This adaptation of ‘Wuthering Heights’ most put me in mind of Polanski’s ‘Bitter Moon’ – an unrestrained, emotionally charged reimagining of Emily Brontë’s classic that leans heavily into sensuality, cruelty, and obsessive, unrequited love. I last read the novel nearly twenty years ago, and while this version departs significantly in tone and texture, its visceral, almost confrontational approach throws the simplicity of Brontë’s underlying story into sharp relief. What we ultimately witness are doomed lovers whose passions cannot exist within the boundaries society imposes upon them.

The framing device is telling. A young Isabella (Alison Oliver) recounts the tragic romance of Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’ she has heard as a child, only for fate to twist cruelly when she later marries Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi) herself – not out of love, but as part of Heathcliff’s elaborate revenge against Cathy (Margot Robbie). Cathy, in turn, marries Isabella’s brother/guardian, a man she does not truly love but who offers wealth, security, and social legitimacy at a moment when Heathcliff himself appears to have no prospects. Ironically, this very lack of refinement and polish is part of Heathcliff’s appeal; Cathy is drawn not to intellect or status but to a raw emotional bond that refuses to be domesticated.

There are shades of ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’ in Heathcliff’s mysterious five-year disappearance and return as a man of means, though the film deliberately withholds explanation. His transformation matters less than its symbolic power – a romantic myth rather than a psychological account. Even the title’s quotation marks feel deliberate, suggesting a degree of irony or pastiche, as if the film is aware of its own heightened romanticism.

Interestingly, the narrative omits the next generation entirely, removing the novel’s cyclical structure. This creates a sense of emotional claustrophobia: these characters exist without future or legacy, bound only to their destructive love. The housekeeper, Nelly (Hong Chau), far from a neutral observer, becomes an unreliable narrator whose interventions subtly engineer separation between the lovers, steering events in ways that prevent the union that seems inevitable. Unlike a Jane Austen narrative, where misunderstandings are eventually resolved, this story moves inexorably toward tragedy.

The film oscillates between restraint and excess. Characters often behave as though inhabiting a traditional period drama, yet moments of heightened sensuality erupt unexpectedly. Given that director Emerald Fennell previously made ‘Saltburn’, one might even have expected greater abandon. Still, there are striking visual flourishes – most memorably Heathcliff riding across a blazing crimson sky, hair streaming behind him, looking as though he has stepped directly from the cover of a gothic romance novel.

Cathy emerges as fiercely independent yet pragmatically aware of class realities. With her father, played superbly by Martin Clunes, burdened by gambling debts, marriage to wealth becomes less a choice than a necessity. The film foregrounds the conflict between class and desire, showing Cathy and Heathcliff pursuing physical passion even while she carries her husband’s child – a decision that arguably diminishes the aching sense of emotional impossibility that defines the novel but replaces it with something more corporeal and immediate.

Jealousy and frustrated longing are channelled into toxic behaviour, and the film is surprisingly attentive to questions of consent and power. Heathcliff seeks Isabella’s consent before subjecting her to BDSM rituals – including a disturbing scene in which she barks like a dog while chained, recalling Emmanuelle Seigner’s dynamic in ‘Bitter Moon’. In the novel Isabella represents conventional femininity and restraint, but here she becomes complicit in her own exploitation, suggesting how thin the line can be between social conformity and punishment within patriarchal structures.

Despite its eccentricities, the film allows us to understand each character’s motivations. It may diverge from Brontë’s narrative details, but it remains faithful to the emotional spirit of the source: a story not of romantic fulfilment but of obsession, class division, and love so absolute that it survives – and perhaps requires – destruction. It is a quirky, idiosyncratic adaptation, but one that captures the novel’s dark, feverish heart even while reshaping its form.