Maybe the movie is great (I haven't seen it) but the book Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë is a mass of fears, plot-device births and deaths, class-consciousness, cartoon evil, and incomprehensibly irrational love. The people all speak in one voice, disguised in some cases by a veneer of heavy dialect. The author crosses her characters to produce convenient heirs as if she's breeding dogs or pigeons. Presumably there's some redeeming artistic merit in there — but it must be on a wavelength I'm colorblind to. Sorry, Emily.

TopicLiterature - 2007-12-26

(correlates: Jane Eyre, Infelicitous Prose, CarPeople, ...)