Emerald Fennell, now entering her third feature film, is seemingly becoming one of those directors that you either love or you hate. I really enjoyed her debut film, Promising Young Woman, for its dark humor and respectful enough take on a serious subject. Even if I recognize a few issues I have with that film, I still think it’s a pretty solid debut film. Saltburn, her sophomore follow-up, did not get as much praise from me. It’s certainly entertaining, but I didn’t ultimately get what Fennell was going for with this other than seeing how grossly horny it could push it. But now we have “Wuthering Heights”, an adaptation of the Emily Bronte classic that has had people already make up their minds about it before even seeing it. Well, I have seen it, so if I’d have to fall into the love or hate side for Fennell…

Well, I’m not a Sith who deals in absolutes, but I can say with confidence that this is perhaps the weakest outing for her yet, both as a Wuthering Heights adaptation and as a romantic movie.

Now, I am no Wuthering Heights scholar by any means, but from what I do know and understand about the novel, it seemed like all the pieces were there for Emerald Fennell to make something that was right up her alley. A dark story filled with absolutely terrible people that manipulate and haunt one another through the excuse of toxic, unrealized love. Oh, wait, she kinda did that already. And what we ended up getting here is more a story about longing that seems to completely abandon both the nuances of the novel and a lot of its elements that made the book super interesting. This is really half a story that does succeed at being a visual masterclass that absolutely nails its set design and coloring. But all of that is in service to a film that doesn’t fully sell its sense of longing, desire or sexiness that Fennell seemingly set out to tell. It certainly tees itself up, but there’s just no follow through. And in case you don’t understand golf talk, I mean it’s less a bad movie and more of a disappointment.

The film tells the story of Catherine and Heathcliff, two childhood best friends who grow into adults with apparent but unspoken feelings for one another. When the prospect of marrying into wealth comes along for Catherine, Heathcliff, feeling abandoned, leaves to amass his own fortune, returning years later to rub it in Catherine’s face, leading to a messy lover’s quarrel that’s filled with just as much love as there is hate.

So I went into this not really expecting this to be a full-on adaptation. Many have tried in the past, and most, if not all fail to fully encompass the ideas and themes the book presents to the screen. It genuinely might be too daunting of a task to do in one film, so I do wanna try to keep my comparisons to a minimum. Still, the original highlights a toxic cycle of desire and abuse that follows Catherine and Heathcliff into death, along with some poignant takes on classism and race that have all but been erased from this adaptation. Fennell is allowed to adapt as she sees fit, but it does make you scratch your head wondering why all the interesting bits got left out. Her retelling paints Catherine and Heathcliff less like unchecked narcissism and more like doomed romantics whose desires for one another turn them into monsters. Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi are ultimately just fine in this, really kind of suffering from the text given to them. Robbie at least comes close to Catherine’s childishness, but Elordi isn’t given material to give him the edge this character needs. Fennell desperately tries to humanize him by removing his claws, so all you’re left with is a guy who does mildly bad things and is hot while he’s doing it. Without much of the layers that gave these characters some depth, both of their plights just came off as annoying and easily preventable. Honestly, there was way more emotionally resonating material coming from Hong Chau’s Nelly, who represents more of Heathcliff’s original hatred for the wealthy than Heathcliff. 

Where this film does find its footing is in its visuals. This is easily Emerald Fennell’s most luscious and vibrant movie to date, being incredibly colorful and striking to look at. The titular home of Wuthering Heights is a dark and jagged hole that breeds hostility, surrounded by obsidian walls and splintery wood. But a lot of the set design works as well as it does thanks to stellar framing and blocking. There really feels like there’s intent behind every shot, visually illustrating moods and intentions. It’s refreshing to see a notable Hollywood movie not skimp out on the juice and fall into the usual trappings that come from period pieces. One thing that didn’t work for me as well is the music. You know, I’m brat, I’m with it, but Charlie XCX’s original songs for the film just didn’t fit for me. Modern, contemporary music can certainly work in a period piece setting, but these just left no impact on me, blandly disappearing into the background of each scene they’re in. Brat summer is one thing, but brat winter just isn’t as great.

So my biggest problem with this is, okay, Emerald Fennel doesn’t want to carry over the characterization, the themes, or the darker elements that made this book a hit. Fine, sure, whatever. But you at least have to make it interesting. Based on how the director talked about her experience with the novel, this seemed like it was going to be super romantic and alluring mixed with Fennel’s trademark discomfort. But this is neither all that erotic or unnerving. The film literally gives its characters everything they wanted, so any idea of longing is just thrown out the window. Meanwhile, we get hints of the film wanting to go in a more divisive and uncomfortable direction, but it never pulls the trigger. You think this will unravel into two petty lovers torturing one another until it inevitably destroys them, yet this thing just meanders about with make out scenes and moments of intimacy that just feel hollow. She had all the room to twist this story into something but shockingly refrains from her provocative tendencies. At least then there would have been something memorable to it, but this is just boring. 

And it’s only made worse because this is titled “Wuthering Heights”. This borrows the characters and setups and seemingly nothing else. It just comes off as a fanfic that wants nothing to do with the ideas of abuse and classism. No, obviously the most important part to this story is the two annoying people who hate and love each other. There’s no resolution that actually matters, reaching for an emotional response with over the top, gaudy displays of sorrow that never confronts anything pricklier about this story. I just don’t understand why you would take a story like this, strip it for parts, and then not do something that at least recontextualizes the story or adds a new perspective. There is nothing of deeper value to take away from here. Even if this didn’t have the baggage of being named after a classic, this is still a pretty tame and uneventful romantic story. The only saving graces are the beautiful visuals and Fennell’s admittedly funny and witty script. The whole thing just feels like a fumble; a fumble of the gothic horror source material and a fumble of what Fennell is good at. It’s palatable if anything, but at this point with the two movies that she has under her belt, Fennell’s work should be anything but.

RATING

THE HAUNTING OF HEATHCLIFF

This drink is going to be a combination of things I know they were probably drinking at the time this story takes place. Gin for sure, as it plays a role in Catherine’s dad drinking himself to death as all men did back then. They also had a propensity for something called Negus, which is essentially just mulled wine. So that gave me an idea for this gin New York sour hybrid that combines some of those Christmasy spices into a syrup along with a float of red wine on top. I did plan on using an egg white for this as you will be seeing a lot of eggs in this movie. Like, a disgusting amount. But I found the separation of layers to look better without it, so just know it’s there in spirit. There’s, unfortunately, no spirits in this movie, but there are some in this drink.

INGREDIENTS

• 2oz gin
• 3/4oz lemon juice
• 1/2oz Chambord (or other raspberry liqueur)
• 1/2oz mulled simple syrup
  • 1 cup water
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 1 cinnamon stick
  • 1tsp nutmeg
  • 1tsp ground cloves
  • 2 star anise
• FLOAT: red wine (I used cabernet)

INSTRUCTIONS

1. For the mulled simple syrup, combine ingredients in a saucepan over heat until the sugar is fully dissolved. Strain and let chill.
2. For the cocktail, add ingredients to a shaker and shake with ice.
3. Strain into a rocks glass filled with ice.
4. Gently pour red wine over the back of a barspoon over the drink to create the layered effect.

★★★

It’s not fealty that’s bringing the crowds to Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights, a film that often feels less like an Emily Brontë adaptation than organic entity in and of its own right. No, these are bathtub sperm and FOMO fuelled walk ups, attracted to Fennell’s unique brand of zeitgeist chic and conservative baiting. To this end, the film starts strong, with heavy breathing giving way to a memorably erotic hanging. The corpse gets an erection and Vicki Pepperdine plays an aroused nun. Mercy, me. Where Fennell’s Heights will fell students of literature, however, there is ample here for those of film to digest. Much here dazzles.

As vibes-based cinema, Fennell’s film is less tonally detached from Brontë’s original text that purists might have one believe. Certainly, it feels wholly appropriate, given the accusations of moral depravity levelled at Wuthering Heights in 1847, that a contemporary remake might seek to up the ante in pursuit of comparable reception from the modern day viewer. Retained, too, are Brontë’s gothic influences. Gallons of fog are spooled over the Yorkshire moors, upon which much of the action takes place, while fine but deliberate rain is retooled effectively as film grain. Naturally, Fennell cannot help but enhance her own gothic romanticism with an arch excess and eye for the high camp. The approach is as subtle as a brick to the head but delectable nonetheless.

Charlotte Mellington and Owen Cooper – of Adolescence renown – introduce the young Cathy and Heathcliff, the latter rescued from the streets of Liverpool by the former’s comically barbaric father (an excellent Martin Clunes). Feral wildlings each, the pair grow into one another across the windswept moorlands and are soon inseparable.  So it remains as, years on, Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi – each impeccable in their accents – take on the parts. The thrust of all that follows lives and dies on the raw chemistry a petulant Robbie shares with the ruggedly muscular Elordi. Age inconsistency aside, this is pitch perfect casting.

It’s true that Fennell’s script wants for more scenes that outlast a sixty seconds – there can’t be more than a half dozen across the runtime – and the breathing space that such would afford her narrative. This comes to something of a head in a midsection reminiscent of Baz Luhrmann’s Gatsby, complete with its Charli XCX penned soundtrack, but matures into a more tortured final third. The emotional register throughout throbs around the throngs of lust and longing, without ever delving so much further into the soul behind it. There’s ample carnal ferocity, and envy to fuel the fires of Hell itself, but not quite the substance required to find the humanity required.

Similar cannot be said of the film’s aesthetic quality, which proves splendid on every level. From the Heights itself, framed within imposing slate rocks, to the cavalcade of fashions afforded Cathy in her Linton era. If her wedding dress offends period norms, its elegant outreach looks no less extraordinary for it, processed as it is across the moss. No opportunity is missed in Wuthering Heights for the absolute melodrama of a potent visual to be thoroughly milked. Perhaps the best is the transition from an overhead shot of a grief stricken Cathy, a mass of blood red chiffon on a chessboard floor, to that of Heathcliff on horseback, framed against a raging umber sky. 

Even without the book’s latter half, and Brontë’s denser plotting therein, Fennell’s film begins to feel long as the finale nears. There’s only so much synthy scoring and rampant adultery anyone can take and Fennell hasn’t a naked Barry Keoghan in her back pocket to take this one across the finish. Instead, a flashback: ‘I’ll love you ’til the day I die, and after’. The extent of your heartbreak will depend on your buy-in to his and whether Fennell’s gorgeous widescreen has breadth enough for the minutiae within it.

T.S.