Brexit. JFK’s assassination. That blue and black or white and gold dress. All vaguely impressive sources of debate, but sorely lacking in the drama and volatility of The Independent culture desk’s first few days in a post-Wuthering Heights world. Emerald Fennell’s grass-eating, dough-molesting bodice-ripper – “adapted” “loosely” from Emily Brontë’s literary touchstone – has been the canary in the coal mine for our offices here, helping surface long-standing tensions and sharpening inter-desk rivalries.
No, I kid. We’ve all just really, really disagreed with one another on it, Fennell comfortably reaffirming her position as the most divisive filmmaker currently working. Questions are constant. “Was Margot Robbie supposed to act like that?”; “Jacob Elordi gold tooth – yay or nay?”; “Did I enjoy Wuthering Heights or was there a gas leak in my cinema?”, and so on.
