1.5 out of 5

Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights” (aka. WH) is a thesis paper just waiting for a would-be advertising graduate.

Had Warner’s marketing team been forthright and sold it for what it is – a chamber piece in the vein of 2017’s “My Cousin Rachel” – I think I would have appreciated Fennell’s flourishes more, however awkwardly they abet a tame, period-correct adaptation of the Brontë novel.

Instead, WH was hustled as a Ken Russell-esque decent into debauchery, with an eye-catching trailer that spoke to the sensibilities of someone raised on the titillation of late-night cable erotica. People suck their dirty 18th century fingers, with Margot Robbie appearing to return to her bratty-nutjob roots. ‘Come Undone’, tempts the poster. Yes, please!

Expectations that stratospheric are unsustainable. While WH is as professional a product as an episode of “Bridgerton”, it lacks consistent, distinguishing texture: whether that be with more visual depictions of sexuality; singer Charli XCX’s anachronistic pop we only hear a couple of times to orchestrate montages; or the stop-motion hairwork titles, seen once & never again.

[cont’d]