I’d like to begin this article with a confession: I entered the cinema with hate pre-formed in my eyes. Since the announcement of the cast, several unproven – and potentially unfair – theories on the film’s quality have been taking root in my mind. Like many, I shuddered at director Emerald Fennel’s bizarre choice of Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi as the stars of Brontë’s classic northern romance. Nevertheless, I set aside my rage in favour of an open mind, surrendering myself to this film so that you don’t have to. At least a steamy love affair between two very sweaty Australians would help to distract me from the sexlessness which pollutes the Cambridge air.

To be honest, I was cringing in my seat from the first scene. A man is executed via hanging, as a young Cathy watches in fascination up at the gallows. Despite the very unsexy inevitability of his impending death, the man grunts suggestively stimulating many members of the audience with his provocative noises. However, from here – and this I where it gets even more difficult to endure – the film’s opening falls into even greater ridiculousness. A montage of several sexual acts in the passionate aftermath of the death floods the screen, as Charli xcx’s music thunders over the top. The camera zooms in to capture an image of the victim’s tasteful erection pressed against the inside of his solemn grey britches. Who knew capital punishment could be so sexy? The point of this whole affair in staging the film: not a clue!

“At best a slightly racy pantomime and at worst a feature-length Instagram reel”

After a rather esoteric start, a more conventional narrative progresses. The first part of the film covers the youth of Cathy and Heathcliff, who are played by Charlotte Mellington and Owen Cooper. This section was engaging, and the two young actors pulled the pair’s dynamic off impressively, allowing me to relax into the reverie of viewership. Then, Margot Robbie appeared on screen, and I realised I was at the cinema again. Several things about this irked me. Margot Robbie is undoubtedly a beautiful woman. But I think it is fair to say that when your face has been on that many phone screens for that long, it becomes increasingly less convincing on cinema one. She is also 35 years old. While there has been a lot of great discourse over the casting of older women recently (The Substance, Marty Supreme), watching her attempt to convince in the role of an impetuous teenager is slightly disconcerting. The younger Jacob Elordi does not distract so much with his age, but there is still a rather large elephant in the room: he is, crucially, white. An interesting decision to say the least, especially when Heathcliff was very consciously played by a black actor in Andrea Arnold’s 2011 adaptation. No one except Emerald Fennel imagined anyone remotely like these two when they read the novel.

The film suffered unendingly from the complete lack of chemistry between Robbie and Elordi. At no point did I find myself believing in their doomed love affair, despite two adequate performances. I restrained myself from rolling my eyes during more than one of their more emotional scenes and really struggled to care when Cathy died. More than this, though, and more than the ugly costumes, over-budgeted sets and constantly trailer-like editing, the film is boring. Some period of its middle was spent in and out of consciousness.

I leave you with a warning: if you are hoping for a convincing romance, you will be disappointed. If you love Bronte and are hoping for an interesting take on her classic, you will be disappointed. If you are hoping for a Fifty Shades style sexual adventure, you will even then be disappointed. Emerald Fennel’s “Wuthering Heights” is at best a slightly racy pantomime and at worst a feature-length Instagram reel.