Sam Goldwyn's production of the Emily Brontë novel (or part thereof) plays up the already overlarge element of pulp-gothic in it. On that level, it is well done. In particular the darkly glowering Laurence Olivier does well. As does Alfred Newman with his achingly Tchaikovskian accompaniment. Merle Oberon, though, is no more at home in the heather than the heather is at home in the California hills. With David Niven and Geraldine Fitzgerald; directed by William Wyler. (1939) — Duncan Shepherd
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