“Wuthering Heights” is encased in quotation marks when it appears on screen to make clear that this new version is not a straight adaptation of Emily Brontë’s classic 1847 novel.
Yet that’s a rather mild qualification for the wholesale reinvention Emerald Fennell perpetrates with her follow-up to Saltburn.
Far from taking just a few artistic liberties with its hallowed source material—say, in the vein of 1939’s Oscar-nominated version, which dispatched with the book’s back half—the writer/director’s latest is a grand and goofy reimagining, squandering Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi in a fleetingly recognizable tale of love, desire, obsession, regret, bitterness, and ire that, at every turn, plays as florid, horny, juvenile fan fiction.
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