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Wuthering Heights review

Modern take on Emily Brontë’s Eng-lit staple

Life is nasty, brutish and short there. Sex is shorter still. The plot, however, drags a bit. The end stretch feels emotionally distant, partly because the cast (a touching Nichola Burley aside) spout lines like surly teenagers and partly because the violence verges on monotonous.

Accept that Brontë wrote about elemental feelings alien even to those struck by them, though, and that distance isn’t without reason. The one major misfire is the climactic Mumford & Sons song, a rare concession to popular trends in a brazen experiment that otherwise stoops to no such compromises.

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