If you’re going to crush the characters of a classic novel down, you may as well embrace the melodrama. Fennell crafts a stunning, unreal, wholly watchable romantic tragedy, recast as a dark fairy tale. It’s a memorable, sex-obsessed vision, even if it’s more blunt innuendo than erotic romp.
This adaptation isn’t interested in the haunting implications of Brontë’s work—the ghosts, metaphorical or literal, are severed with nihilistic glee. This Wuthering Heights is all about id—and that raging, impetuous, ill-thought-out lust unsurprisingly ends up being more about death than love. It may not be utterly shallow, but it’s selective. It may look stunning, but it’s a quickie.












