on Bridgerton — The House of the Damned is a deeply underwhelming and tedious affair, and the few guts-and-gore sequences it attempts have a Spirit Halloween stink to them that no level of literary acumen could possibly overcome. The movie is straight-up boring, in other words, and it’s hard not to wonder what craftier filmmakers like Tobe Hooper or Sam Raimi — or even Technicolor madmen like Dario Argento or David Cronenberg — might have done with this idea.

And since I’ve decided to spend most of an unrelated review taking stray shots at Emerald Fennell’s incredibly successful and well-liked movie — Hey, you try writing eight hundred words about a nothingburger like Wuthering Heights: The House of the Damned — I might as well raise the bigger question: What makes one radical reinterpretation of a text preferable to another? Don’t I owe Fennell an apology? Isn’t her lush, candy-coated hallucination of a blockbuster better than a slapdash DTV afterthought like The House of the Damned? Perhaps, but it’s ultimately a matter of opinion: The House of the Damned has a few great ideas, but it lacks the creative inspiration to execute them well. Fennell’s Wuthering Heights has absolutely no ideas, but it’s way too busy masturbating to care. I’ve been in both camps — especially the second one — and I honestly can’t tell you which one is better. Instead, I’ll use my remaining time to recommend William Wyler’s 1939 adaptation of Wuthering Heights. You see Laurence Olivier in that one? He’s pretty good!

Wuthering Heights: The House of the Damned hits VOD and streaming platforms on Friday, October 16th.