Every adaptation reveals something about the filmmaker doing the adapting. Andrea Arnold's take on Wuthering Heights is a prime example of this. It is by no means a perfect version of the story, yet it's packed with rich subtext and interesting choices.
It is possible to make a bad adaptation that is still interesting and rewarding in its own way. By contrast, it is something else entirely to make a bad adaptation that is also dull as dishwater. That is what writer, director, and producer Emerald Fennell has accomplished.
It is not the first bad adaptation of Emily Brontë's novel, and it won't be the last. It can't even claim the title of worst adaptation because it is so uninteresting that it doesn't deserve such credit.
Do not expect it to capture the text in context or in spirit. Fennell's interest is entirely in the IP, not the timeless prose that defines Brontë's work. There is no class consciousness, no comment on women's rights, no acerbic takedown of white privilege and the broken social contract. There is only Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi) and Cathy (Margot Robbie), and how tragically beautiful their love story is.
The film takes only a portion of the original work. There is no framing device of Gothic ghost stories, no generational trauma, nor takedowns of how the British class system is a tool of oppression. Heathcliff, now white and tall and filmed by Fennell with such objectification it would make Michael Bay blush, is no longer defined by the color of his skin. He's "lower class", the film tells us, but there's no sign of why any of that should matter. When he returns wealthy and bathed, there is no discernable difference than his clothing.
The actors are either close to or well past the age of 30, yet they play their characters as the teenagers Brontë wrote them. A more interesting adaptation would lean into this to highlight the absurdity of things. Fennell does not. Instead, Robbie and Elordi act as if they've just discovered sex for the first time. We just have to go along with it.
Worse yet is Fennell's treatment of Isabella, the most tragic character in Brontë's story. In Fennell's hands, she turns into co-conspirator with Heathcliff who willingly and happily goes along with his plans.
Their relationship is one of vanilla BDSM, where Isabella scurries along the floor on all fours and begs for Heathcliff to "treat her nice" later in the day. Heathcliff, dripping wet in more ways than one, tells Isabella point blank of his plans and intentions. "I will be mean to you, I only seek to hurt Cathy." He asks for her consent to continue, which she gives, because the promise of carnal lust is just too much for her. It is expressly stated that all of this is her choice.
So it's a bad adaptation. It either misunderstands Brontë's original prose or refuses to engage with it. That is the prerogative of every filmmaker. But how does it stand on its own as a film?
Not well, to be honest. Your enjoyment will entirely depend on how much you're willing to engage with Fennell's empty provocations. For anyone who has seen an indie film or two, nothing here will shock or titillate.
A good erotic film doesn't require nudity to excite, just as a bad one can't make up for it with excess amounts of flesh. Wuthering Heights, for all its bluster and big talk, is a lifeless affair wholly uninterested in both the emotion and joy of sex. A late stage montage of adultery has all the passion of filing out paperwork.
In better hands, that too could be a major theme worth exploring. Perhaps our anti-heroes are so driven by their lust for control that mere consensual sex isn't enough for them. The kind of dynamic seen in Maggie Gyllenhaal's terrific The Secretary, perhaps.
But no, once again Fennell frames this exactly as what it is. By the end, Wuthering Heights even underlines that what we see is a love story and we should treat it as such.
For its credit, Wuthering Heights occasionally impresses with beautiful vistas and a perfectly fine score from Charli xcx. Even if Fennell's vision is somewhere between Tim Burton and an Evanescence music video. A more interesting filmmaker would make a meal of the disparate elements. Here, they just dangle as trophies collected in an expensive vanity case.
I kept waiting for Wuthering Heights to surprise, disgust, or excite. Instead, it only manages to frustrate without payoff. Its abrupt ending mirrors the visuals of David Eggers' Nosferatu, though this appears unintentional. I considered again that perhaps there is intent behind the framing, only for Fennell to insert one last coda that watered down its own potential.
There's an early sequence where a hanged man sports a visible outline of an erection which Fennell frames gleefully in a close-up. Characters insert fingers into various substances to the tune of loud squelching. A pop-up book vaguely resembles human anatomy. You'll find more erotically charged content in an average run on TikTok.
In fact, if you want to see something that's truly outrageous, but also brave and interesting, watch Ken Russell's incendiary study about control and repressed sexuality: The Devils. It has nothing to do with Wuthering Heights as a story, but, then again, neither does this.
