OVERVIEW
“Wuthering Heights” (with quotation marks) is an interpretation of Emily Brontë’s 1847 novel. Instead of faithfully adapting the book’s themes, as has been done many times over the last century, the film frames itself as a re-imagining, closer to how Emerald Fennell remembers feeling when she first read the novel as a teenager.
The foundation remains the same: Cathy and Heathcliff grow up together on the Yorkshire moors, forming a bond that turns romantic and possessive. Class divides, wounded pride, and jealousy drive them apart; their unresolved obsession shapes and harms both their lives and the lives of everyone around them. But rather than exploring many of the novel’s thematic threads, the film narrows its focus to the heat of their connection, turning the material into a romance driven by sensation.
BACKGROUND
This is Emerald Fennell’s third feature. She broke out in 2020 with Promising Young Woman, which inexplicably won her the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay and also earned a Best Director nomination (the pandemic year brought so many weird things). She followed it with Saltburn, a TikTok-friendly glossy provocation, closer to Ripley pastiche than a true descendant. Across those two films, Fennell has built an identifiable authorial “brand,” someone who wraps dark material in aesthetic pleasure. The marketing for “Wuthering Heights” leaned hard on that angle, repeatedly framing the film as a stylized interpretation, both a hook and a shield: first for the casting controversy, then for many of the film’s wretched choices.
THE REVIEW
The movie deliberately avoids engaging with the novel’s themes, removes characters, shifts major actions from one person to another, and, in the end, ceases to share the same essence as the book. Think of Romeo and Juliet adapted with the Montagues and Capulets pushed to the background, so the tragedy is no longer about a world that makes their love impossible, just about two moody kids making bad choices. Or a Hamlet where the court politics and the moral rot are stripped out, and the story becomes a clean revenge melodrama. As much as Fennel asks otherwise, watching the movie, it becomes impossible not to point out what a waste of source material this is.
Now, instead of letting pride, class anxiety, and sheer possessiveness steer Cathy and Heathcliff toward their ruin, the film recasts Nelly Dean (now Cathy’s caretaker) as a soap-opera schemer, pushing events to keep them apart. Heathcliff is reframed as handsome and broody, yet almost sweet, with his worst trait reduced to an inability to articulate his feelings. Isabella, meanwhile, is written as a willing participant in his schemes, and Hindley is removed. I could write paragraphs about how these choices, and many others, flatten the material, but I’ll take the film at its word and judge it as what it seems to want to be: a Cathy and Heathcliff fanfic.
The problem is that even judged as a straight romance, the film falls apart. It’s driven by mismatched actors who never sell their chemistry, sensual scenes that feel staged and artificial, and editing and production design that lean toward music-video flash instead of dramatic clarity. By the second half, the pacing turns inert, and the film can’t generate stakes. You don’t want them together, and you don’t fear them apart. The story asks for obsession and ends up in indifference.
A big part of the problem is the casting of Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi, a duo that dethrones Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp in 2010’s The Tourist as one of the most misjudged pairings of A-listers I’ve seen in a mainstream release. Neither actor seems fully comfortable in these roles, and the film rarely lets you forget you’re watching two stars performing.
Robbie, in particular, is embarrassing as Cathy. Her line deliveries are stiff, and she carries herself with a self-assured posture that clashes with the wide-eyed volatility the film seems to aim for. Part of that is the writing and direction, which want Cathy to register as both a modern “strong woman” and a vulnerable teenager that audiences can project onto. But Robbie too often plays those modes simultaneously, without the inner logic that would connect them. You can feel it in scenes like the one where she snaps at Nelly and changes her mind about Heathcliff, a pivotal moment that lands flat.
Elordi’s Heathcliff is built almost entirely on brooding sulkiness, which makes him downright unappealing. He isn’t unlikable because of destructive choices or moral rot; he’s unlikable because he seems perpetually withdrawn and humorless. The result is a version of Heathcliff stripped of danger and charisma. Why would these two want each other in this interpretation, beyond physical attraction and the script insisting that they do?
The film keeps trying to sell a sexual fantasy. He is shirtless, there are rain kisses, and a constant layer of sexual charge in the most bizarre places, such as the moment where Cathy puts her finger into some fish jelly. But it only highlights how empty the core is. Around it, the movie piles on awkward stylistic decisions that never add up to drama.
And to be fair, there are real strengths in the craft. Some shots are genuinely well framed, the costume work can be exquisite and elaborate, and the Charli XCX songs are often fun in isolation. The issue is purpose. When you’re assessing a film, the question is not whether these elements look good on their own, but what they do for the story and whether they deepen the characters or simply decorate them.
Take the production design in Edgar’s mansion, for example. Edgar builds a wall that emulates Cathy’s skin, veins, and all, which is an odd choice to say the least. Why does he do that? Is he that obsessed with her? Then why doesn’t he act like it later, refusing to spend the night with her when she asks? Like many choices in the film, it plays less like sensical drama than empty provocation, later capped by Elordi licking the wall, a moment that feels designed to be shared as quick reels more than anything else.
The same can be said of the starry room and the cinematography, where gorgeously framed shots often work against what the characters are feeling (Cathy’s sickness is presented in such painterly compositions that they keep you at a distance when the scene should hurt). Charli XCX’s modern-sounding songs are equally distracting, sticking out against the film’s baroque look. But the most unintentionally funny case of stylization misfiring comes when Heathcliff encounters Mr. Earnshaw surrounded by, I kid you not, elephant-sized piles of bottles. It’s one of the funniest images of the year.
Supporting characters lack motivation, especially this version of Nelly, who is written so shallowly that her pivotal choice, the one that tilts the whole story, reads like infantile spite rather than character. Alison Oliver can be fun as Isabella, but the writing undercuts her function too. Given how she initially treats Cathy, it’s hard to see how she fits into Heathcliff’s plan, or why Cathy would later be moved by her mistreatment in any meaningful way.
Even with a lot of unintentional laughs, I couldn’t wait for the movie to end. And the moral… wait.. what moral?
FINAL THOUGHTS
Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights” is a catastrophe, even if we ignore the sheer number of missed opportunities created by her decision to water down the novel, isolating the romance from a far richer source. Its biggest problem is that the romance doesn’t work either, landing artificial and almost entirely devoid of heat. With mismatched stars, distracting stylistic flourishes, and awfully paced storytelling, the film wastes its foundation and a talented crew, leaving it both unintentionally hilarious and deeply boring. The fact that the costumes and sets are often pretty, and Linus Sandgren lands a few gorgeous frames, doesn’t change the experience. It’s just the movie equivalent of putting lipstick on a pig.