Truly, though, at times the movie gave off an even more immature vibe—a lot of it felt like watching a toddler smear lunch on the wall and grin at how naughty they’re being. Emily Brontë’s Gothic tale about the mutual obsession between Cathy, a self-centered and irascible teenager, and Heathcliff, the foundling her father has brought into the family, is a notoriously ambiguous study of how noxious social systems ruin people. None of that subtlety or analysis is present in Fennell’s version, which begins with an opening scene of grotesque commoners cheering the public spectacle of a hanging and the deceased man’s postmortem erection, then copulating grubbily in the town square. Immediately, this Wuthering Heights makes clear that what it’s shooting for is one-ply provocation.