Why Wuthering Heights Still Shocks and Confounds Readers
Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights, published in 1847 under the pseudonym Ellis Bell, has long been a literary enigma. This tale of obsessive love, vengeful spirits, and the wild Yorkshire moors continues to captivate readers while baffling critics. Even today, as a new film adaptation by Saltburn director Emerald Fennell gears up for release on February 13, the novel's dense, unconventional narrative keeps it misunderstood. Starring Margot Robbie as Catherine Earnshaw and Jacob Elordi as Heathcliff, Fennell's version—titled with quotation marks to signal it's her interpretation—highlights the story's complexity. But why does this genre-defining classic still provoke such mixed reactions?
The Turbulent Birth of a Masterpiece
When Wuthering Heights first hit bookshelves, Victorian England was in the throes of gothic fiction's popularity, yet Brontë's work stood out for its raw intensity. Initial reviews were a whirlwind of horror and admiration. Some critics decried its "brutal cruelty" and depiction of a "semi-savage love," calling it unfit for polite society. Others praised its "power and cleverness," noting the "forcible and truthful" character delineations. Many simply labeled it "strange," a sentiment that echoes through its history.
The era's strict moral scrutiny played a key role in this backlash. As Clare O'Callaghan, senior lecturer in Victorian literature at Loughborough University and author of Emily Brontë Reappraised, explains, "People did not know what to do with this book, because it has no clear moral angle." Unlike contemporaries that offered tidy resolutions, Brontë's novel revels in ambiguity, challenging readers to grapple with its unfiltered emotions.
Three years post-publication, Charlotte Brontë unveiled the truth: Ellis Bell was her sister Emily, a young woman from Haworth whose genius had been overlooked. Charlotte lamented that critics had "scarcely recognised" the novel's "immature but very real powers," misunderstanding its "import and nature." This revelation didn't immediately shift perceptions, but it paved the way for Wuthering Heights to evolve into a cornerstone of English literature.
A Complex Tale of Passion and Revenge
At its core, Wuthering Heights is a story of two intertwined families—the Earnshaws and the Lintons—set against the brooding isolation of the Yorkshire moors. Spanning decades, it follows Heathcliff, a brooding outsider adopted into the Earnshaw family, and his tumultuous bond with Catherine Earnshaw. Their relationship is no saccharine romance; it's a tempest of passion that blurs into destruction.
The novel's structure amplifies its disorienting power. Presented as a story-within-a-story, it's narrated by Mr. Lockwood, a curious tenant at Thrushcross Grange, and Nelly Dean, the housekeeper whose flawless recall drives the plot. Both are unreliable: Lockwood's London-bred arrogance colors his outsider perspective, while Nelly's meddling and biases shape her recounting. The non-linear timeline jumps between past and present, featuring a dizzying array of characters with overlapping names—Cathy, Catherine, Linton, Heathcliff, and young Linton Heathcliff—making it a puzzle to unravel.
Fennell's film tagline dubs it "the greatest love story of all time," but revenge might claim that crown. Heathcliff's arc is one of unrelenting retribution, fueled by loss and societal rejection. This blend of erotic tension, supernatural hints, and moral grayness shocked 19th-century audiences accustomed to clearer heroes and villains. As O'Callaghan notes, the book's refusal to moralize its chaos leaves readers unsettled, mirroring the moors' unforgiving wildness.
Why It's So Misunderstood
The misunderstandings stem from more than structure. Early readers projected their expectations onto a female-authored work, assuming Ellis Bell's masculine pen name signaled a male voice. Charlotte's defense highlighted this bias, arguing Emily's vision was too bold for its time. Themes of class warfare, gender roles, and untamed nature further alienated Victorian sensibilities, yet they resonate today in discussions of identity and power.
Adaptations often simplify this depth, from the 1939 William Wyler film with Laurence Olivier to TV miniseries. Fennell's take, however, embraces the messiness. Amid controversies over casting—Robbie and Elordi's ages and ethnicities diverging from the book's descriptions—and the trailer's steamy, anachronistic vibes, she insists it's not a direct adaptation. The novel's "dense, complicated and difficult" essence, she says, demands reinvention.
Enduring Appeal in a Modern World
Over 175 years later, Wuthering Heights retains its ability to shock. Its exploration of toxic obsession prefigures modern psychological thrillers, while the moors symbolize an escape from societal norms—a theme echoed in contemporary eco-literature. Fans flock to Haworth Parsonage, now a museum, to trace Brontë's footsteps.
O'Callaghan emphasizes its timelessness: "It still has the ability to shock because it doesn't compromise." As Fennell's film reignites interest, perhaps it will draw new readers to the source, proving Charlotte right—Emily's powers were real, and profoundly misunderstood.
In an age of quick narratives, Wuthering Heights challenges us to linger in discomfort. It's not just a love story; it's a mirror to our own savage hearts, forever wild on those eternal moors.
