Brontë wasn’t on my GCSE reading list, and I’ve never rushed to fix that. Nor have I ever watched any other adaptations (though Buñuel’s and Andrea Arnold’s versions are still on the “one day” pile). So I came to Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights with no baggage — just curiosity after a 50/50 run with her: Saltburn left me cold; Promising Young Woman didn’t.
I expected gothic delirium — moors, menace, and feelings big enough to count as weather. What I didn’t expect was it to play like a lavish period moodboard, with a nagging sense we’ve wandered onto some second-hand Poor Things sets: ornate, clever, and slightly too pleased with themselves.
Margot Robbie gives Cathy a brittle spark, and Jacob Elordi sells Heathcliff’s wounded pull, but the film keeps smoothing the mess that should make it hurt. Perfectly watchable. Not much of a haunting.