When I heard Emerald Fennell was about to unleash an adaptation of WUTHERING HEIGHTS, I was intrigued. A lot of people didn’t, but I did enjoy Saltburn (2023). Margo Robbie? Yes, please. Jacob Elordi? You betcha. Then I started really paying attention to what our girl Emerald was saying– and got concerned. Not gonna go into details (those will show up later), but ouch. Therefore, I decided to do something more interesting than just dismantle Fennell’s vision. Let’s stack her “content” up against previous attempts at tackling Brontë’s shenanigans.
Cinema and its subsidiaries have had an obsession with WUTHERING HEIGHTS since its inception. Perhaps not as big, but close enough to Romeo & Juliet to question its collective reading comprehension. Most have missed the point since the first attempt. Now, huge disclaimer, I’ve never read the actual novel. My knowledge comes from the whining and bashing of those claiming the 2026 iteration betrays the source material.
You probably wonder why I have an opinion on the matter. It’s simple; I’m not facing any of the versions of the story we’re about to explore as adaptations of a book. To me, these are remakes of the 1939 movie. The question Old Academy Anew wishes to explore in every installment is, “Can this old Hollywood movie be made today?” Here we have the most vivid example of an answer.
WUTHERING HEIGHTS HAS ALWAYS BEEN ABOUT HORRIBLE PEOPLE DOING HORRIBLE THINGS, REGARDLESS OF MEDIUM.
Now, the horrible level changes with the production era, as we will soon see. According to my sources, our three contenders avoid the parts regarding the second generation in the book. This’d be considered hearsay in a court of law, but I’m gonna fukken run with it. Also, our triumvirate picks and chooses not just what characters they keep but their function within the story, which, in most cases, is, once again, according to the time of filming.
According to Google, the earliest screen adaptation of WUTHERING HEIGHTS is a 1920s silent film. No copy survives, so it’s become the stuff of legend. Brontë’s most famous early version is the 1939 film starring Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon, our origin story for this exploration. As per usual, swearing, rants, and controversial (non-straight, biracial loudmouths’) opinions warning. You have been disclaimer’d.
1939 – THE SPOOKY APPROACH
The film starts with a quick situational dump card. Yorkshire Moors, England. 100 years ago. Snowstorm. Only a lost stranger would dare. Bleak and desolate Wuthering Heights. We see an individual braving the storm in a snow-covered cloak and top hat with only a cane/staff to help him. Effortlessly, he opens the door to a house that doesn’t belong to him. Mastiffs “technically” attack the intruder, and he promptly calls the owner to remove his beasts. He crosses the dilapidated place to a room with a roaring fire and four gaunt-as-the-place people. The fact that this is a black-and-white film only exacerbates its gray features.
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT WUTHERING HEIGHTS 1939 THAT KEEPS BUFFETING BETWEEN “A CHRISTMAS CAROL” AND SOME “CONFEDERATED SOUTH” REIMAGINING.
Confirming Mr. Heathcliff’s (Laurence Fukken Olivier) presence, the newcomer introduces himself as Mr. Lockwood, Heathcliff’s new tenant at The Grange. The Grange means nothing right now; it’ll speak of ominous implications for the story later. Lockwood asks for a guide to his actual destination because he got lost in the storm. Heathcliff exposes his rudeness by denying Lockwood’s request and reluctantly allowing him to stay the night. Never mind that he’s been yelling at his dogs for no logical reason the whole time like a fucking lunatic. #JusticeForTheDemonDoggos
Because the plot demands it, a luggage-less Lockwood is “accommodated” in an until-that-moment sealed shut bridal room. All this so a spirit can call out later from outside storm-rattled windows. A frightened Lockwood alerts the house to the phantom presence; Heathcliff runs into the storm in a fit of melodramatic madness in search of his long-lost bride. It’s important to mention the current Mrs. Heathcliff is there, but no one gives a flying bedpan about her. Heathcliff’s histrionics unleash the bulk of the movie.
The old Housekeeper (with an incongruently youthful voice) recounts the tragedy to a nosy Lockwood. Returning from Liverpool, the then master of the house, Mr. Earnshaw, brings what he calls a “gift of God.” Said gift is a young boy. Earnshaw adds a counter to the godly present, “Although it is as dark as if it came from the devil.”
DARK IS NOT THE ONLY DESCRIPTOR ENDOWED TO HEATHCLIFF IN WUTHERING HEIGHTS; WHETHER IT’S ABOUT SKIN OR SPIRIT SEEMS TO BE UP FOR DEBATE, ESPECIALLY TODAY.
That weird exposition happens with an apparent neighbor, a doctor Kenneth. Earnshaw found the boy on the streets, and since no one “lay claim to him,” he brought him home. Gossipy Housekeeper, Ellen, takes the guttersnipe to get some food. The “gift” is introduced to the Earnshaw children along with other less humanly presents from the trip. First thing out of Cathy (Earnshaw’s daughter) is, “He’s dirty.”
After the “gift” is scrubbed, he’s to bunk with Earnshaw’s son, Hindley. “He can’t. I won’t let him,” blurts the brat. With surprising calmness, Earnshaw tells his children they need to learn to share with those less fortunate. The matter is settled then and there. We get a sweet moment when the orphan clings to Earnshaw in an affectionate hug. Ellen asks the boy’s name. Earnshaw answers, “We’ll call him Heathcliff.” Papa has no clue about the shit show he’s just staged.
Fun Fact: According to a Google search, from Liverpool to wherever the heck we are is 69 miles; the same search indicates this equals a 2-3 day journey on horseback. Fukken Earnshaw couldn’t at least clean the boy’s face in all that time?
We get childhood vignettes between Cathy, Heathcliff, and Hindley. Big Bro is an absolute asshole whenever he’s on camera. Cathy calls Heathcliff handsome; she sees him as the child of the Emperor of China with an Indian princess, abducted by sailors and brought to England.
I don’t know if that fantastical genealogy is from the source material or artistic license. I bet, today, some folks populating the social medias would demand our boy H looked like such a specific racial remix. Them yahoos forget kids’ imagination ain’t literal; neither in 1939 nor 2026.
ALL ITERATIONS OF WUTHERING HEIGHTS SEEM INTENDED ON GIVING HEATHCLIFF’S NAME THEIR OWN ORIGIN STORY WITHOUT RHYME OR REASON TO DO SO.
An undetermined amount of time passes, and Papa Earnshaw dies while the trio still looks like children. Hindley enters beast mode immediately and exiles Heathcliff to the servants’ quarters. Another time jump, and they’re now grown-ups. Older Bro has added drunkard to his shitty ways, along with “gypsy beggar” to his repertoire of epithets for Heathcliff.
Clumsy foreshadowing between Cathy (Merle Oberon) and Heathcliff precedes our duo hearing music coming from the Lintons, their neighbors. They trek to spy the party at The Grange. After jumping a walled fence, they gain a window to have better visuals for their future dreams. Cathy falls from the window, alerting the dogs, who rush them to the fence. One of the doggos latches onto Cathy’s ankle before she can go over the wall. Her screams as both are viciously mauled halt the festivities. Long story short, the party people don’t give a fuck about filthy Heathcliff, kicking him out. Same fuckers take pretty Cathy in to nurture her to health.
Heathcliff channels Mercutio as he’s thrown out with an updated version of “A plague on both your houses.” Several weird hand flourishes would have added to the gypsy mystique, but that’s just me. Also, I’m a cat person, so I’d never had dogs around me after those mongrels caused the inciting incident; a Rottweiler named Alex in my house notwithstanding.
SCRIPTWRITERS AND DIRECTORS COUNT ON YOUR KNOWLEDGE OF WUTHERING HEIGHTS TO DO HEAVY LIFTING/PATCH MULTIPLE INEVITABLE PLOT HOLES IN THEIR CREATIONS.
The 1939 version enforces suspension of disbelief to absurd extremes; in time lapses, geographical distances, human strength, and emotional choices. We Wu-He virgins around these here parts, you hear? Our lack of kinship with that mess only makes each fumble clearer and smellier.
According to mouthy Ellen, our heroine spends weeks at The Grange. When Edgar Linton (David Niven) brings her home, she’s a different woman; not just in appearance but also in “emotional depth.” Up to this point, she’s just been a feral, unladylike youth because there’s no woman of grace to guide her. Isabella, the young Linton sister, has become that guiding spirit. A simping Edgar is but a mere bonus to that stroke of luck.
We’re about thirty minutes into the movie, and there’s still an hour and a change to go. At this point, I have zero sympathy for any character. And that won’t change by the end of the movie. Meanwhile, Edgar manages to put his foot in his mouth by saying something disparaging about our boy H. Cathy clutches her pearls at the offense and kicks him out of the manor.
Catherine changes into old clothes, and our duo finds their old childhood spot in the moors and talks. Heathcliff recounts how, upon leaving Cathy at The Grange he ran to Liverpool. He embarked on a ship to New Orleans, but the tide kept it from leaving. Stuck there, he thought of the years and years ahead without her and jumped overboard, swimming back to shore.
1939 AIN’T THE ONLY VERSION OF WUTHERING HEIGHTS WITH A CATHY DEBATING BETWEEN LOVE AND COMFORT AFTER A TASTE OF THE GOOD LIFE WITH THE LINTONS.
The problem is, as lengthy as all the movies are, none ever takes the time to show us love; we only get childish infatuation. Nevertheless, each movie expects us to root for that like it’s a great love story. Balderdash.
Back to Twiddleheath and Twiddlecathy, our heroine is getting ready for a party at the Lintons. As per usual, the two dumb-dumbs argue. Heathcliff proceeds to enact emotional hara-kiri by cutting his hands on a broken window. But not in front of Cathy, he ain’t got the Co & Jones to traumatize her like that. Nosy Ellen enters the scene to tend to H’s wounds as Cathy returns, brimming with the news of Edgar’s proposal. Hidden, Heathcliff hears most of the conversation, but not the part where Cathcat confesses HER love for him.
Amid a thunderstorm H runs away like the fukken drama queen that he is. The other idiot, equally dramatic, chases after him and gets lost in the almost hurricane-like storm. Hindley, who had been absent for most of their grown-up screen time, decides to show up. Busybody Ellen begs him to join the search parties (yes, plural). Asshole Supreme requests a bottle to celebrate the disappearance of both morons. I could certainly join that toast with zero problem. And of course, Edgar “The Simp” Linton is the one to find Wetcath, taking her to The Grange. An inevitably undetermined amount of time passes between recuperation and courtship, leading to The Simp and The Delusional marrying.
IN WUTHERING HEIGHTS1939, HEATHCLIFF DOES A COUNT OF MONTECRISTO AND REAPPEARS POLISHED AND WEALTHY. FUNNY HOW BOTH STORIES WERE CONCOCTED AROUND THE SAME TIME, JUST AN ENGLISH CHANNEL APART.
A blink and you miss it moment gives us a Linton Senior before Heathcliff comes a-knocking. Somehow snoopy Ellen has inserted herself into Cathy’s new household; she informs the mistress that our dude’s here for a visit. Cathcat tells her to send him away, but Edgar wants to see the improved material.
Another completely unexpected thing is Heathcliff calling Edgar– “Sir” Linton as they greeted each other. Mind you, Oliviercliff might as well be of the Clan Solo because dude never has a last name. Also, that “sir” could be just the scriptwriters trying to give this mess an English flavor, since it looks like it’s happening in Savanah, Georgia, and not in Yorkshire. Upon meeting, H brings up the childhood “son of an emperor and a princess” just to diddle Cathtwat’s memory cave. He ain’t only evil; he’s petty too. Alright, let’s wrap this shit up ‘cause we still have two more movies to destroy, I mean, explore.
A rather ham-fisted bit of foreshadowing mentions Isabella’s unmarried status. This is followed by her thinking that Hman is an absolute snack. Come on, it’s Laurence Olivier– dude was a snack even in tattered clothes. Nevertheless, to fuck with his former flame even more, H marries Isabella. He also now owns Wuthering Heights because Drunken Bro gambled the property away. Heathcliff allows Hindley to remain under his lost roof just to torment that horrible piece of shit. Well, anyone under that roof ends up miserable, as we saw in the movie’s opening.
Unable to handle Heathcliff up to the hilt in another woman, Cathy falls gravely ill. Meddlesome Ellen goes to Wuthering Heights to ask Isabella to be by her brother’s side. She doesn’t explain why, but H ain’t stupid and clocks the reason.
AS WITH MOST TRAGEDIES PUT TO SCREEN, WUTHERING HEIGHTS 1939 TRIES TO OBFUSCATE ITS ENDING WITH THE PROTAGONISTS WALKING HAND IN HAND INTO THE GREAT BEYOND.
Heathcliff gains Cathy’s sickbed. For a few moments alone, both purple prose the fuck out of each other. Edgar, always-in-the-way Ellen, and the doctor (from Heathcliff’s arrival as a kid) complete the tableau as our heroine expires.
Okay, give me one logical reason for Ellen to be back in Wuthering Heights. Why is she the mouthpiece to dump the story on Lockwood? Had she been an actual spirit tied to the place, that spooky vibe of the beginning would’ve made sense. Heck, even Isabella, still tramped in that hellhole, would’ve been a better vehicle. How Oliviercliff became the owner of The Grange is never explained/hinted at either! Dang it.
Bunkum. 6 out of 10. This thing cannot stand on its own without the source material running interference to keep it afloat. Next!
1970 – THE HIPPIE REMNANTS
We’re confronting this one as a remake of the 1939 film; thus, our focus shall be– not in their similarities but their contradictions. The film opens with Catherine’s (Anna Calder-Marshall) burial. In certain of our homework, the camera focuses on Edgar Linton (Ian Ogilvy) and Heathcliff (Timothy Dalton). Both give each other the evil eye from a distance. A clergyman drones words of solace as incontrovertible extras pretend to be stricken.
WUTHERING HEIGHTS 1970 IS VISUALLY MORE BRITISH THAN THE PREVIOUS ONE; YET, IT STILL DOESN’T FEEL LIKE IT’S HAPPENING IN THE 1800S.
Flung into the past, a voice over informs us that the family eagerly awaits Mr. Earnshaw’s return from Liverpool. The narrator info-dumps us, the viewer; there’s no Lockwood in this one. She also ain’t an old hag but a young servant, around the Earnshaw children’s age. We get a Mrs. Earnshaw this time. “The gift of God” is more surprising since the little imp sits on Earnshaw’s lap under his cloak. Make of that image what you may. Obviously, the kid has dirt on his face because he must look unkempt. Contrary to the 1939 sulky introduction, this version of the guttersnipe seems alive and mischievous. He’s also visibly younger. On this round, the dark-devil combo sentence is blurted by Mrs. Earnshaw. Let the source material flow.
The Earnshaws have a very loaded “conversation.” We learn they lost a son. The lady of the house suspects the newcomer is the fruit of her husband’s shenanigans in Liverpool. As before, Nellie, the narrator (not a busybody named Ellen), asks for the kid’s name. Papa Earnshaw gives him the name of their dead child, Heathcliff. Catherine is barely a body occupying space in this introduction; all the action focuses on Hindley, throwing a tantrum because (according to him) Heathcliff broke HIS gift. With zero subtlety, we’re shown Earnshaw does not like his older son.
Because this version seems to be taking cues from Disney, Mrs. Earnshaw dies of some undisclosed malady, but not before poisoning Hindley against the usurper Heathcliff. Plot contrivances arise to send Hindley to study away. In a weird quirk, the film implies some sort of affection/attraction between Nellie and Big Bro as he departs. Is he going to Liverpool, since Brontë seems to have no knowledge of other cities in Britain? Shrug. After a single one-minute Cathy-Heathcliff childhood vignette, everybody is (at minimum) ten years older.
IF DICKEN’S OLIVER TWIST AND THE MUSICAL HAIR HAD A CHILD YOU’D SEE ITS DNA SPLATTERED ALL OVER WUTHERING HEIGHTS 1970.
After being rude to her dad for no reason, Cathcat decides to sing; her singing is so awful that the poor old man dies. Whether due to his father’s death or because it was time to return, Hindley pops back. Married. Poor, hopeful Nellie. Big Bro wasn’t around long enough to be as asshole-y as he’s meant to be; now, ’em skid-marked flags shoot up lickety-split. Why a woman (who seems so sweet) married such a sour-looking man is anyone’s guess.
There are a lot of people around when Hindley arrives. It’s never clear if these are servants or just nosy bystanders. We usually only see Hman, Nellie, and Joseph around, so this is a weird visual choice for the moment. And all those extraneous extras keep looking like something ominous is about to happen, which doesn’t.
We get a lot of telling with zilch of showing to foreshadow Daltoncliff’s inevitable disappearance. This was also filmed way before we got Downton Abbey and understood British class separation. Hindley has come from wherever the fuck he was with harsh and divisive ideas. For one, ousting the servants from the master’s table; they’re to eat in the kitchen and sleep above the barn. We’re supposed to take offense here. Nellie certainly does, even if her role in the household remains nebulous.
The restructuring includes Heathcliff, who’s never been a servant but an adopted sibling. Funny enough, Catherine is madder than Hman at the loss of his status. Nevertheless, because the source material demands it, we end up at the Lintons.
IN ANOTHER ANACHRONISTIC FAUX PAS, THE LINTONS LOOK LIKE THEY BELONG IN VERSAILLES INSTEAD OF EFFING YORKSHIRE BECAUSE WUTHERING HEIGHTS 1970 HAS ZERO FASHION SENSE.
There’s no party this time. Just a sister practicing piano with her brother. Once again, we’re meant to know who these people are. In the only semi-comedic moment of this film, Cath–Cliff, dirty and disheveled, makes faces to scare the fancy siblings.
Isabella (duh) scrambles out of the room, screaming like a banshee. Edgar simply calls for servants to chase the intruders. As per usual, doggos get involved, and Catherine gets chewed. We get a Mother Linton this time, fingers crossed, she doesn’t die before the movie ends. Where, how, when, and why the siblings know/recognize Catherine is an unfathomable query. Well, it’s clearly plot armor or plot convenience.
True to form, H gets kicked out, and Cath remains to be doted upon. Hey, pretty girl privilege continues to be a thing. We know where this is going, so let’s make haste. After many weeks, Miss Earnshaw returns better dressed and armed with gentile manners. The “dirty” commentary we didn’t get when Catherine was a child is blurted out here. Before, they were dirty and feral together; now he’s become something alien to her. Also, all the abuse Hindley couldn’t deliver to Hman during childhood is unleashed now.
Francis, Hindley’s wife, has a baby and dies not long after because the script needs her out of the way. She can’t be there for the wild gambling parties and hookers needed to advance the plot. The one thing I can give this film is Daltoncliff’s devolution; he gets more disheveled and creepier-looking with each passing minute. And his face is covered in so much soot and dirt– he’d be cancelled today. #IYKYK
THERE’S A PREACHY UNDERTONE TO WUTHERING HEIGHTS 1970– WITH LOTS OF PRAYING, SCRIPTURE QUOTING, AND VICAR INVOLVEMENT WITHOUT REAL PURPOSE TO THE PLOT.
And yet, the film spends a lot of time focusing on Hindley’s ungodly downward spiral. Some would say he’s grieving his wife; shippers would say he’s lashing out against his attraction to Heathcliff. I don’t want everything to be gay. Still, a weird subtext wafts from Hindley that could absolutely be considered homoerotic. At some point, he even says, “I never want to see another woman in this house.” Can’t wait for the fanfiction seeping into the 2026 movie.
Forty-some minutes in, we reach the inescapable miscommunication trope. Hman hears Cathtwat talking about the proposal and runs like a fucking idiot. As Nellie and Catherine discover his absence, we learn the 1970s version’s twist. Yes, Catherine will marry Linton, but only to use his money to escape with Heathcliff. Dun dun dun.
Apparently, the budget couldn’t summon a hurricane-like storm. They settle for freezing cold, symbolized by a smattering of snowflakes. Wetcath languishes in her sick bed until Mother Linton bursts in to rescue her. Edgar in tow (of course) ’cause dude is a simp.
An undetermined amount of time later, Heathcliff unceremoniously shows up at Wuthering Heights, better dressed and armed with gentile manners. Count of Montecristo-ing harder than Lawrence Olivier, Dalton sits to play cards with his former brother.
Since the 1939 movie doesn’t have children, this one cannot have them either. The son (sweet Francis brought at the expense of her life) is already gone by the time Hman returns. This and CathCat’s marriage should be information Heathcliff knows beforehand. The recounting for the viewer, and a clumsy attempt at rapport between the two Hs. I’m not buying it.
TRYING TO PUT HIS OWN SPIN IN THE CHARACTER, DALTON CREATES A HEATHCLIFF MORE COUNT DRACULA THAN COUNT OF MONTECRISTO. SUCH WUTHERING HEIGHTS 1970 INTERPRETATION WILL REVERBERATE ALL THROUGH THE 2026 VERSION.
We hard cut from a manly gambling scene to Heathcliff interrupting a Linton’s meal. Nellie, who, as per usual, has wormed her way after Catherine, announces his arrival. As a simp-master as this Edgar is, he ain’t all smiles and polite society welcoming; certainly not a fan of his wife getting all giddy about Heathcliff’s return. Amid Catherine and Heathcliff purple-prosing at the table, we learn dude has been away for three years. Isabella gobbles the exchange like a Tumblr shipper; Edgar clearly wants to punch the intruder. Also, Mama and Papa Linton are suspiciously absent. Guess they went the Disney way… off camera.
We go through the paces of dude gambling, Catherine chasing, and Isabella ensnaring. Nellie, channeling the old hag from 1939, gets in the way. It all reaches a boiling point as Twiddleheath and Twiddlecathy argue about Isabella. Nellie goes babbling to Edgar. A fight ensues. Heathcliff runs for his life, terrorizing the help on his way out. Not gonna lie, it was a cool moment in an otherwise boring film.
Encouraged by the plot, Isabella turns into a supreme asshole. Remember, all these films are about horrible people being supreme pieces of shit. Heathcliff’s been manhandling Isabella, but she relishes that kind of attention. Edgar warns her. She doesn’t give a fuck; even without a dowry, she’ll give Daltoncliff something Edgar never had. Love. We’re talking about actual Love, not punani. Because we soon discover Catherine is preggers.
That drama queen has been doing her best to make herself sick after the previous fight. Not eating and such until Nellie raises the alarm. The doctor says the pregnancy is four to five months along. Edgar doesn’t seem concerned about the child’s paternity. Mostly because words about time in this movie never really mean anything.
WHILE IN 1939 THE NARRATOR WAS JUST A MEDDLESOME HAG, IN WUTHERING HEIGHTS 1970, NELLIE HAS A SIGNIFICANTLY MORE UNDEFINABLE ROLE: ANTAGONIST, CONFIDENT, NURTURER, BYOTCH, PUNCHING BAG.
Isabella elopes with Heathcliff, and, when they return from wherever the fuck they were, hell breaks loose. Along with Nellie, the character of Joseph has been an odd one here. Visibly older than others and always mean-mugging Heathcliff without prompting. Now that our dude’s a master of Wuthering Heights, Joseph seems more amenable. He delivers the latest gossip, adding that Edgar is waiting to see the color of the kid’s eyes to be sure. My money’s on Joseph being a shit-stirrer because nothing in Linton’s behavior points to such a thing.
Anyhoo, tired of a hellhole of her own making, Isabella beseeches her brother through Nellie. Edgar continues to be mad enough not to give a flying bedpan. When Nellie goes to Wu-He to deliver the “fuck you” message, Heathcliff seizes his opportunity.
Channeling La Celestina, Nellie takes Daltoncliff to a bedridden and still preggers Catherine. Both movies have done their fair share of obnoxious purple prose. The repetition of certain phrases in both leads me to believe these are yanked from the source material. That doesn’t lessen how stupid they always sound; they not only bring any momentum to a halt, but their contrast with other exchanges is jarring. Interestingly, the word “moors” is barely mentioned in 1970, while it was a fixture of the 1939 iteration.
So we get to the part where Heathcliff meets a ready-to-die Catherine. Purple splooshes in dramatic ways until Nellie rushes in, announcing Edgar’s return. Plot might’ve gotten Cathy preggers, but we know it ain’t letting no kid live in this byotch. So this remake kills two birds with one stone. Learning of the dual demise, Heathcliff screams and smashes his forehead against a tree. Sure. Why the fuck no? Thus, we circle back to the opening burial.
WUTHERING HEIGHTS 1970 TAKES THE COWARD’S ROUTE AND ENDS JUST LIKE THE PREVIOUS MOVIE, ONLY CHANGING THE SEASON AND THE IMMEDIACY TO ADD SOME MILD FLAVORING.
Fukken Hindley doesn’t go to his sister’s burial. He waits for Heathcliff to shoot him at home, as he should’ve done when his mother kicked the bucket. Preceding his demise, Hman does something that Emerald Fennel steals and enhances for Saltburn (2023). We don’t know if Heathcliff gets home chasing a ghostly Catherine or just his imagination. Nevertheless, a spirit-Cathy beckons a spirit-Heathcliff as he dies, and both run down a hill.
My biggest problem with phantom Catherine is that nothing hints at the possibility of such a thing here. It’s basically Twilight’s New Moon (2009) all over again; you don’t know if Bella is having a psychotic episode or dude is astral projecting. Unless you read the fucking book, which is exactly my point. Shit needs to stand on its own, even if it’s an adaptation. At the end of the day, Isabella Swan got a better deal than Isabella Linton. I mentioned the musical Hair. Not because there are songs here, but aesthetics; even if this cinema release looks like a made-for-TV movie.
This cluster of fucks also gets 6 out of 10, but for different reasons. It’ll all be made clear as we reach the end.
*La Celestina: Or, the Tragi-comedy of Calisto and Melibea (1499) by Fernando de Rojas
2026 – FIFTY SHADES OF EMERALD
And thus the main course arrives. Neither as spicy as we thought, nor as deep as the film pretends to be. Fennell basks in her supposed cleverness by adding quotation marks to the title. See? It ain’t the WUTHERING HEIGHTS you know. I’m doing cheeky air quotes here. Girl, stop. You could’ve titled it anything else and added INSPIRED BY. Then it would’ve been a different story for critics, viewers, and shippers.
YOU CAN ACCUSE WUTHERING HEIGHTS 2026 OF ANYTHING BUT BEING UGLY. THE VISUALS ARE CHEF KISS THROUGHOUT, EVEN IF WHAT YOU’RE WATCHING MAKES NO SENSE WHATSOEVER.
Many didn’t like Netflix’s Persuasion (2022). Never mind it’s Bridgerton-fication. Perhaps it was Dakota Johnson fresh from her torrid Fifty Shades Of Eyeroll tour. Perchance, it was truly a bad Jane Austen adaptation. And yet, I had fun because I went in with zero fucking clues about the source material. To me, it stood on its own. Can we say the same about the quotation mark WUTHERING HEIGHTS quotation mark 2026? We ’bout to find out.
Why the fuck are we starting this movie with a hanging? Is she stealing from Les Misérables (2012) or Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (2006)? OMG, girl. You’re so edgy. So random. NOPE. It might’ve gotten a pass had it been a witch burning; as it stands, there’s no payoff for this Death Carnival. I know this is supposed to be about horrible people, but those from Wuthering Heights, not the whole fukken village. Are these mofos horny for justice or simply rotten inside?
To add insult to injury, there’s a lot of focus on the dying man’s erection. A hard dick that (mind you) looks faker than a thirst trap on social media. And facing the wrong way! If I start giving Fennell strikes, she’ll be out before the movie hits the 15-minute mark. A Bingo Card seems like the thing. Luckily, I don’t have enough fuckbeans to track the deluge of bullshit we’re about to face.
WUTHERING HEIGHTS 2026 IS BASICALLY A SMARTPHONE OS– REMOVING STUFF PEOPLE LIKE/UNDERSTAND TO ADD SHIT NO ONE ASKED FOR.
It’s been established that Mr. Earnshaw found Heathcliff in Liverpool. His true origin/background is always left to the imagination. Here comes the Green Gem and screws it (Amazon pose) against the gallows. A man (who cannot look more nomadic, knife-throwing, or land-pirate-y) drags a young boy through the hanging’s hoopla. We soon learn that the boy will grow to be Jacob Elordi.
“Charitable” Mr. Earnshaw took the boy from the hoop earring wearer, kicking him around. Catherine finds the future stud under a bed in a room with hanged-man dolls dangling from the ceiling. Subtext? Edge? Bullshit? I need to find a word different than bullshit; there’ll be lots needing that adjective up ahead.
In this “reimagining,” it is Catherine who gives Heathcliff his name, a passing mention of a dead brother as an excuse. BROTHER singular, and there’ll be no Hindley in this fever dream. Therefore, all the things the surviving brother was supposed to inflict on Heathcliff need to be outsourced to someone else. Guess the fuck who?
We get a Nellie (spelled Nelly) too. Not the narrator, but with a more definable reason for existing. A shitty piece of “as you know” dialogue spills the beans. The bastard child of a nobleman, her father paid Earnshaw to keep her out of sight; thus, she serves as Catherine’s Lady’s Companion. A function she seems unable to perform after Heathcliff’s appearance. The film tries to trick us into believing Hboy is better suited for Cathgirl’s manic energy. I call shenanigans. This aberration starts with the girls whooping at a freaking hanging. Not enough? Both galloped and pushed each other giddily on their way back home.
UPON HEATHCLIFF’S ARRIVAL, WUTHERING HEIGHTS 2026 TWISTS NELLY INTO AN ANTAGONIST FOR NO OTHER REASON THAN A SAD LACK OF IMAGINATION.
Fennell gives us about ten minutes of childhood antics. This alleged period of bliss ends with Twiddleheath taking a beating from Papa Earnshaw thanks to something Twiddlecathy did. The blood seeping into his shirt from his wounded back transitions us into adulthood.
Margo Robbie was about 26 in Suicide Squad (2016). We don’t need to know how old Harley Quinn is supposed to be. It doesn’t matter because she’s clearly an adult. In Barbie (2023), Margo plays the titular role, and that doll is a woman, not a girl. I don’t know how old Catherine Earnshaw is meant to be in Brontë’s novel; my money is on NOT a thirty-something. And Elordi (who was visually older during their childhood) is seven years Robbie’s junior. Make it make sense. Unluckily for Fennell, I’ve already watched two versions of this shit show; source material be damned.
Adulthood shenanigans begin with the arrival of new neighbors, the Lintons. Here, the next-door (five miles away) property is upgraded to its full name: Thrushcross Grange. Try to say that thing three times in a row. As our protagonists watch a caravan (echoing Heathcliff’s alleged ancestors), Catherine info-dumps. Fennell had the fabulous idea of not only removing any parental units but also sibling bonds. Isabella is now the bachelor Edgar Linton’s ward– whatever the fuck that might mean (WTFTMM) or imply. Also, dude made his fortune in textiles (WTFTMM again). Add to that our dumb-dumbs’ conversation about what they’d do with lots of money. Every other adaptation has given us visuals for this; Fennell couldn’t bother to show, so she settled for poor telling.
SINCE I’M A VERY CREATIVE PERSON, I COULD SEE WUTHERING HEIGHTS 2026 USING THE LINTONS’ EXTRAVAGANT SETTING AS PROOF OF THEIR NOUVEAU RICHE STATUS.
And in doing so, I might be way more charitable than Papa Earnshaw. And speaking of that old scrotum (before we zoom in on other stuff), Fennell doesn’t like him much. Papa is erratic, a drunkard, and there are too many hints at assault and molestation. Why did we need that here? It was the director/scriptwriter’s choice to delete Hindley. For what, just to continue a tired 2020s trend of all men being monsters? Unless they are hot, of course; then, they’re just misunderstood and brooding, not evil. Fuck that noise. Now, Papa ain’t the only one destroyed by Green Gem’s fanfiction fixation. But, we’ll get there, and fukken rant about it. Never fear.
A despondent Cathy moans because the Lintons haven’t invited her to their mansion yet. In a blink and you missed moment, Nelly (for whatever reason) studies notes with words like ARREARS and other similarly ominous wording. Is she an accountant now, too? Is Housekeeper a lateral move from Lady’s Companion? #AskingForAFriend I’m not a fan of this character, and Fennell worsens my apathy.
Around the 21-minute mark, we get our first pseudo-spicy visual. Elordcliff sat on a bunch of eggs left by Cathtwat as a prank. He fingers the yolks… The next day, he confronts her as she saucily eats sausages… For a couple of beats, 1990s bodice-ripper imagery conflates with TikTok dark romance edits; all passable visuals until a pig gets gutted and one of the maids huffs, “Harder.” Judgement brims my cup; I’m just going to verbalize it later.
NOT GONNA LIE, THE MESSIAH AESTHETIC LOOKS HOT ON ELORDI, BUT THAT DISTRACTION DOESN’T ENHANCE WUTHERING HEIGHTS 2026; IT POINTS OUT ALL ITS FLAWS HARDER.
We finally met the Bachelor Linton (Shazad Latif) and his ward (Alison Oliver). They drink tea in an opulent garden. Isabella effusively recounts details of the greatest, most romantic play she’s ever read: Romeo & Juliet. Sigh. That Verona Telenovela is a tragedy, not a freakin’ love story. And here I thought the previous movie was the last of the Twilight Saga propaganda.
A ghastly, most hideous, wild-eyed floating head over the fence prompts Isabella to scream in utter terror. Edgar proceeds to investigate the frightful apparition. He discovers Cathcat, who, after falling from the fence, strikes a nothing-to-see-here pose. Love at first fright? “Unfortunately,” a sprained ankle will keep our heroine “trapped” with the Lintons.
Since we’ve been here for about six thousand words already, I’m gonna speed run this fiction forgery. Still, before that, dishonorable mention to hints of 2026 cancellable stuff; Papa Earnshaw comments they can overlook Linton not being from the “top shelf” (WTFTMM), just like they did with Nelly. He’s talking about the only two race-swapped characters in the film. Should we be charitable or unleash our keyboards for battle?
We need to add that the first actual sexy time of this sultry, edgy film ain’t between our protagonists. It’s between Joseph (who’s kind of fine this time) and a mouthy maid. At first, you think he’s forcing her, but nah, it’s role play. They kinky. Plot demands that Cathy witness this session from Heathcliff’s barn room floorboards. Never mind why she ended up there, just that Hman proceeds to settle over her with his hard body. He covers his eyes and mouth. Obviously, to keep her silent when she gets startled by the staged violence below them.
FINGERED YOLK WON’T BE THE ONLY IMAGERY OPEN TO HEATED INTERPRETATION IN WUTHERING HEIGHTS 2026, FORCING US TO FACE A FLACCID DICHOTOMY BETWEEN ARTSY AND NAUGHTY. BTW, NONE WINS.
The romance writer in me got moved just once. After the barn incident, Catherine goes to the roughlands for some intimate exploration. Heathcliff catches her mid-climax. Embarrassed, she tries to flee, but stops when he laughs at her discomfort. The wind howls. She tells him this is his fault. He doesn’t understand. His questions are irritating. Her hand ends up covering his mouth. He inhales her completion and sucks those exploring fingers. “I have you now. I can follow you like a dog to the end of the world.” He grabs her by the corset, pulling her upward; their lips get closer. “Put me down.” Their eyes meet. “If you care for me at all, put me down.” Lips a hairbreadth away again. Heathcliff lowers Catherine. “Do not follow me.” She storms away, wind tousling her hair.
It never reaches that high again. Also, I don’t think the word “moors” is mentioned in this film once. Well, you know what’s coming. This Nelly channels the worst parts of all the Nellies before her; she intentionally guides Catherine to say the words that’d hurt hidden Heathcliff the most. Now, Cathtwat just told Nelly she’s never loved or been loved. I can absolutely see Nelly’s reason for silent retaliation. That doesn’t mean I agree; these are horrible, truly fucking horrible people.
We know the drill. Elordcliff leaves. Catherine marries Linton. We get an infantilized Isabella. What’s that? The Isabella thing? Yup. For whatever reason, Fennell decided to give us a stunted, swimming in an arrested development ward. Pay no mind to the ribbons and frilly pastel dresses, or the Zoey Deschanel over-impersonation. Well, she does look more like Moaning Myrtle,* but that’s neither here nor there. Isabella clings to Catherine’s femininity like a tick to a bare ankle.
AS WITH THE PREVIOUS FILMS, WUTHERING HEIGHTS 2026 ALSO HAS A COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIP WITH TIME FRAMES AND CONTINUITY ERRORS.
If the Isabella “character choice” was meant to be endearing or sweet, Fennell failed. It only reeks of creepy obsession. Add some sprinkles of self-harm just to make it more fucked up. I’m honestly surprised there weren’t more Sapphic undertones in that mess. Maybe unloved Nelly is the daughter of Lesbos in this tragic ditty. Obviously, the “sisterly” obsession turns into rivalry the moment The Count of Monteheathcliff shows up. But, before that, we need to learn that Catherine is carrying– with zero ambiguity about the father; this ain’t 1970.
Unleash purple Brontë prose as Twiddleheath and Twiddlecathy argue about Isabella. An absurdly jarring exchange because the film’s third-grade vocabulary ratchets to a besotted 1800s British reader without warning. The cruelty of all these idiots moves to decaying Wuthering Heights, where a decrepit version of Papa Earnshaw taunts Hman. “You look like a gentleman, but that’s not enough. You’re still just her pet,” and such. Dried Scrotum dies not long after that. Had Fennell been as edgy as she thinks she is, we’d have seen the Old Fart’s end by Heathcliff’s hand.
Cue rain, another argument, and after almost 90 fucking minutes, we get the first kiss of our two dumb-dumbs. What in the actual (Hallmark Channel movie) fuck? And we still have like 45 minutes to go. From here on, Fennell speed-runs all the spicy scenes she should have shown before. Yeah, I’m done. We know how this quote-on-quote adaptation/reimagining ends. Our writer/director doesn’t have the Co & Jones to innovate, enhance, or surprise. A pseud- BDSM subplot between Isabella and Heathcliff ain’t none of that. Yikes.
WUTHERING HEIGHTS 2026 IS ALL AESTHETICS AND ZERO SUBSTANCE. IF YOU’RE GONNA MAKE BAD CHOICES, AT LEAST BE INTENTIONAL.
Catherine miscarries and dies because this is a remake of previous films– not an adaptation of the source material. The cinema versions cannot go further than that. Boo-hoo. Sad sad. Amid stormy winds, Nelly rescues Isabella from Wuthering Heights. Perhaps there’s a Sapphic future to appease the shippers. I wouldn’t mind if Elordi and Latif went into an explosive Enemies-to-Lovers narrative; the two dudes obsessed with Cathtwat finding solace in each other. Ahem. At least that’d be something different.
Fennell’s worst failure is promoting her product as if it were booktok content. I praise you if you don’t know what those words mean. I rarely care about marketing, but all of it promised a 50 Shades of Grey bodice-ripper. She casts beautiful people, then does nothing with that beauty. I mean nothing substantial. Men directed 1939 and 1970; Fennell could have gone rogue and given us Heathcliff’s perspective.
All that time we spent on extravagant visuals at the Lintons should have been used to follow Elordcliff’s apotheosis. She even gave the returning mofo a hoop earring and a gold tooth. How many swashbuckling adventures did we miss? Papa Earnshaw could have brought Hman to the manor as his bastard child just to fuck with the household. Make our dumb-dumbs think they’re siblings, and that’s why they need to run from each other. Fennell styles herself as anarchic but doesn’t have the Co & Jones to concoct a truly forbidden love story.
The beastly mastiffs of yore are traded for a fuzzy Chihuahua that Isabella carries around like a ragdoll. Fennell just keeps hitting known beats with the wrong characters. Hunky dudes kneading dough on social media are way more evocative than whatever this film tried to be.
SUPERB VISUALS, PRETTY PEOPLE, AND A NICE SOUNDTRACK CANNOT SAVE WUTHERING HEIGHTS 2026. IMAGINE THAT.
The saddest part is that I needed to keep reminding myself that I wasn’t watching a Greta Gerwig movie. Here, Fennell’s signature feels like a forgery of the other. Perhaps it was Robbie. Maybe it was Maybelline. There are over 35 adaptations of Brontë’s masterpiece across film and television. I wonder how many the Green Gem watched for inspiration. Why not do the second generation’s arc? That would’ve been more compelling and fully metal. Far more entertaining than people all horned up at a stupid hanging. Or a finger inserted in gelatin to reach a dead fish’s mouth. C’mon. Be serious.
Kudos to Owen Cooper and Charlotte Mellington, who played young Heathcliff and Catherine. They stole the show; I’d rather have more of them and less Robbie/Elordi. May they have long and prosperous careers.
As I mentioned before, our three subjects have a childhood “episode” because apparently the source materials demand it. None of these characters (they barely count as people) surges from them unscathed. We’re meant to believe that Catherine loves Heathcliff because… they grew up together? A man and a woman cannot be platonic if they’re in close proximity? Unless one or both are ugly, then there’s no other option.
Catherine and Heathcliff are both possessive individuals; the story romanticizes their fuckery with words (never real actions) and calls it love. And Fennell is the worst offender of the bunch. She turns the childhood companionship into sudden lust. Each beautiful visual means nothing because there’s no context to support it. The film wants to be pretty and deep, but have zero depth in the end.
ALMOST EVERYTHING IN WUTHERING HEIGHTS 2026 REMINDS YOU OF SOMETHING YOU HAVE SEEN OR FELT BEFORE– NOT ONLY IN PREVIOUS ITERATIONS BUT OTHER FILMS. THE TERM EMOTIONAL PLAGIARISM COMES TO MIND.
My single thumbs up would be that Fennell kept every character (whether male or female) as an irredeemable asshole. Maybe it’s just bad/lazy writing. The good thing about fanfiction is that the reader knows the characters. You just have to put a known entity in new situations; the heavy lifting of endearing you to the character is already been done. Fennell takes the easiest fanfictional road and delivers a bunch of postcards with stolen inspirational quotes.
By the way, WUTHERING is an old English word meaning “blowing strongly with a roaring sound.” So Brontë, consciously or unconsciously, technically entitled this mess SCREAMING HILLS. That’s a title our last director/scriptwriter should have snatched.
In the end, the question is: can you remake the 1939 movie in 2026? Or even the 1970 one? Emerald Fennell answered “a soft maybe” with the dying stertors of a hanged man. 7 out of 10. What can I say? I’m shallow when it comes to pretty people.
*Moaning Myrtle: the ghost of a dead student in the Harry Potter movies/books
Wuthering Heights 1939 and 1970 are available on Tubi. 2026 ain’t streamable yet, but PVOD will be available soon.