The anticipation surrounding the newWuthering Heightsadaptation was…intense. Before the film even premiered, a fellow critic confessed, “They won’t make me hate it,” bracing for the inevitable backlash. Online, opinions solidified into unwavering stances, a digital battle brewing before a single scene had played.
I approached the film determined to surrender to it, to embrace the “feral” energy director Emerald Fennell promised. Some might call it succumbing to the hype, but another film critic summed it up perfectly: a desire to witness Jacob Elordi and Margot Robbie in a two-hour rain-soaked embrace. And honestly, who could blame her?
As reviews emerged, the predictable dissent arose from those fiercely protective of Emily Brontë’s original work. But for many, Fennell’s bold reimagining wasn’t desecration—it was a distillation of the novel’s core, a raw expression of primal desires that resonated with a modern audience.
It’s visually stunning, undeniably alluring, and refreshingly unpretentious. It doesn’t demand deep analysis; it simply *is*. A male influencer declared his disinterest, and that was perfectly acceptable. This film wasn’t crafted for him; it was designed for us, for the women in the audience.
However, the casting of Jacob Elordi as Heathcliff remains a valid point of contention. The original novel subtly suggests Heathcliff’s heritage, describing him as a “dark-skinned gipsy.” Fennell’s choice to cast a white actor, despite her stated revisionist approach, feels like a missed opportunity, a silencing of a crucial element of the story.
Fennell has explained her decision stemmed from Elordi’s resemblance to the Heathcliff depicted on the cover of her personal copy of the book. This sparked the film’s aesthetic, influencing the poster and overall visual style. It’s a curious justification, but one that reveals the deeply personal nature of her interpretation.
This adaptation isn’t a faithful recreation; it’s Fennell’s memory ofWuthering Heightsas a fourteen-year-old reader. Some dismiss it as “fanfiction,” but that label feels reductive. It’s a passionate, unapologetic interpretation, even if it means sacrificing nuance for visceral impact.
The film is undeniably provocative. It’s a significant departure from previous adaptations, stripping away characters like Cathy’s brother and incorporating anachronistic elements like latex and sheer fabrics. But the most controversial aspect is undoubtedly the explicit sexuality, with montages and intimate scenes that are absent in the source material.
I don’t possess the same reverence for Brontë’s work as some, allowing me to appreciate the film on its own terms. It’s a rare instance where a film so boldly prioritizes the female gaze, joining a recent wave of movies likeBabygirlandChallengersthat dare to explore desire with unapologetic honesty.
Fennell’s interpretation undeniably simplifies the complexities of the novel, softening darker aspects of Heathcliff’s character. But this was always intended as a loose adaptation, signaled by the quotation marks around the title and the pulsing Charli XCX soundtrack. You were warned.
Much of the criticism leveled against the film feels rooted in intellectual snobbery, a discomfort with enjoying something deemed “lowbrow.” The film is compared unfavorably to formulaic romance novels, and Fennell is likened to a controversial author known for her popular, yet critically dismissed, work.
The outrage feels particularly pointed, a policing of who is allowed to enjoy what. It highlights a double standard: Jason Statham’s action films receive little scrutiny, while a film that dares to explore female desire is dissected and condemned. The male gaze has long dictated cinematic sex scenes, but this film flips the script.
Unlike past examples where female actors have been misled or exploited during intimate scenes, Fennell’sWuthering Heightsfeels intentionally provocative, an invitation to a kinky, uninhibited party. And it’s a party I thoroughly enjoyed. In a world consumed by chaos, sometimes it’s okay to simply revel in something beautiful, even if it’s flawed.
The world feels overwhelming. Let us have our pretty, problematic things.
