Emerald Fennell’s adaptation steps into dangerous territory by admitting, from the title onward, that it cannot and will not pretend to be the “real” Wuthering Heights. Those quotation marks are a quiet confession and a bold challenge: this is not Emily Brontë’s definitive vision, but one woman’s remembered, reshaped, and deeply felt encounter with it. Instead of hiding behind reverence, the film leans into subjectivity, asking viewers to confront how fiercely they guard the stories that formed them.
Margot Robbie’s presence, both on screen and as producer, pushes the project further into emotional risk. She frames the film less as provocation and more as a grand, aching love story told through a distinctly female gaze—messy, sensual, and unapologetically romantic. The result is an invitation rather than a takeover: a promise that this “Wuthering Heights” will not replace the novel, but echo it, refract it, and perhaps make audiences return to Brontë’s pages with newly unsettled hearts.
