I do not intend to mince words or present myself, or my opinions, of this matter as vague in any capacity so I will be upfront in admitting: There is not a director currently working in the modern film industry that I resent more than Emerald Fennell. Much to my chagrin, the former actress-turned-filmmaker has, not so subtly, left quite the impression on popular culture in the better part of the last half decade. With her short but ever-expanding filmography of films I like to describe as “incessantly uncouth and sexlessly vulgar,” Fennel has cleverly duped a very specific but easily recognizable crowd of people that either: A) don’t have sex in the first place, or B) have the kind of milquetoast, plainly-vanilla sex lives that would make Fennel’s trademark brand of artificial eroticism seem unthinkably risque. For me, 2023’s “Saltburn” seemed irritably insistent in its own raunchiness, almost to the point where these eye dropping scenes of erogenous taboo become reduced to shockingly tame portrayals of inauthenticity. Naturally, my expectations for her upcoming adaptation of a classic gothic novel were cautious to say the least.

2026’s “Wuthering Heights” can be summarized quite aptly by a certain idiom that seems to punctuate itself further and further into our collective subconscious, as dreams of obsessive fitness and Ozempic firmly establish grasps onto our cultural psyche — “Everyone Is Beautiful and No One Is Horny”. The female lead of the film, Catherine Earnshaw, characterized in the book as an 18-year-old brunette tomboy of humble means, is played by a 35-year-old Margot Robbie, still blonde. This is still less offensive than Jacob Elordi’s casting as Heathcliff. Talented actor that he is, it is evident from his first appearance on screen that such a casting was purely aesthetic, essentially placing an overly tall, brooding Ken doll in the shoes of such a polarizing character to mask the failing nuance and complexity of his performance. Barring the confusing racial semantics that have marred “Wuthering Heights” since pre-production, Fennell’s casting reflects a broader misunderstanding of the original text and a strange fascination with artificial eroticism. Margot Robbie is hot. Jacob Elordi is hot. These are two objective facts, yet their performances and chemistry are so jarringly sexless. 

A film that has spent the better part of a year marketing itself as a squeamishly bawdy gothic romance with a gruesomely sexual third act we have to pretend to be shocked by (to paraphrase Tina Fey) fails when said sexuality presented on screen is completely and utterly devoid of any kind of risk. The sanitized eroticism of “Wuthering Heights” — the fingers in mouths, ripped bodices, postmortem erections, whip lashings, stable BDSM and pet-play — all end up as sterile, pandering mischaracterizations of the gothic romance rather than a transgressive, stern adaptation. Fennell’s continuous attempts to appear as such grow more and more tired by the film, and “Wuthering Heights” was the most offensive instance for me thus far.

That is not to say “Wuthering Heights” is a terrible movie.

There are a handful of very inventive, and frankly, breathtaking shots I was really struck by. This much should be attributed to Fennell’s DP, the talented Linus Sandgren. Unfortunately, Fennell’s direction is so glaringly unsure for so much of this film that we spend entirely too much or too little time with the majority of these aforementioned great shots. I found the pacing, particularly the third act, to be a nightmare as well. Fennell’s maximalist approach can lend itself to certain sets and scripts better than others, but for a large majority of this film, not aided in the slightest by Charli XCX’s original score (not even gonna go there), I felt like I was watching a 130-minute-long narrative music video.

Again, there will be 100 movies that are going to come out this year that will be much worse than this film. What was so strikingly painful in my viewing experience was just how artificial and plastic much of this film’s aesthetic ended up being. It frustrated me more than most of her filmography. Despite preparing myself for a hatewatch, I actually went into “Wuthering Heights” wanting to be shocked, wanting to be disgusted by some lascivious sexuality, hoping Fennell could finally cross that line and make the film she has been so timidly flirting with her whole career. Instead, I left the theater disappointed but not surprised, offensively bored and dejectedly vindicated. Sometimes, when you’re born to a famous jewelry designer, there are certain human experiences that you’ll never really get a hold of.