Emerald Fennell’s latest cinematic venture, "Wuthering Heights," has arrived with a thunderclap of controversy, dazzling visuals, and more than a few raised eyebrows. Released and reviewed on February 13, 2026, this adaptation of Emily Brontë’s 1847 classic novel has become a lightning rod for debate among critics, scholars, and legions of passionate fans—especially those active in online communities like BookTok. With Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi cast as the doomed lovers Catherine and Heathcliff, Fennell’s film is not just another retelling; it’s a bold, divisive reimagining that both embraces and discards the spirit of its source material.
Right from the outset, Warner Bros. has made it clear this isn’t your grandmother’s "Wuthering Heights." In a move that’s as much about branding as it is about artistic intent, the studio has requested that writers refer to the film with quotation marks—"Wuthering Heights"—to underscore its status as a distinct interpretation rather than a faithful recreation. According to a review published on February 13, 2026, this is a preemptive defense against the inevitable backlash from literary purists and internet critics, who are likely to take issue with Fennell’s creative liberties.
The film opens with a scene that is as jarring as it is unforgettable: a public hanging, where the crowd is less horrified by the execution than fascinated by the condemned man’s posthumous erection. As one observer in the crowd gleefully points out, "It’s fuckin’ ‘angin’ day!" This bawdy, irreverent tone sets the stage for a movie that is as much about sex and spectacle as it is about the pain and passion at the heart of Brontë’s novel. According to Shakefire, Fennell’s adaptation is determined to make sex and death synonymous, weaving them together in a tapestry of desire and destruction.
Fennell’s vision is unapologetically modern and stylized. The Yorkshire Moors are rendered with an indulgent, almost surreal cinematography, and the set design is nothing short of extravagant. Edgar Linton’s mansion, for instance, is a riot of color and lavish decoration, while the costumes evoke a decadent, otherworldly atmosphere. As Shakefire noted, "Edgar’s mansion oozes character with its colorful rooms decorated lavishly from floor to ceiling. It’s grandiose and mesmerizing." The film’s visual feast is undeniable, but beneath the surface, cracks begin to appear.
The story itself follows familiar beats: Young Catherine Earnshaw lives at the Wuthering Heights estate with her alcoholic father and the loyal servant Nelly. One day, Mr. Earnshaw brings home a boy from the streets—Heathcliff—who is initially treated as Catherine’s "pet." The two form a close bond, with Heathcliff taking the blame for Catherine’s misdeeds and enduring beatings meant for her. Their childhood love, however, is soon tested by the harsh realities of class and money. Catherine, ever pragmatic, chooses to marry the wealthy Edgar Linton, while a heartbroken Heathcliff disappears, only to return years later with newfound wealth and a burning desire to rekindle their romance.
But this is where Fennell’s adaptation diverges sharply from Brontë’s original. As TIME observed, "Fennell has said that her version is intended not as a faithful re-creation but a reimagining, a good starting point for any adaptation." The film leans heavily into the physical aspects of Catherine and Heathcliff’s relationship, with provocative scenes involving food, sex, and even slapstick humor. There’s even a moment where the characters engage in raw egg pranks, as if channeling a Mad Magazine parody rather than a Victorian melodrama. Yet, for all its sensuality, the film is criticized for lacking true carnality; their encounters, according to TIME, "bump along methodically, PowerPoint-style."
Many critics argue that Fennell’s "Wuthering Heights" is all surface and no substance. The deeper themes of Brontë’s novel—class, ethnicity, societal strictures, and the corrosive nature of obsession—are largely glossed over in favor of steamy visuals and repetitive make-out scenes. As Shakefire put it, "The eroticism quickly wears off, and the film doesn’t know what to do without it. The back half struggles to keep up the intensity with a montage of empty make out scenes that become repetitive after a while." The film’s inability to move beyond its lustful veneer has left some viewers craving the emotional and intellectual sustenance of Brontë’s original work.
It’s not as though Fennell is alone in taking liberties with "Wuthering Heights." The novel has been adapted countless times since the first known film version in 1920, with settings ranging from Japan to California, and even Bollywood. Each adaptation brings its own flavor, and some have been praised for their faithfulness or inventiveness. Andrea Arnold’s 2011 version, for example, cast Heathcliff as a Black man to emphasize his outsider status, while William Wyler’s 1939 classic focused on character depth and emotional resonance. Yet, as TIME points out, Fennell’s film "barely holds a dripping, gothic candle to any of the others," substituting style for substance and shock for sincerity.
Warner Bros.’ insistence on quotation marks is more than a marketing gimmick; it’s a tacit admission that this "Wuthering Heights" is less an adaptation and more an act of creative vandalism—an Ecce Homo of literary cinema, as one critic wryly noted. The analogy is apt: just as the infamous fresco restoration left the image barely recognizable, Fennell’s film smooths over the detail and complexity of Brontë’s novel, leaving behind a glossy but hollow shell.
The performances of Robbie and Elordi are, at times, compelling. Their chemistry is undeniable, and both actors do their best to navigate the film’s whiplash shifts in tone. Still, they are hamstrung by a script that oscillates between broad comedy and overwrought tragedy, never quite finding its footing. As noted in one review, "Robbie and Elordi are caught in a trap: Their characters never show organic growth or consistency, yet they must spend scenes desperately searching for a way to accommodate their director as she flails."
For all its flaws, Fennell’s "Wuthering Heights" is a fascinating cultural artifact—a mirror reflecting both the anxieties and appetites of our current moment. It’s a film that dares to ask: What happens when you strip a classic of its context and meaning, and replace it with spectacle and sensation? The answer, it seems, is a movie that will be debated, dissected, and perhaps even reviled, but never ignored.
In the end, Fennell’s adaptation may not satisfy purists or win over the BookTok crowd, but it has certainly succeeded in reigniting the conversation about what it means to adapt a beloved work of literature for a new generation. Whether you love it, hate it, or simply can’t look away, "Wuthering Heights" is a cinematic experience that leaves its mark—however indelible or infamous that mark may be.