or, “Rated X for Pervasive Ankle”:
A spoiler-free mini movie review.
1.5 out of 5
Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights” (aka. WH) is a thesis paper just waiting for a would-be advertising graduate.
Had Warner’s marketing team been forthright and sold it for what it is – a chamber piece in the vein of 2017’s “My Cousin Rachel” – I think I would have appreciated Fennell’s flourishes more, however awkwardly they abet a tame, period-correct adaptation of the Brontë novel.
Instead, WH was hustled as a Ken Russell-esque decent into debauchery, with an eye-catching trailer that spoke to the sensibilities of someone raised on the titillation of late-night cable erotica. People suck their dirty 18th century fingers, with Margot Robbie appearing to return to her bratty-nutjob roots. ‘Come Undone’, tempts the poster. Yes, please!
Expectations that stratospheric are unsustainable. While WH is as professional a product as an episode of “Bridgerton”, it lacks consistent, distinguishing texture: whether that be with more visual depictions of sexuality; singer Charli XCX’s anachronistic pop we only hear a couple of times to orchestrate montages; or the stop-motion hairwork titles, seen once & never again.
[cont’d]
*
I haven’t read the book – barring some quick research – so I can only surmise a few reasons for the cinematic restraint. Maybe Margot didn’t want to get naked (unlikely for co-star & HBO’s “Euphoria” alum Jacob Elordi). Maybe the book’s prose is tame by today’s standards, and the portions screenwriter Fennell chose to adapt are source-faithful (also unlikely since, as with Spike Lee’s “Clockers”, significant chunks of the book appear to be omitted).
Or maybe Emerald made the creative choice to keep viewers at arm’s length. Don’t get me wrong: I like being teased, as prelude. But WH teases without satisfaction. When Elordi has a woman under lock-and-key in the second half, it should be both a shocking allusion to his Heathcliff’s tragic youth, and reinforcement of how much of a bastard the caustic pairing of love & trauma has formed him.
Presented here, it’s a throwaway sight gag with masochistic implications. It lacks the empathy it could’ve garnered had audiences been privy to more of Heathcliff’s process of degradation. As it is, I don’t like a full litter box either, but that isn’t enough to communicate emotional purgatory.
*
One of XCX’s shirts famously read that critics don’t get statues. That’s correct: they’re classically of naked subjects. Wuthering Heights could have used more nakedness.
//wd 4.14.2026
Poster sourced from impawards.com. Screenshot from Warner Bros. Ent.; edited with Jetpack AI.
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