This is nothing more than Andrea Arnold's feeble attempt at mimicking Terrence Malick, and she does it oh so badly. Surreal long shots of moths and feathers are fine if they're done well, but if they're just peppered in, in lieu of actual explanation or development, it cheapens the entire experience of watching this admittedly already terrible piece of artwork.
This film was not remotely true to the novel, and to even entitle it "Wuthering Heights" is such a bastardization that one wonders if the director even read the book. (Notably, the film ends at the midpoint of the book... and takes upwards of two, agonizing, poorly-directed hours to get there).
Also. Gypsies aren't black. Worst casting imaginable.
Bronte is rolling in her grave.
This film was not remotely true to the novel, and to even entitle it "Wuthering Heights" is such a bastardization that one wonders if the director even read the book. (Notably, the film ends at the midpoint of the book... and takes upwards of two, agonizing, poorly-directed hours to get there).
Also. Gypsies aren't black. Worst casting imaginable.
Bronte is rolling in her grave.