Wuthering Heights Review – A Gorgeous Gothic Fever Dream That Burns Bright and Hollow
Wuthering Heights review – Desire, Decadence, and the Death of Restraint
Some filmmakers flirt with provocation, and then there is Emerald Fennell, who wraps it in silk gloves and sets it ablaze. After the polarizing cultural detonations of Promising Young Woman and Saltburn, her third feature turns to sacred literary ground: Wuthering Heights. But don’t mistake reverence for restraint. This is not an adaptation seeking to preserve. It is one determined to possess.
Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights” arrives already drenched in discourse. From casting choices to tonal departures, it invites scrutiny. The quotation marks in its title signal intent — this is not Brontë’s canonical tragedy of class and generational ruin. It is Fennell’s fever dream of it, filtered through adolescent memory and adult indulgence. The question is not whether it is faithful. It is whether it works.
Story: A Gothic Romance Rewritten as Erotic Catastrophe
Set against the windswept Yorkshire moors, the story follows catherine “Cathy” Earnshaw (Margot Robbie), a wealthy young woman raised in emotional intimacy with the orphaned Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi), brought home by her father years ago. As children, they are inseparable; as adults, they are combustible.
When Cathy becomes entangled with the aristocratic Edgar Linton (Shazad Latif), the narrative unfolds as a war between romantic obsession and economic security. Nelly (Hong Chau), the housekeeper and moral witness, observes as desire curdles into destruction.
But if Brontë’s novel was a layered meditation on class cruelty, inheritance, and emotional repression, Fennell’s retelling narrows its focus almost exclusively to erotic awakening. The moors feel less like haunted terrain and more like a perfumed runway for doomed sensuality.
Performances: Commitment to the Fever
Margot Robbie plays Cathy not as a tragic heroine torn by societal constraint, but as a woman intoxicated by appetite. Her performance is heightened, volatile, almost operatic. She understands the tone Fennell is chasing and never underplays it. Whether that reads as depth or theatrical excess will depend on your tolerance for melodrama.
Jacob Elordi’s Heathcliff leans heavily into physical magnetism. Brooding, predatory, simmering — he is less the racially ambiguous outsider of the novel and more a sculpted embodiment of erotic menace. Elordi commits fully, delivering a performance that is intensely watchable even when emotionally simplified.
Hong Chau brings a quiet gravitas to Nelly, grounding scenes that might otherwise spiral into indulgence. Shazad Latif’s Edgar is dignified but somewhat underwritten, functioning more as a narrative obstacle than a fully realized rival. The ensemble is uniformly strong, but characterization occasionally suffers at the altar of atmosphere.
Technical Brilliance: A Seductive Sensory Assault
Visually, this is Fennell’s most accomplished film. Cinematographer Linus Sandgren captures the moors in sweeping, painterly frames that feel tactile and lush. Interiors gleam with decadent detail; skin glistens, fabrics cling, candlelight flickers like temptation itself. Every frame is meticulously composed.
The anachronistic score by Charli XCX adds a haunting modern pulse, clashing deliberately with the 18th-century setting. It shouldn’t work. Somehow, it does. The film moves like a dream — or perhaps a delirium.
Fennell’s aesthetic control is undeniable. The craft is pristine. The question is what lies beneath the gloss.
Analysis: Style as Substance — Or Substitute?
Fennell’s adaptation is fascinated by hunger — sexual, emotional, physical. Scenes linger on tactile imagery: dough kneaded sensually, egg yolk ruptured suggestively, flesh pressed into corsetry. Even domestic tasks throb with erotic undercurrents.
In an era often accused of sanitizing female desire, there is something bold about how unapologetically this film revels in sexuality. It refuses to be coy. It refuses to apologize. And that in itself is provocative.
Yet, the cost of this focus is thematic contraction. Brontë’s novel interrogates class hierarchy, racial ambiguity, generational trauma, and social exile. Here, those layers are thinned or sidelined. Heathcliff’s “otherness” becomes aesthetic rather than socio-political. The generational arc loses complexity. The moral rot of the system fades behind the sheen of seduction.
It’s a choice. A deliberate one. Whether it feels transformative or reductive depends entirely on what you believe adaptation should do.
What Works
• Ravishing cinematography and production design that elevate every frame
• Fearless embrace of female sexuality and sensual expression
• Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi’s magnetic screen presence
• A daring, anachronistic score that deepens the fever-dream tone
• A cohesive, uncompromising directorial vision
What Doesn’t
• Significant thematic simplification compared to the novel
• Underdeveloped exploration of class, race, and generational trauma
• Emotional depth occasionally sacrificed for aesthetic indulgence
• Supporting characters that feel secondary to the central erotic spectacle
Divisiveness as Destiny
Fennell has never chased universal approval. This film will enrage purists, intrigue aesthetes, and split audiences straight down the middle. It lacks the philosophical density that made Brontë’s novel immortal. But as an audiovisual experience — as a personal, stylized confession of obsession — it achieves something undeniably singular.
It may not be timeless. It may not be profound. But it is unmistakably hers.
Bottom Line
“Wuthering Heights” is less a faithful adaptation and more a sensual reclamation — bold, beautiful, and brazenly superficial. It trades literary depth for intoxicating style, offering a seductive experience that lingers even when its substance evaporates.