Emerald Fennell has quickly become one of Hollywood’s most talked-about directors. After the audacious brilliance of Promising Young Woman and the visually lush but polarizing Saltburn, expectations for her latest, Wuthering Heights, were sky-high. And yet, for all the hype, this adaptation of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte lands as her weakest outing to date—an ambitious, visually striking film that ultimately feels frustratingly hollow.
Set against the backdrop of stormy moors and grand, beautiful estates—a trademark of Fennell’s visual style—the story centers on the intense, obsessive relationship between Catherine and Heathcliff, played by Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi. Both actors are undeniably attractive and exude high sexual tension, but their performances never quite land. The chemistry is there, yes—but the emotional depth, the nuance that makes tragedy hit, is largely absent. Instead, the film presents a series of frustrating decisions and over-the-top drama that leaves the audience more exasperated than invested.
If Promising Young Woman was about shocking audiences in a way that made sense, and Saltburn was style-heavy but at least visually compelling, Wuthering Heights leans almost entirely on style over substance. The cinematography is gorgeous, the costumes are immaculate, and there are moments where Fennell’s flair shines. But these moments can’t carry the film. The narrative is scattered, and the emotional beats—supposed to be devastating—fall flat. Some viewers may find themselves deeply moved, but it never quite connects emotionally, instead feeling like a prolonged exercise in watching characters spiral through avoidable chaos.
Fennell clearly wants to explore themes of obsession, desire, and revenge, and in that sense, the film succeeds—but it’s a revenge story dressed up as a tragic romance. Heathcliff and Catherine are not heroic figures; their actions are often baffling, their emotional arcs unearned. Even Nellie and other supporting characters make decisions that feel contrived rather than authentic, which further undermines the intended tragedy. One notable exception is Alison Oliver as Isabella, who emerges as one of the few elements that truly stands out. Her performance brings a sharper emotional clarity, grounding some of the chaos and offering moments that feel more human and perceptive than much of what surrounds her. In a film where the central relationship often feels frustratingly opaque, Isabella provides one of the rare anchors.
There’s also the matter of adaptation choices. Heathcliff’s casting as Jacob Elordi sidesteps the character’s ambiguous and potentially non-white origins, something that has been a longstanding discussion with this story. While not unprecedented, it still feels like a missed opportunity for a reimagining that otherwise claims a modern perspective. Fennell also peppers the film with overt references to other tragic romances, including moments that explicitly invoke Romeo and Juliet. Instead of enriching the narrative, these touches come across as heavy-handed and almost too self-aware, drawing attention to themselves rather than deepening the emotional stakes.
And then there’s the physical atmosphere of the film itself. This is an extremely wet movie—rain pouring down, tears constantly flowing, bodies slick with sweat, and a heavy emphasis on sexuality. The sensual tension between the leads is constant, but it often feels more like teasing than storytelling. For all its physical intensity, the film struggles to translate that into emotional resonance. The result is a story that feels overwrought rather than truly tragic.
That said, Fennell remains one of the few signature directorial voices working in mainstream Hollywood today. Her visual style is distinctive, her ability to provoke audiences is undeniable, and there are flashes of brilliance scattered throughout this film. It is frequently beautiful to look at, and the costume design in particular is consistently stunning. But as a cohesive narrative—and especially as a sweeping love story—it never fully comes together.
One of the few real bright spots in the film comes from Alison Oliver as Isabella, who ends up feeling like the movie’s unexpected standout. In a story packed with intense, brooding, and often emotionally exhausting characters, she brings a rare sense of energy and even flashes of humor. There’s a particular scene between Isabella and Heathcliff that stands out as one of the most memorable in the film, partly because it briefly cuts through the suffocating tone that dominates much of the runtime. In a movie where most of the characters are difficult to root for and many performances feel oddly flat, Oliver manages to create someone who actually feels alive, giving the audience one of the only anchors in an otherwise bleak and chaotic ensemble.
In the end, Wuthering Heights is a visually striking but emotionally frustrating experience. Felt like a chore and a slog to get through. Just an outright bore if you ask me. It showcases Emerald Fennell’s unmistakable style while also exposing the limits of that style when it isn’t supported by a compelling emotional core. Admirable in ambition and craftsmanship, but ultimately hollow, it stands as a rare misstep from a filmmaker who has otherwise built a reputation on bold, unforgettable storytelling.
Wuthering Heights = 57/100
