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Forty years ago Wuthering Heights was filled with light, warmth and happiness. Mr.Earnshaw (Cecil Kellaway), a congenial gentleman farmer, lives happily with his boisterous children Cathy (Sarita Wooten) and Hindley (Douglas Scott). However, being a kind and generous fellow, he can't help rescuing a poor starving wretch off of the streets of Liverpool, a gypsy child named Heathcliff (Rex Downing). In time Heathcliff becomes one of the family, loved by all except Hindley (who nurtures the feeling of being usurped). Cathy is an especially good childhood friend, spending many a carefree day playing on the moor with Heathcliff. Unfortunately when Mr.Earnshaw dies suddenly, Hindley is able to express his enmity with damning cruelty. Heathcliff is condemned to the stable, a position doubly harsh given his former familial state.
As the years pass a single reason keeps, the now adult, Heathcliff from leaving and seeking his fortune - Cathy (Merle Oberon). Despite all that oppresses them (Hindley's (Hugh Williams) rages and their positions), there is a love between them that refuses to die. Cathy has wild, gypsy blood in her and that side of her personality loves to run through the heather with her prince, Heathcliff. Here they can be children again, far from the misery which courses through Wuthering Heights. However, the more civilised half of Cathy desires fine dresses and a respectable station in society, all things which Edgar Linton (David Niven) can provide. Such a collision of love and desire is ripe territory for the seeds of tragedy.
An epic tale of wild, romantic passion, set amongst the heather and wind-swept gulleys, Wuthering Heights is stirring stuff. Presenting a vision of undying love, its genesis in the innocence of youth and resolution in the chill of death, the entire spectrum of emotions is played expertly by Bronte. Such a tale calls for a top-notch cast, players who can emote the sheer stubbornness which makes Cathy and Heathcliff destroy each other while remaining deeply in love. So staggering is Heathcliff's pain that he's willing to use Cathy's sister-in-law Isabella Linton (Geraldine Fitzgerald) as a weapon, caring nothing for the poor lass. It's a measure of Cathy's stoicism that she refuses to budge even under these conditions, pretending that she actually loves Edgar.
With emotional wounds such as these, kept forever raw by constant needling, Wuthering Heights should be a veritable raging tempest. This version comes close, with Olivier providing most of the flashes of brilliance, but ultimately bogs down by refusing to fully let go. Heathcliff and Cathy rip each other, and everyone close by, into pieces yet this awful agony feels muted. A significant problem is that the story's core is smothered by melodramatics and an overbearing string section. Too much is forced and, hence, false. By far the best moments occur when Cathy and Heathcliff are alone on the moor, free from restraint. Left naked like this Wuthering Heights is scorching, whereas overall it merely smoulders.
The underlying strength of Bronte's story still shines through the Hollywood murk, which indicates just how good it could have been. Fine cinematography and evocative locations help immensely, creating a definite mood of impending disaster. In the end Wuthering Heights is a fine tale, of course, but there's too much in the way to really appreciate it here.
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