Emerald Fennell’s adaptation of Wuthering Heights is, at its core, a very basic retelling of a novel that is anything but. Stripped of its narrative complexity, its generational cruelty, and its social and racial unease, the film flattens Brontë’s vicious, unsettling masterpiece into something that feels closer to fan fiction than faithful reinterpretation.

The most immediate loss is structural. Brontë’s novel is defined by its framing devices; by mediation, distance, and unreliable narration. Removing Nelly Dean as narrator is not a neutral choice; it fundamentally alters the moral texture of the story. Without Nelly’s judgement, complicity, and exhaustion, the film loses its sense of consequence. What remains is a direct, romanticised telling that smooths over the novel’s cruelty rather than interrogating it.

Margot Robbie is, as ever, a phenomenal actress, but chemistry is not something that can be willed into existence. Her Catherine and Jacob Elordi’s Heathcliff never quite ignite. I still cried, so clearly something emotional landed, but it felt more like grief for the source material than belief in their relationship. Elordi can do an accent, technically, but the performance has the faint air of a director hearing it once and saying, “Yeah, that’ll do.” He is undeniably gorgeous, but he never convinces as Heathcliff. Frankly, he’d make an excellent Darcy.