I’ll admit it right off the bat: I’ve never read Emily Brontë, nor seen any other film adaptation of Wuthering Heights. I came to Emerald Fennell’s take on Brontë’s seminal novel knowing its cultural footprint, but none of the story. Based on her previous work, particularly the alluring psychosexual class-warfare drama Saltburn, I wasn’t expecting a Joe Wright-style adaptation – all handsomely mounted restraint, shapely bodices, and tight corsets. What I got instead was a classical romance stripped of manners and pitched to an eleven; a brash, unrestrained, deeply horny fever dream slathered in excess and sincerity in equal measure. Read More