“My sister Emily loved the moors,” wrote Charlotte Brontë, in the introduction to a selection of Emily’s poems published in 1850. The sentiment underscores a fundamental disconnect at the heart of Emerald Fennell’s new adaptation of Wuthering Heights, a film that seems determined to misunderstand the very essence of its source material. Released on , the film has already sparked polarized reactions, with critics largely agreeing on one point: This represents not a faithful adaptation, and perhaps not even a particularly successful one.
Fennell’s Wuthering Heights, as several reviews have noted, prioritizes visual spectacle over thematic depth. The stark, unforgiving landscape that defined Emily Brontë’s novel – a landscape offering “liberty” as Charlotte described it – is largely absent, replaced by an obsessive focus on interior design and costuming. Scenes are less about character interaction and more about showcasing elaborate sets and flamboyant wardrobes, used as heavy-handed signifiers of social status or internal turmoil. As one critic put it, the film is “drowned in visual excess.”
This emphasis on the superficial extends to the narrative itself. Fennell, like many before her, adapts only the first half of the novel, cutting off the story before it fully explores the generational trauma that lies at its core. More significantly, she drastically alters the dynamics between the characters, often to jarring effect. Mr. Earnshaw, rather than a bumbling and neglectful father, is portrayed as a raging drunkard. The Earnshaw household isn’t a respectable, if flawed, family home, but a squalid ruin. Even Joseph, the Earnshaws’ longtime servant, is reimagined as a charming figure engaging in sadomasochistic acts.
Perhaps the most controversial change lies in the portrayal of Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff. In Brontë’s novel, their connection is a wild, untamed force, born of shared isolation and a mutual understanding of the moors’ liberating power. Fennell’s Catherine, however, seems to yearn for escape from the moors, not towards them. A particularly striking example of this is a scene where Catherine masturbates while recalling a sexual encounter between other characters, a choice one reviewer described as a “triumphant sneer.”
Heathcliff, too, undergoes a significant transformation. The brooding, vengeful figure of the novel is softened into a more palatable, even sympathetic, character. This shift is further emphasized by the decision to cast a white actor in the role, a departure from the character’s traditionally darker complexion. This, coupled with the reimagining of Edgar Linton – Catherine’s eventual husband – as a wealthy and corrupting influence, feels less like a creative interpretation and more like a deliberate attempt to sanitize the story’s complexities.
The film’s relentless pursuit of shock value, highlighted by numerous reports of explicit sexual content, feels similarly misguided. While the novel certainly contains elements of passion and transgression, these are always rooted in the characters’ psychological states and the oppressive social constraints of their time. In Fennell’s adaptation, these moments often feel gratuitous and exploitative, serving little purpose beyond titillation. As one review pointed out, the film is “100% more fingers thrust in mouths, masturbation scenes and sex.”
Margot Robbie, starring as Catherine, and Jacob Elordi, as Heathcliff, deliver performances that are technically proficient but ultimately constrained by the film’s shallow approach. Robbie, while capable of portraying complex characters, is largely relegated to playing a sexpot, a role she has inhabited in previous projects. Elordi, despite his undeniable charisma, struggles to imbue Heathcliff with the depth and complexity that the character demands. Shazad Latif as Edgar Linton is similarly underserved, burdened with a thankless role as the villainous foil to Heathcliff’s romantic hero.
Fennell herself has acknowledged the liberties she’s taken with the source material, stating, “I can’t say I’m making Wuthering Heights, it’s not possible. What I can say is I’m making a version of it.” This admission, however, does little to mitigate the disappointment felt by many who approached the film hoping for a thoughtful and faithful adaptation of a literary classic. As one critic succinctly put it, this Wuthering Heights is “a shallow and disappointing adaptation…best reserved for Tumblr than the silver screen.”
The film’s failure, lies in its inability to grasp the core themes of Brontë’s novel: the destructive power of passion, the corrosive effects of social inequality, and the enduring allure of the wild, untamed spirit. By prioritizing style over substance, and shock value over emotional resonance, Fennell has delivered a film that is visually arresting but ultimately hollow, a two-hour music video that fails to plumb the depths of its source material. It’s a film that, in the words of one reviewer, is “a China doll, perfectly constructed but hollow and soulless.”
