Much has been done, by way of interviews and Instagram reels, to market Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights as a tale of ferocious passion and untameable desire. The question of precisely whose passion we see play out onscreen is a crucial one.
Fennel says the film reflects her personal reading of Emily Brontë’s arresting tale of generational trauma, possession and violence. I had a different experience when I first read Wuthering Heights. I became immersed in a decidedly unsexy story of abuse, and had “bad dreams in the night” over Heathcliff’s brutal nature.
Nowhere is Heathcliff’s brutality more explicit than in his treatment of Isabella Linton, who becomes his wife. Isabella is the sister (or, in Fennell’s interpretation, ward) of Edgar Linton, Heathcliff’s rival for Catherine (Cathy) Earnshaw’s affections.
Heathcliff and Isabella’s marriage is marked by severe domestic and sexual abuse. In Brontë’s novel, Isabella chooses to flee Heathcliff’s tyranny and construct a life for herself independent of him. As the literary scholar Judith E. Pike notes, this was a radical transgression of historical norms, in which Victorian morality would expect her to endure such treatment for love of her husband.
Returning to the novel recently, I was struck once more by Isabella’s decimation of her husband’s propensity towards cruelty. I believe any retelling of Wuthering Heights should be faithful to, as opposed to a taming of, its radicalism. Yet when faced with Fennell’s Isabella, I encountered not the daring figure of the source text, but a doglike submissive.
Dogged desire
The words of writer Katherine Angel came to my mind upon exiting the cinema. In her work Tomorrow Sex Will Be Good Again, Angel argues that, in the wake of #MeToo, a heavy burden has been placed on women to “say what we want, and indeed know what we want” when it comes to sex and desire. It was Angel’s bold question, “Why must the secrets of desire be uncovered?” that reared its head in me after seeing Isabella on all fours.
As Angel contends, “context is everything” when it comes to desire. At first glance, Isabella (portrayed by Irish actress Alison Oliver) is the epitome of the “born sexy yesterday” trope: a female character who is at once physically mature and attractive, but has the mental faculties of an innocent, naive child. Only just coming into the world in her preliminary scenes, Isabella is a lover of dolls and ribbons, elaborate dresses and hairstyles.
It is this infantilised state, to the point of absurdity (in one scene, she unknowingly creates a scrapbook with flowers and mushrooms evoking genitalia), that makes Isabella’s sudden yearning for Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi) all the more jarring. Capitalising on established fantasies of Elordi as the “I can fix him”“ archetype, Fennell renders Heathcliff the key to unlocking Isabella’s secret desires.
And yet, it is only when Heathcliff is spurned – after Catherine has (finally) put an end to their trysts – that the duty of sexually satisfying him falls to Isabella. From the moment he breaks through her bedroom window, he discloses all of his ill-intent towards Isabella.
Heathcliff not only desires her virginity ("Do you know what comes next?”) but her hand in marriage, all in the name of spiting Cathy. He repeats the refrain, “Do you want me to stop?” as he makes Isabella aware of the brutality he will bring down upon her. As he derides and undresses her, she clutches her crucifix and shakes her head to say, “No, go on.”
Deviating from Brontë’s story, Fennell’s Isabella is rendered a sexual submissive, a consenting party to her own abuse.
Making no attempt to leave him (as she does in the novel), Isabella relishes being the dog, literally leashed by Heathcliff. Rather than giving credence to Isabella’s words as they appear in the book – “The single pleasure I can imagine is to die, or to see him dead!” – in Fennell’s adaptation, Isabella’s deviant sexual desires are read through the words of her abuser: “I’ve sometimes relented, from pure lack of invention, in my experiments on what she could endure, and still creep shamefully cringing back!”
Fennell’s “uncovering” of Isabella’s secret desires helps the audience to decide, as posited by Angel, “whether a man’s actions were justified”. In order to realise her desires for Cathy and Heathcliff onscreen, Fennell’s Heathcliff must be exonerated. And he is, most grievously, through Isabella desiring to be his sexual submissive. Only then could the film’s ending play out: Heathcliff exudes Romeo as he lays beside a dead Cathy in her “skin room” tomb.
So Isabella’s desire is invoked, in accordance with Angel’s theory, as “proof that violence wasn’t, in fact, violence”. Fennel’s Heathcliff is not cruel and abusive, but a communicative and intentional dominant partner in a BDSM (bondage, discipline, dominance, submission, sadism and masochism) relationship which Isabella, as a submissive, enthusiastically consents to.
It is deeply troubling that the drive of Brontë’s Isabella, a survivor of domestic abuse, has been reread to dramatically absolve her abuser. The girl sobbing behind me as the credits rolled attests to the success of this exoneration. Really, she should be crying over the scripting of violent abuse as consensual play.
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Anna Drury receives funding from the Economic and Social Research Council.
