At the start of “The Cement Garden,” two sullen louts pull up their lorry in front of a drab, square, stucco villa in the middle of nowhere and proceed to toss heavy, dusty bags into the basement.
Film adaptations have a way of whitewashing novelists, casting them as the authors of sentimental love stories and triumphant tales of the human spirit. The 1939 version of “Wuthering Heights,” ...
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