I just read Wuthering Heights, and I hated almost every minute of it. I also watched the 1970 version of the movie, with Timothy Dalton, and found it…equally as painful, and not much like the book. I read that this version of the movie was “generally accepted,” and since I found both this movie and the book painful, I could agree with that.
For some reason, I was eager to torture myself further, so I ordered the 1992 movie adaptation, entitled Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, starring Ralph Fiennes and Juliette Binoche. According to wikipedia, this version “is notable for including the oft-omitted second generation story” of Cathy Linton and Hareton.
Watching it, I was reminded that I was incorrect in my original review of the book. I said that the only character I liked was young Cathy, but I was wrong.
I loved Hareton.
I forgot about Hareton, in my original review. I felt sorry for the poor kid, throughout the book, and toward the end, I had a little soft spot for him. It was quite obvious he was infatuated with young Cathy, in the way that the kid who pulls a girl’s pigtails is. He wanted so much to please her, to make her like him, and when she rebuffed him, he reacted as if he didn’t care.
But he did.
Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights captured that, and reminded me:
I *heart* Hareton.
If Wuthering Heights had a redeeming quality, it would be Hareton. He’s the early 19th Century version of Lloyd Dobler.