The release of Emerald Fennell’s highly speculated adaptation of Wuthering Heights is a project she has described as being imagined by her “14-year-old self,”. It is invigorating, and creates the perfect moment to revisit the many versions of Emily Brontë’s novel. What sets the plethora of adaptations apart? How have directors reinterpreted, and in some cases softened, a text that is drastically more violent and socially charged than its romantic reputation suggests?
From the opening pages, Heathcliff’s ostracisation is unmistakable: he is called a “little Lascar,” and a “gypsy brat”. He longs to be “fair-skinned,” revealing both external and internalised social otherness. His place in society fuels his anger, driving a narrative that brings ruin upon everyone involved.
Historically, filmmakers whitewash Heathcliff and foreground his attachment to Catherine. Ultimately, this has reshaped Brontë’s legacy of a gothic tragedy as a love story. Or, as the 2026 film markets, “the greatest love story of all time.” They dilute the central tension brought by the “other” and lose what makes Brontë’s only novel so magnetically unsettling.
Setting the novel aside, what does Fennell’s film offer as a standalone piece? Visually, it is striking. The lighting and cinematography transform the bleak Yorkshire moors into a fantastical haven. The same could be said of its glamorous leads Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi.
But remember, this is not a love story. At its core lies obsessive rage, violent trauma and the stinging pain of marginalisation. This is a revenge story.
With every frame pristine and every performer flawless, something essential is lost. It becomes a caricature, minimising the emotional brutality between Heathcliff and Catherine. Unfortunately, the only emotion on display is lust. Fennell appears to overcompensate for lack of character depth and chemistry, through overt sexualisation: ironic, given that the couple never even kiss in the source material.
By casting 6’5 Elordi, Heathcliff becomes an eroticised spectacle rather than a symbol of generational destruction and marginalisation. This adaptation prioritises aesthetic atmosphere and fetishistic imagery, rather than depicting the raw human suffering that has ensured the survival of Bronte’s work. This isn’t a critique of on-screen sexuality, erotic cinema can be radical. But without substance, it feels ornamental.
Fennell continues a Hollywood tradition: smoothing out Heathcliff’s vulnerability and psychological complexity into a morally simplified romance. Peter Kosminsky’s 1992 adaptation exemplifies this approach, where Heathcliff being “as dark as if it came from the devil” is interpreted metaphorically. This resulted in a brooding anti-hero, portrayed by Ralph Fiennes, whose charisma neutralises Heathcliff’s supposed ostracisation.
By trimming the novel’s brutal content, Kosminsky focalises his star-crossed lovers against a romanticised countryside backdrop. Here, Heathcliff and Catherine aren’t political, just tragic: she dies melodramatically in his arms, and with her, Brontë’s intention of addressing social cruelty.
In stark contrast to both versions, Andrea Arnold’s 2011 adaptation, excels precisely for its refusal to romanticise tragedy, producing an authentic, domestic sincerity between Heathcliff and Catherine.
Arnold racialises Heathcliff through James Howson, foregrounding Brontë’s preoccupation with otherness in a way that no major adaptation had. Here, his marginalisation is not an abstract gold-studded suggestion, it is embodied and inescapable. Every slur, every blow at the hands of Hindley reinforces his social exclusion, showing that his rage is learnt, not innate. By comparison, Fennell’s Heathcliff experiences zero systemic oppression and is swiftly given the Byronic hero treatment. His anger materialises in stylised, BDSM-tinged sequences that aestheticise violence, rather than being grounded in context.
Arnold’s gritty depiction of the moors, grounded in Gothic realism heightens the couple’s feral, intimate desires. Natural lighting, handheld camerawork and the harsh hiss of wind against skin immerse the audience within the inhospitable realities of the 18th century. Instead of a pop score telling us how to feel, lingering shots let emotions simmer, amidst the wuthering, wuthering heights. Despite sparse dialogue, their fleeting touches and electric gazes show that Heathcliff’s romantic yearning is also entangled with a desperation for dignity in a world that refuses him.
Yet across multiple decades and directors, these adaptations ultimately testify to the lasting brilliance of Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. A tale of obsession, rage and otherness that still captivates nearly two centuries later.
Words by Sara Raasen.
Featured Image courtesy of Ethan Ridd via Unsplash. No changes have been made to this image. Image licence found here.
