What has Emerald Fennell done to Wuthering Heights?

“Come undone,” the billboard reads. Two hands are clasped together. On another a blonde-haired woman lies prone on a fuzzy peach mattress, her hands tightly gripping the sheets. “Drive me mad,” implores the caption. In theaters Valentine’s Day 2026.

Despite appearances, this isn’t the latest boilerplate steamy romance for women to drag their boyfriends to in February, but the official marketing for Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights. The trailer, released on Thursday, sets the tone for an apparent massacre of Emily Brontë’s magnum opus.

It opens with a shot of Aussie heart-throb Jacob Elordi as Heathcliff, sucking the fingers of erstwhile Barbie Margot Robbie while her not-insubstantial breasts heave out of an anachronistic corset. Almost every one of the following clips suggests we’re in for a bodice-ripping thriller, replete with horse whips, numerous instances of Elordi stripping off, and Cathy being cut out of her dress. All set to the soundtrack of the “Everything is Romantic” remix by pop star Charli XCX. In the only lyrics given we are told to “fall in love again and again.” What was wrong with a bit of Kate Bush?

The official theatrical release poster shows Heathcliff cradling Cathy’s head in a perfect rip-off of Gone with the Wind. Except this isn’t Gone with the Wind. This is not a historical romance, but the film adaptation of a story about psychological and physical abuse.

Maybe this explains why the title of the film appears on the poster in scare quotes. This isn’t a Wuthering Heights that any reader would recognize – an adaptation in name only. What on earth is going on? Granted, it’s impossible to reach a final verdict before Fennell’s film hits the silver screen. But test audiences certainly haven’t been impressed.

Kharmel Cochrane, the casting director, already let that on after confirming at the Sands film festival that “there’s definitely going to be some English Lit fans that are not going to be happy.” After all, it’s “just a book,” she shrugged. “Just a book” it may be to her. But if the original text is so wildly unimportant to Fennell and Cochrane, then why are they adapting it? I’m sure “Fifty Shades of Grey but make it Georgian” would have sold perfectly well. Nothing was stopping Fennell from making a film about how good Jacob Elordi looks with his shirt off. She’s undoubtedly a talented film-maker, as proved by the success of Saltburn two years ago.

Why do directors claim that they are ‘adapting’ novels that they clearly loathe?

Instead, it seems Fennell has channeled her creative instincts into a disturbing exercise in pointless destruction. Heathcliff is not the sort of identikit Christian Grey-esque bad-boy love interest found in your latest romantasy stocking filler – a damaged but fixable man. He is a raging psychopath. Readers will recall that at one point he hangs Isabella Linton’s dog in front of her in a show of dominance and then strongly implies he’d like to see her meet the same fate. He kidnaps Cathy, holds her hostage and forces her to marry his son.

Fennell’s butchery is part of a wider trend. The last decade has seen numerous directors shamelessly adopt period novels in title alone. There was Netflix’s Persuasion, which read more like a Sex and the City remake than anything Jane Austen penned. Then there was Steven Knight’s BDSM-infused take on Great Expectations, which was almost unrecognizable as an adaptation of Dickens.

Why do directors claim that they are “adapting” novels that they clearly loathe? Clearly, Fennell came to Wuthering Heights with her own ideas for a story. Casting the 35-year-old blonde Margot Robbie to play the teenage Cathy seems to prove this. Has Hollywood become so unimaginative that production companies don’t trust themselves to sell an original film? Do they need to hang their marketing efforts on Emily Brontë’s good name to flog tickets? Audiences have been quite clear: they like original period dramas. Look at the success Bridgerton received. And no genre-defining authors or classic novel were harmed making it.

If Fennell wants to tell a story of wild sex and falling in love that will make readers “come undone,” then I’m sure there are thousands of screenplay writers who would have sold her one. But as Madeline Grant has already begged Hollywood: please leave our period dramas alone!