New WUTHERING HEIGHTS is gorgeous- but don't expect Bronte's novel

“Be with me always, take any form, drive me mad.”

When I left the 1 p.m. showing of Wuthering Heights, directed by Emerald Fennell, at ICON Cinema, I stood as the credits rolled while rows of teenage girls sniffled and sobbed. Older viewers (my own age) dabbed at wet eyes, visibly fanned by the intensity. Meanwhile, the generation that once had Heathcliffs and Catherines of their own looked both bewildered and emotionally leveled.

Wuthering Heights tells the story of Catherine Earnshaw (a never-better Margot Robbie) and her tumultuous, damning relationship with Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi, now firmly cemented as a leading-man sex icon), set against the fog-swept vastness of the Yorkshire moors.

Fennell’s 2026 adaptation of Wuthering Heights has surfed a wave of hysteria ever since its announcement—horny anticipation colliding with literary scorn. Much of that dates back to the casting of Elordi and Robbie, the stylization of the title (“Wuthering Heights”), and the steamy, relentlessly smoldering trailers. Add in a soundtrack by British hyper-pop provocateur Charli XCX, architect of 2024’s infamous “Brat Summer,” and the discourse was guaranteed to combust. Cocaine chic, rave excess, and unapologetic bad behavior collided with the glossy pink “Just a girl” Barbie aesthetic of the same year—splitting modern womanhood in two with the severity of the Great East–West Catholic Schism, Instagram edition.

Now, in February 2026, Heights has stormed the box office and once again split critics and audiences alike. On Rotten Tomatoes, the film sits at a 59% “Rotten” critic score, while audiences rate it at 77%. Exit polling from CinemaScore awards it a solid B+.

Yet beneath the gasping romance, overt sexuality, and swoon-worthy chemistry: chemistry so potent it caused the two girls in front of me to repeatedly grab and slap each other’s arms—the film’s most impressive achievement is something quieter and more admirable: it has reignited a book-averse generation’s love for classic literature. Alongside its $160 million (and climbing) global box office haul, Wuthering Heights has surged to #14 on Amazon’s bestseller list and holds the #1 Classic Novel spot on Goodreads.

Fennell—one of the most divisive and undeniably gifted directors working today—marks this as her third feature following Promising Young Woman and Saltburn. Her résumé also includes acting turns on The Crown, Call the Midwife, and Barbie (2024) as Midge.

Ahead of release, Fennell was candid about her intentions: this Heights was never meant to replicate the novel or its many adaptations. Instead, she sought to capture how the book felt when she first read it as a teenager—a fever-dream refracted through puberty, first crushes, and hormonal chaos. Literature as memory and feeling, rather than just text.

On that front, the film soars. As a faithful adaptation? We already have dozens. As an emotional reimagining? This one is singular.

As an English literature graduate, I bear Fennell no ill will. On the contrary, I admire her audacity, her craft, and her willingness to say plainly: this is what I imagined. Beneath all the fingers-in-mouth heavy petting, gasping, and cunnilingus, Wuthering Heights is—at heart—a period romance that put asses in seats. That alone is worthy of praise.

Robbie and Elordi carry the film entirely, their passion lending devastating weight to the gut-wrenching climax. But Fennell and cinematographer Linus Sandgren (Babylon, La La Land) deliver an aesthetic feast to match the sensual one. Shot on 35mm with a 1.51:1 frame, the film revels in rich color, dense shadows, striking silhouettes, and sumptuous costumes. Even the most ardent literary snob may find themselves seduced by the texture of Fennell’s direction and the intimacy of her close-ups.

If Fennell sidesteps Brontë’s themes of class and race, it appears to be in service of something more personal: a meditation on adolescence itself. Here, Nelly (Hong Chau) is reimagined as Catherine’s childhood friend rather than an elderly caretaker—a spurned figure whose quiet resentment shapes the tragedy to come. Their fractured relationship mirrors the pain of being left behind when friends discover love before you do.

Similarly, Catherine’s “awakening” comes from watching the groundskeeper Joseph (Ewan Mitchell) and the maid Zillah (Amy Morgan) engage in a BDSM-style encounter in the estate’s barn. Later, when Catherine returns, she finds Joseph still employed and asks about Zillah, assuming—perhaps in her naïveté—that because they once shared such an intense physical relationship, they must still be together. Joseph laments that Zillah has been moved away and married, now living in town and a mother to boot. He tells Catherine, with a nuanced smile, that Zillah no longer speaks to him when they cross paths—why would she?

These moments underscore what Fennell’s Heights is truly about: the turbulence of adolescence, the confusion of first desire, and the scars left by first love—how deeply they cut, and how long they linger, no matter how much time passes.

Wuthering Heights may not be a great adaptation of Brontë’s novel—but damn it, it is a phenomenal film.