Emily Brontë’s 'Wuthering Heights' is a searing exploration of class, race, and power, but Emerald Fennell’s adaptation feels like a superficial romance novel masquerading as a classic. And this is the part most people miss: by stripping away the novel’s radical core, Fennell doesn’t just miss the mark—she fundamentally misinterprets it. Let me explain.
As someone who deeply admires Brontë’s work, I’m no purist. I often celebrate creative reinterpretations of classics. But Fennell’s version of Wuthering Heights raised red flags from the start. From the casting of Margot Robbie—far too mature to play teenage Cathy—to Jacob Elordi, whose whiteness clashes with Heathcliff’s description as darker-skinned, the film feels like a series of missteps. Add to that the cringe-worthy marketing and brand tie-ins, and it’s hard not to wonder: What would Emily Brontë think?
Despite my reservations, I approached the film with an open mind. Yet, I left the theater not just bored, but genuinely disheartened. Fennell claims she wanted to capture the version of the story she imagined at 14, the age many of us first encounter the novel. But here’s where it gets controversial: her focus on the ‘love story’ between Cathy and Heathcliff overshadows nearly every other theme Brontë meticulously wove into the narrative. Yes, as a teenager, the tragic romance might captivate, but let’s not forget—Heathcliff is an abuser, not a romantic hero. Fennell’s fan-fiction-esque desire to consummate their love feels hollow, reducing a complex tale to a hormonal daydream.
Even at 14, most readers grasp that Wuthering Heights is far more than a love story. It’s a brutal examination of revenge, class struggle, systemic racism, and generational trauma. Heathcliff, a child likely of foreign origin, is rescued from poverty only to face neglect, abuse, and rejection due to his skin color and status. His quest for revenge against the Earnshaws and Lintons is a direct response to the violence of a system that devalues him. But Fennell’s film glosses over these layers, opting instead for zeitgeisty shock value—BDSM, boarding-school pranks, and fish-fingering—that feels more like a perfume ad than a Brontë adaptation.
When questioned about casting a white actor as Heathcliff, Fennell defended her choice by saying, ‘You can only make the movie you imagined.’ But here’s the problem: her inability to envision a darker-skinned actor, despite Heathcliff being described as a ‘gypsy’ and ‘lascar,’ reveals a privileged blindness. At 14, Fennell’s worldview was undoubtedly shaped by privilege, and this shows in her portrayal of Nelly Dean, whose actions in the film feel like a scapegoating of the working class for the tragedy of the elite. It’s a worldview Fennell has showcased before, in Saltburn and now here, and it’s exhausting. I’m tired of art that reduces class struggle to a paranoid fear of the ‘other.’
What’s truly outrageous is how Fennell strips away the novel’s political edge, not in a bold, thought-provoking way, but in a shallow, trend-chasing one. Class and racial inequality aren’t just academic themes—they’re the backdrop of real life, barriers many teenagers are already grappling with. Yet, Fennell reduces Isabella’s harrowing abuse to a comedic BDSM scene, erasing Brontë’s groundbreaking portrayal of a woman escaping her abuser in a time when women were legally property.
At 14, we feel everything deeply, and that’s why this adaptation feels like a personal betrayal. Studying Wuthering Heights under a brilliant English teacher, I couldn’t ignore its class and racial dynamics. That novel inspired me to become a writer, to explore how systemic struggles manifest in the human body and the violence they provoke. Fennell’s film, however, feels like a cynical co-option of Brontë’s work, a two-hour-and-sixteen-minute perfume ad that tries—and fails—to out-weird the original. Even the novel’s gothic elements, like Cathy’s ghost and the exhumation of her grave, are abandoned, as if Fennell couldn’t handle Brontë’s raw, tragic vision.
So, here’s the question I leave you with: In an era where anyone can make art, whose voices truly matter, and what are we losing when we let privilege dictate interpretation? Fennell’s Wuthering Heights isn’t just a missed opportunity—it’s a reminder that some stories are too powerful to be watered down. What do you think? Is Fennell’s adaptation a bold reimagining or a superficial misreading? Let’s discuss in the comments.
