Dr. Wife and I went to see Emerald Fennell’s adaptation/reinterpretation of Wuthering Heights (2026) the other weekend after a long day of lugging our stuff to our new home. The director’s name—which sounds like a extremely colorful spice—should give some insight into what the film was like. I’ve never read Emily Brontë novel—yes, literature girls, you can sacrifice me to Emily Dickinson—but Dr. Wife had, so she filled me in some of the details.
The original novel is the bleak tale of a doomed romance denied by the strictures of propriety, social class, and cash. The movie is an excessively plodding first act that culminates in twenty minutes of sexual depravity followed by a tragic death.
The film is gaining notoriety because it’s smut. My wife kept calling it “Wuthering Glutes,” and we had fun making jokes involving the word “wuthering” and other anatomical features. The popular consensus is correct: it is basically an excuse for a swarthy heartthrob to assert his will over Margot Robbie while women swoon lustily.
