Wuthering Heights

Emily Brontë’s classic novel of passion and vengeance on the moors of 18th-century Yorkshire takes a beating at the clumsy hands of writers Olivia Hetreed and Andrea Arnold (who also directed, if that’s what you want to call it). The result is a dreary, interminable, horrible mess, devoid of even the most basic rudiments of moviemaking—underwritten, barely acted at all by an almost entirely inexperienced cast, and atrociously photographed by cinematographer Robbie Ryan: Whole scenes are out of focus and clumsily framed, interior and night scenes are pitch-black and indistinguishable. Shreds of Brontë’s tempestuous tale survive, but only shreds. As ill-starred lovers Heathcliff and Catherine, James Howson and Kaya Scodelario hardly seem to be living on the same planet, let alone sharing the same soul.