I was in the sixth grade when I first read Wuthering Heights. It was an abridged version, thankfully, and I remember not being able to decide whether I liked it or not. Since then, I’ve read the original version one and a half times, re-read the abridged one, watched a few of its adaptations, and repeatedly failed to determine how exactly it is that I feel about the story. What I’ve gathered from its reviewers and many adaptations however, is that their filmmakers seem to have had the same issue: they do like it, but in parts. Usually, the parts happen to be those pertaining to Heathcliff and Cathy’s otherworldly romance.
A still from Wuthering Heights 1939
Source: www.telegraph.co.uk
The 1939 version movie that we watched for class, apparently the earliest one with available prints, focuses almost entirely on the love story of Heathcliff and Catherine. We see them turn from childhood playmates to young adults to grown-ups, sexual tension forever in the air, but little do we see of the revenge and suffering that form such integral elements of the novel. The thing that surprised me the most is how it entirely omitted the other generation: Hindley, Hareton, and Catherine Linton don’t seem to exist at all. They made a brilliant romantic movie but completely betrayed the essence of the novel.
Why then, do people bother reading any book as horribly horrifying as Wuthering Heights? They find certain character arcs and subplots more interesting than the others, and in Hollywood, it just happens to be Heathcliff and Catherine’s death defying love for each other. Like Heathcliff and Cathy, the story too ultimately, needs nothing more than their undying passion to survive and if you can tell their tale without all the confusing same-names, why not, right?