In light of the recent release of the movie Wuthering Heights this past Valentines Day, I thought it timely to write a review to pay homage to the original book by Emily Brontë. While the modern movie claims to have been “Inspired by the greatest love story,” this is a romanticized take on the beloved classic. The gothic novel is in fact shocking and at times deeply disturbing, depicting intensely volatile relationships that reflect the darkest side of humanity.
The novel opens with the arrival of Mr. John Lockwood at Thrushcross Grange as the newest tenant. While snowed in for the night at the manor house, Wuthering Heights, he is put up in a vacant upstairs bedroom where, in a dream, he is visited by a ghostly vision of a deceased Catherine Linton clawing at the window, sobbing to be let inside. Brontë wastes no time in creating a haunted setting and sparking the morbid curiosity of both the reader and Mr. Lockwood. Deeply unsettled, he returns to his tenancy and inquires about the people living at Wuthering Heights to the housekeeper, Nelly.
Nelly takes over narrating as she unfolds the torrid saga of the Earnshaws and Lintons to a rapt Mr. Lockwood. Nelly’s position as housekeeper of the estate gives her unique insight into the family history and the tormented personalities of each individual. She grew up at Wuthering Heights alongside Catherine and her brother Hindley while her mother was a servant for the Earnshaw family, and was a witness when Catherine’s father brought an orphaned child named Heathcliff to live with them in the family home.
Brontë saturates Heathcliff’s childhood with unspeakable abuse. He is an orphan living on the streets when he is first introduced. Upon arrival at Wuthering Heights, he suffers physical and emotional abuse at the hands of Hindley, the heir to the estate, and is denied an education. He is dehumanized at every turn, sometimes even being referred to as “it” or “thing.” Heathlciff’s early life was horribly traumatic, and it shapes him into someone dominated by hatred and a desire for revenge. He carelessly frames himself as a victim and justifies his indefensible villainy. When he marries Isabella in order to abuse her and make Catherine jealous, he maintains that her weak disposition was enough to warrant mistreatment. Heathcliff’s lust for control of the estate drives him to sacrifice his son Linton’s well-being by forcing an ill-fated marriage to Catherine’s daughter Cathy, hastening Linton’s untimely death. When Hindley dies, leaving his son Hareton in Heathcliff’s charge, Heathcliff even says to the boy, “And we’ll see if one tree won’t grow as crooked as another, with the same wind to twist it!” When Heathcliff digs up Catherine’s body seven years after her death, it isn’t an irreverent defacement of her grave; it’s a desperately tragic attempt at closure for an unsatisfied lifelong passion. Instead of letting his upbringing serve as an example of what not to do as a husband and father, he lets it inform his behavior, extrapolating off past hurt to inflict even greater harm on others around him.
Interestingly, this pattern creates a strange dichotomy between the reader’s logical understanding that Heathcliff is evil and the reader’s compassion, or perhaps pity, for him. Bronte’s writing is so artfully done that in spite of knowing the truth, the reader still wants to see Heathcliff happy; his behavior is, in a small way, acceptable to both Nelly and the reader. Holding a dying Catherine in his arms, he famously asks, “Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy?…You loved me—then what right had you to leave me?. . . I have not broken your heart—you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine.” In a rare moment, the reader glimpses what little heart Heathcliff does have, even if it’s fueled by selfish motives, and our own hearts break for him even as we recognize his relentless cruelty. Bronte’s manipulation of the reader in this way perfectly mirrors the dynamic between Heathcliff and Catherine—a relationship that confuses love with unhealthy obsession.
The novel is riddled with lines that elevate selfish lust over true love: Catherine claims, “[Healthcliff is] more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” It’s as though any love she might have for Heathcliff is fueled by love for herself. Heathcliff says, “Be with me always–take any form–drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!” and “I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!” He laments, “The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!” These grievances are not sentimental turns of phrase reflecting a healthy affection, but rather expressions of toxic, damaging attachment.
I have yet to find any redeeming qualities in Heathcliff, apart from maybe passion. If you’re like me, you’ll be plagued by the question: If Heathcliff had just gotten what he wanted–if Catherine had chosen him, flaws and all–would he have adopted some humanity? Sadly, I believe Brontë is clear enough in her characterization of Heathcliff to indicate that no amount of satisfied want could alter him. Having read the book twice, I can confidently submit that no modern adaptation can replace the masterful articulation that Brontë accomplishes in the classic 1800s novel. Wuthering Heights persists as a disquieting commentary on the complexities of human depravity and the damage inflicted on people when infatuation is confused for love. •
