This must have been Rosemary Harris' life's performance, and she is the one to make the chief impression in this ideal dramatisation of Emily Brontë's very debatable and almost hysterically romantic novel, which ever since it was written has been as much hated and loathed as it has been loved and adored. This is a different version than the various film versions, and the question is if not a truncated television comprehensive version like this in poor settings in black and white isn't truer to the novel than all the lavish productions of Hollywood and other film studios. Richard Burton is not as good as Laurence Olivier and Timothy Dalton, but he certainly makes a great stage performance. This version is actually like staged in a theatre, the transformation into a play from the novel is impressively well performed, and perhaps the only flaw of the production is the very truncation of the book in a compression of a great novel into a 80 minutes play. All actors are cut short, except Rosemary Harris, and perhaps Bernard Miles, as incomparable as ever, while still everyone is given the chance of advancing their characters well enough. But Rosemary Harris makes Catherine Earnshaw appear truer than anyone else, and still there are many who have made unforgettable Cathys.