I Shan't (and Can't) Shut Up about Wuthering Heights

In appreciation of gothic literature, dark, daring female geniuses, and film adaptations with the cojones to stand on their own

The most valuable intel we’ll ever have on young Emily Brontë, who died in 1848 at age 30, is what we can extract from her singular work, Wuthering Heights (I’ve since read a rumor that a possible second novel was thrown into the fire by her sister Charlotte, author of Jane Eyre — a reminder never to underestimate a fiery sister-fight).

Of course, it would be foolish to dissect any novel for hard evidence of an author’s lived experience. Though she suffered many a tragedy, I can hardly imagine that Brontë’s life was as dark and tortured as the characters she writes. Beneath them, however, is a profound understanding of human psychology — that which enrages us, oppresses us, drives us to violence, and lies unexplored.

From all accounts, Brontë was no social butterfly. She was a bit of a recluse, preferring the company of her imagination and the familiarity of the page over the uncontrollable conditions of the real world. If, during her short life, she ever experienced passion on the scale of Cathy and Heathcliff, it’s unlikely it was requited, let alone acted upon.

Hence, all writers’ love affair with the written word: a place to enact our unlived lives, to touch darkness, ecstasy, and every state between — and then safely retreat.

In the lead-up to the film, I gave myself a week to read the book. Wuthering Heights was never assigned to me in high school (in four years of AP English, we only read two books by women, one of them Jane Eyre), and I’ve always felt like a bit of a dope when it comes to the classics. There are so many I haven’t read that I’ve become a bit of a rabid dog, trying to catch up by following along with my son’s freshman English syllabus.

The first few pages had me stumped and bored. What was she even talking about? Who was narrating this damn story? But I stayed the course, switching to the audiobook for the first few chapters and allowing the narrator’s inflections and intonations to guide my comprehension. Soon, I was hooked. I alternated between the audiobook and my physical copy, and finished the book in front of the fireplace hours before seeing the movie.

Readers, it was no “romance.” It was the darkest, most psychologically violent story I’ve ever read.

And, still, I loved it.

I closed the book with mad respect for the legendary Ms. Brontë, a woman who was not afraid to dispense wickedness and torment on the page. Her writing was no small act of courage for a woman of the early 19th century, nor would it be for a woman today (Miranda July’s spellbindingly strange mid-life novel, All Fours, is an example of just how divisive “weird women” continue to be). Just as Catherine Earnshaw was suffocated by the conditions of her time, too traumatized and repressed to develop into a psychologically healthy being, July’s narrator seeks refuge from her own suffocating conditions. How to live in a world that determinedly refuses to explore female desire? A world in which men remain connected to their biological underpinnings, but women are expected to evolve beyond their feral longings?

This world knows not what to do with the weird girl truthtellers.

Enter Emerald Fennell.

As a huge fan of Fennell’s previous films (Promising Young Woman, Saltburn), I was ready to grant her a long leash for the film adaptation of Wuthering Heights. I did not expect (nor hope) that she would translate the book scene by scene. I hoped only that her creative genius would capture the dark and passionate spirit of the story. And I was not disappointed.

Fennell’s film is visually arresting. The contrast between dark and light, as juxtaposed by the sets of Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange, is something to behold (don’t believe me? Check out Robbie’s Architectural Digest tour below).

Likewise, the costumes are extravagant, quasi-representations of the Regency era that add breathtaking beauty to the film (they’re also responsible for the impulse purchase below).

Where am I planning to wear this garment? As advised by a dear friend, EVERYWHERE.

Admittedly, I don’t have a lot of patience for the critics these days. With AI threatening to destroy our livelihoods and politicians rapidly defunding the arts, it’s no exaggeration to say that we are in the midst of a battle for our humanity. One can critique the casting of Fennell’s film, or any of her choices as an artist, but I’m damn glad she had the cojones to make it on her own terms, and I will stand staunchly behind every human-created art form, whether I “liked” it or not.

In this case, I just happened to love it.

Moreover, the immersive experience of reading the book and then watching the film has been a welcome distraction from the nonsense of the real world. Like Brontë, I feel compelled these days to hole myself up at my desk and let my imagination take over. It takes a gutsy and unabashed writer to dream up characters as large and unforgettable as Catherine and Heathcliff, names that live in infamy nearly 200 years later.

Brontë’s ruthlessness should be a reminder to us all to go there — to explore wild terrain.

I like to imagine she’s smiling at Fennell’s representation of her work, one that grants women (brief) satisfaction and paints beauty atop the stark and dreary landscape of her imagination.

If, like me, Wuthering Heights is your new personality and you can’t shut up about it, please share below. Hated it? I’m also intrigued!