I had been eagerly anticipating Emerald Fennell’s adaptation of Wuthering Heights from the moment it was announced. As a devoted admirer of her previous films, Saltburn (2023) and Promising Young Woman (2020), and a long-time lover of Emily Brontë’s novel, the pairing felt like a match made in heaven. Fennell’s sharp, provocative storytelling combined with one of literature’s most turbulent romances seemed destined for greatness. Yet, as the lights rose in the cinema, I found myself slumped in my seat, head in hand, wondering what I had just endured.
To begin with the positives: Jacob Elordi delivers the film’s strongest performance. His portrayal of Heathcliff is chaotic, volatile, and unhinged in a way that suits the character’s fury and torment. It is a commanding performance, though it will inevitably be overshadowed by the controversy surrounding his casting — a debate I find fascinating and one I’m curious to compare with the reactions faced by Ralph Fiennes and Tom Hardy in their respective adaptations. Regardless of opinion on the casting, Elordi commits fully to the role.
Alison Oliver is equally impressive as Isabella Linton, capturing the character’s naïve yet lustful yearning with remarkable precision. Her performance balances childish romanticism with tragic inevitability. The young actors, Owen Cooper and Charlotte Mellington, who portray Cathy and Heathcliff in childhood, are wonderfully devious and captivating, laying a strong emotional foundation for the story’s darker turns.
Visually, the film is undeniably stunning. The cinematography, set design, costumes, and overall mise-en-scène are nothing short of sumptuous -a true feast for the eyes. It strikes a tonal balance somewhere between the softness of Little Women (2019) and the decadent opulence of Marie Antoinette (2006). While some have criticised the historical inaccuracies in the costuming, I found their grandeur mesmerizing rather than distracting. Ultimately, however, the film’s visual beauty becomes its saving grace — because beneath it lies a frustrating lack of substance.
As someone deeply attached to the novel, I struggle to understand the decision to adapt such a beloved work while omitting the entire third act and removing several key characters that give the story its generational depth and thematic resolution. The structural completeness of Brontë’s novel is part of what makes it so powerful. Without that final act, the story feels truncated and hollow. At times, it feels as though the title was used more for recognition than reverence.
The film also leans heavily into explicit intimacy. While I am not opposed to sex scenes in cinema, here they feel excessive and repetitive, consuming narrative space that could have been used to develop the story more faithfully. The passion between Cathy and Heathcliff does not need constant physical depiction to be understood. In fact, what often makes period romances so enduring is their restraint – the charged glance, the brief touch, the unspoken tension. In Pride & Prejudice, for example, a fleeting brush of hands conveys more longing than pages of dialogue. Subtlety can be infinitely more romantic than spectacle.
Perhaps this is why I feel the film might have benefitted from distancing itself from the novel altogether. Had Fennell retitled the story, altered the character names, and presented it as a reimagining merely inspired by Brontë — crediting her influence while embracing creative freedom — it may have been received with less resistance. If The Lion King had called itself Hamlet there would have been uproar (pun intended) but instead it borrows heavily from it, yet it does not call itself Hamlet. It transforms its inspiration into something distinct, and in doing so, becomes beloved in its own right.
I was equally excited for Charli XCX’s contribution to the soundtrack, especially as I had been listening to “Chains of Love” repeatedly in the lead-up to the film’s release. However, while the music itself is strong, it ultimately feels misplaced within the film. Rather than enhancing the atmosphere, the soundtrack fades into the background and struggles to align with the tone and emotional landscape of the story.
Interestingly, I attended the screening with friends who had not read Wuthering Heights, and they enjoyed the film far more than I did. This adaptation may well resonate with audiences unfamiliar with the source material. I understand that literature and cinema are fundamentally different mediums, and absolute fidelity is neither possible nor always desirable. But this did not feel like reinterpretation — it felt like abandonment. For those who cherish Brontë’s novel, this version may feel less like a bold reimagining and more like a missed opportunity.
Megan Hilborne (Instagram: meghillbilly) is a freelance writer and film critic based in Portsmouth. She graduated with a degree in Film in 2020 and has continued her study of the medium in her day-to-day life. She takes particular interest in indie, horror, feminist and queer cinema.
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