Yes, the latest Wuthering Heights reimagining is aching and relentlessly horny—sometimes gorgeous, sometimes grotesque, but invariably dripping with sensuality. I mean, it’s an Emerald Fennell joint, what did you expect? It’s bold and playfully irreverent, too. Yes, it’s an unfaithful adaptation that has the Gothic literati gnashing teeth, aghast at the sacrilegious retelling of a sacred text. Yes, I’d also consider myself one of those brooding grown-up goth scholars, meaning my initial reaction to the project’s reveal was exactly that: primed for resentment. Of the two types of Brontë diehards, the Jane Eyre faction (idealistic, romantic, as written by Charlotte) and the Wuthering Heights camp (feral, sullen, as written by her sister, Emily), I’m the latter. It’s why I signed on to write this piece in the first place. When those cheesy, Harlequin-esque posters started appearing at bus stops along Beverly Boulevard, I braced myself for what was sure to be my first filmic smear campaign. But alas, I’ve changed my mind.
Director Fennell explained in an interview with Rotten Tomatoes, when asked about the quotations around her film’s title, “What I can say is I’m making a version of [the book].” She describes her iteration as one that’s lived inside her since she read the tragic, tempestuous masterpiece as an adolescent. It’s an extension of the mood of the thing, not the thing itself. It’s fan fiction, it’s camp, it’s a jumping-off point that borrows beats and key characters from Emily Brontë without adherence to the original artifact. The film’s sensibility shares a lineage with previous titles like Marie Antoinette and Romeo + Juliet in that way. It’s a decision that evades accountability while simultaneously irritating the purists, but somehow I managed to hold all the film’s contradictions and still very much enjoyed the ride.
“Wuthering Heights” wastes no time setting its tone. An intricate Victorian hairwork title sequence gives way to a provocative establishing scene that will either delight or disgust viewers. I’m a fan of purposeful big swings, and Fennell’s audacity is matched by her meticulous attention to detail, grounded in a deep admiration of the source material. That doesn’t mean the film is beyond critique—in fact, its dissection will surely fuel heated discourse for weeks to come. Still, the film is lively, over-the-top, and sumptuous. And that’s to say nothing of its insatiable yearning. Ultimately, I was swept up and let the wind carry me out to the Yorkshire moors.
Without getting into the tired debate of film versus novel, a few sticking points remain. Powerhouse and producer Margot Robbie, as Cathy, is incredible and yet, respectfully, about a decade older than the book version of her character. It’s a detail that, despite suspended disbelief, was undeniably distracting. Simultaneously, I’m convinced that Robbie could carry almost any film and make anyone fall in love with her. For his part, Jacob Elordi is, frankly, too white to play Heathcliff, and, subjectively, not ferocious enough. Straight off the set of another female-authored canonical Gothic period piece, Elordi has the stature and sensibilities of a Byronic hero, but even at his most rugged and mean, he lacks the cruelty this menacing character needs—though it could also be that Fennell wrote him that way. He manages to hold his own against the formidable Robbie, and their on-screen chemistry is compelling. Two Australian actors playing British fiction icons, who would’ve thought?
It’s an extension of the mood of the thing, not the thing itself. It’s fan fiction, it’s camp, it’s a jumping-off point that borrows beats and key characters without adherence to the original artifact.
The doomed duo forms the central, albeit reductive, romance on which “Wuthering Heights” hinges. Yes, I reveled in an intimacy not afforded to them in the book, but Wuthering Heights was never merely a love story. It’s about the discordant, tumultuous landscapes and the profoundly damaged people they shape. Wuthering Heights is, yes, about longing (and maybe the origin of our collective attraction to toxic men), but it’s also about the moors! The wide-open moors! The term “wuthering” itself means turbulent, trembling, gusting winds. What type of people does a barren, cold, gothic wasteland make? Hint: despicable ones.
Centering the film’s tension on two unbearably hot people who can’t be together is understandable if imagining the story through a hormone-laced teen’s eyes, but for me, the melodrama was sometimes distancing. Still, whatever its narrative emphasis, the film’s craft is undeniable, especially in its aesthetics. “Wuthering Heights” is luscious and unarguably affecting. The ornate, intricate set design of Suzie Davies (Saltburn, Conclave) is wall-to-wall tactile opulence and haunting detail—including the “skin room,” complete with spider veins and freckles meant to replicate Cathy’s actual skin. The privileged excess of the Lintons at Thrushcross Grange is juxtaposed comically against the gloom of Wuthering Heights, a pathetic fallacy of those inside.
The costuming by Jacqueline Durran (Atonement, Pride & Prejudice) is absolutely sublime, featuring Victorian silhouettes crafted from decadent modern textiles—think lamé, latex-like, and shiny plasticized fabrics—luxe interpretations reminiscent of Mugler and McQueen. There’s so much to look at and get lost in here. Every frame offers something to devour. There’s excess, but it’s intentional, controlled. Also returning from Saltburn is director of photography Linus Sandgren, who elevates the film’s visceral vibe with high-contrast lensing and an eye for detail. The richness of the visuals cannot be overstated—they are a feast. Be on the lookout for sweeping tracking shots of horseback rides across the desolate, breathtaking English landscape; Heathcliff emerging from fog; and meticulously composed frames that capture carnality in the most unexpected places—broken eggs, kneading bread, a slug crawling on a window, a fish suspended in gelatin.
A swelling, cello-forward score courtesy of composer Anthony Willis blends seamlessly with Charli XCX’s phantasmagorical sonic architectures, including her official soundtrack (aptly titled without quotations). When the lead single “House” (featuring John Cale of The Velvet Underground) unleashes in the film, viewers will feel an eerie, epic brutality pang in the shadowy valleys of their chests. Speaking with the BFI Southbank about Charli’s organic collaboration, Fennell said, “That’s kind of what Emily Brontë’s words do. They sort of connect witches.”
Beyond the leads, the supporting cast adds unexpected layers of intrigue and amusement. Alison Oliver (another Saltburn alum) is hilarious as Isabella Linton, bringing both wit and agency to a character often sidelined in adaptations. Not enough people are talking about Hong Chau’s resonant performance as Nelly Dean, who is quietly magnetic and grounds the chaos of both households with precision. Shazad Latif’s Edgar Linton is subtle and restrained, a necessary counterpoint to the volatility of Cathy and Heathcliff. Each performance is committed and idiosyncratic, echoing Fennell’s approach to storytelling more broadly.
And none of the performances would land without Fennell’s clear vision and her particular brand of fearlessness. “The thing that I’ve learned is really important to me is making everyone feel safe enough to do something bad,” she noted in the same BFI Southbank talk. “So I’m really only interested in something if it’s just on the edge—and sometimes over the edge—of tasteless or silly or overblown.” Fennell is a high-art offshoot of a John Waters ethos. She’s a sick freak, and I like it.
Judging from the reviews and think pieces thus far, she’s succeeded on edge-teetering at the very least. Fennell’s daringly indulgent style permeates every frame, and it’s a world worth the time. FL
