Cinema
Wuthering Heights ('U', Empire Leicester Square) Blue Ice ('15', selected cinemas) White Men Can't Jump (15', selected cinemas)
Wuzzering 'ights
Vanessa Letts
Peter Kosminsky's new version of Wuth- ering Heights is disappointing. More is wrong with it than right. The most blatant error is the casting of Juliet Binoche as Cathy Earnshaw. 'Juliet Binoche is Cathy,' says the publicity blurb. Unfortunately (though luckily for her), this isn't true. It's not merely a distraction to have Binoche speak with a thick French accent, it is at times impossible to make out what she is saying. Maybe Binoche fudged over the odd line because she knew it was awful. Where Nellie Dean in the book refers to 'vociferating oaths', the script-writer, Ann Devlin, has people saying, 'Oh my God'. She also compresses Emily Bronte's pas- sionate outbursts into such handy, made-up lines as, The surest way to kill me is to kiss me again'.
Ann Devlin's job is actually jolly difficult. Where the previous adapters have chopped the novel in half, she has tried to get the whole thing into the film. We are left with a narrative made up of critical snippets. The effect is abrupt and disconnected, and must be very odd for anyone who doesn't know the original. It appears that Kosmin- sky got in the composer Ryuichi Sakamoto not merely to round out a huge number of the scenes but to use the music to glue them all together. This is like hiring a cook and then asking him to Uhu all your bro- 'It's been nominated for the Hooker Prize.' ken plates before letting him serve the meal. Some kind of help is needed. Unavoidably, timescales in the film are highly compacted. It is vital to its lack of credibility that the actors miss out adoles- cence. The original story principally con- cerns, in both its halves, the actions of 18- and 19-year-olds. Seeing these characters impersonated by people hovering around the 30 mark is immediately unconvincing. Furthermore, when Ralph Fiennes as Heathcliff is, for example, required to age to the point where he can pass himself off as the father of his peers, all the make-up artists do to help him on his way is to put a couple of black smudges under his eyes.
It is embarrassing to see Devlin's fan- tasies ladled on top of Emily Bronte's: extra bad weather; crows cawing in blasted trees; Heathcliff, 'the bird of ill omen', tee violent too fast. The farmhouse itself is shown as an extraordinary, crenellated Gothic castle. Perhaps the film-makers are trying to give us the essence of Wuthering Heights. But, as a trip to the supermarket will demonstrate, essences, of rum, lemon or almond, are never like the real thing. Michael Caine's new thriller Blue Ice doesn't merely depend upon a coincidence, but enshrines shocking and amazing occur- rences in its title. 'Blue ice' is the frozen effluent discharged from aeroplanes which occasionally falls on people and kills them. This stands as a metaphor for what hap- pens to Caine. The film is in fact driven by two things: metaphors and telephones. People sidle up to Caine and talk about jazz records or methods of cooking craw- fish, and it then transpires they are either spies passing on secret messages about the meaning of responsibility, or women trying to seduce him. Even more important than this, however, is the humble blower. The plot begins with Sean Young on a car phone being shrieked at by a young man In a public call box by London Bridge saying; 'Don't hang up, it's important, OK? What's important is `XPLA CIF reefer $4, CPH 743 KMF8'. Once Caine gets hold of this we move into a new region where 'farn caws' end with people being hacked about by baddies and left as dead meat in spookY alleyways and filthy hotels. In all its twists and turns Blue Ice is resolutely old- fashioned. There's something heartening about seeing Michael Caine giving the birds the eye once again. The story is per- fectly exciting of its kind and there's a defi- nite underlying chortle factor which makes the whole thing most enjoyable. White Men Can't Jump is a ship which sails on a sea of insults so ingenious and relentless that if you have a nasty side yo:u will certainly find it entertaining. There Is lots of mother-bashing: 'I saw your Mom walking down the street kicking a tin can, so I asked her what she was doing and she said "Moving",' etc. The plot, amusing enough, about male friendships and basket- ball, fades into insignificance beside the lurid verbal patter.
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