“The shame of being a man – is there any better reason to write?” —Deleuze
Capitol 6 Theatres, Friday February 13th
Outside the liquor store, I hand the homeless guy a Sapporo and ask him if the security guard finally pissed off. I can’t remember what he says, but it feels like I’m being warned not to step foot on the Pequod.
The plan is to see Crime 101, but we’ve already missed half an hour of the screening at SilverCity. We cross the street to Capitol 6 and I ask the guy selling tickets if he knows a thing or two about doin’ crime. He sighs and says that screening is also half an hour in, but Wuthering Heights is only just getting started. Sure, yeah. Sure. We could do Wuthering Heights.
I had wanted to write about 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple, but it’s too late to be relevant and—more importantly—Alex Garland touched the fucking money. He did horrific shit to the money and now the money is traumatized beyond meaningful repair. He just couldn’t help it. Now I’ve gotta take notes on Wuthering Heights while kinda wasted. It’s Friday the 13th, a few hours out from Valentine’s Day.
I read about two chapters of Wuthering Heights in high school, so at the very least I can parse what is and isn’t Brontë here. I think. But I can’t hold it together long enough to pay attention.
Right off the bat, the movie looks awful—like those 2010s Alice in Wonderlands if you ran them through Grok but Grok also grew up a sexually repressed Potterhead. Margot Robbie is acting for the cheque and I’m happy for her. Jacob Elordi is himself.
Emerald Fennell also did Saltburn. I never saw Saltburn, but people for whom I hold a great deal of respect told me it was at least marginally hot. This was supposed to be baby’s first horny movie, so I’m frustrated. Wuthering Heights is not hot. Fennell likes props that kinda resemble cocks and pussies. Awesome, that’s dope. I’m waiting for her to do anything at all with that.
I just spent like six dollars on some Haribos and forgot them at the concession so I get up to check but now the concession’s closed and the employees can’t be bothered to give a fuck. Fair enough. I sit down again and crack my beer and it sounds like a chiropractor is torturing someone in row F and none of us can hold it together. Now my friend is telling me Elordi looks like Jerma and I really just can’t do it. I can’t. I’m losing my shit and thinking hey, if the whole movie can maintain this level of not good then maybe we’ll make it to the credit roll.
It occurs to me that I haven’t taken my antipsychotics that I was supposed to a couple hours ago. It’ll be fine. Now Jerma Elordi is lickin’ face. Whether it’s Fennell or the intimacy coordinator that likes lickin’ face so much I have no clue but it’s the preferred maneuver here. Eventually, Jerma Heathcliff and Margot Robbie are having an epic steamy encounter and my friend can’t help but whisper “yo he lowkey just cummed,” and this is maybe the last moment of fun to be had. None of this is funny anymore.
The soundtrack, which would’ve made Riverdale’s production staff blush, isn’t funny anymore. I’m struggling to wrap my head around the fact that Charli xcx made some of these. Was she held at gunpoint? I can’t recall how long you’re supposed to keep a Zyn in your mouth but I’m beginning to feel sick, and once Jerma returns on horseback with what I guess is supposed to be Charli on the mic I need to get up again.
What’s awesome about trying your hardest to throw up in a movie theatre bathroom is that you’ll be turning your head from one side to the next while the Hobbit soundtrack moans from overhead speakers like a broken Speak & Spell. I don’t know whether I’m just good at holding it down or unable to get it out, but I manage to stand right back up when my friend asks if everything’s alright.
We decide to head out, having watched about a third of Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights. It’s a good time. Don’t see it. I check my phone. Friday the 13th has passed, and it’s 12:03 AM on Valentine’s Day.