did we all not read the same wuthering heights? i am so sure emily bronte is rolling in her grave right now because what the fuck is this abomination they dare to call an adaptation. i saw the trailer and i genuinely thought, wait, is this saltburn 2 with corsets? because it definitely isn’t bronte’s gothic masterpiece.
first, let’s talk about heathcliff. heathcliff without his dark skinned identity is not heathcliff. period. his entire being was shaped by being the outsider, by racial discrimination, by how society treated him like dirt, and that trauma is what twists him into the heathcliff we know. but no, they thought it would be cute to erase all of that and just cast a conventionally attractive white guy. now how do you explain heathcliff’s bitterness? how do you explain the cruelty he dishes out? how do you explain the rawness of his love for catherine without that foundation? you can’t. you’ve gutted the character.
and catherine. don’t even get me started. catherine and heathcliff’s relationship is not supposed to be some hot and heavy situationship. it was built on yearning. on the pain of wanting and not having. on obsession that was spiritual and destructive all at once. where is the yearning? where is the ache? where is the gothic desperation? nowhere. instead, they’ve decided to drown it all in sex scenes, because apparently everything in 2025 must be dark romance with smut. it’s pathetic. bronte wrote tragedy, not wattpad fanfiction. and releasing this on valentine’s day is just diabolical. as if wuthering heights is some cutesy date night love story. who thought this was a good idea? honestly, this whole project feels like “try not to turn every classic into sexual fanfiction challenge.” spoiler - impossible. the costumes don’t fit, the tone is wrong, the trailer is laughable, and there’s zero respect for the original text. if this is their idea of honoring emily bronte, i’d rather they hadn’t touched it at all. i hate it.
first, let’s talk about heathcliff. heathcliff without his dark skinned identity is not heathcliff. period. his entire being was shaped by being the outsider, by racial discrimination, by how society treated him like dirt, and that trauma is what twists him into the heathcliff we know. but no, they thought it would be cute to erase all of that and just cast a conventionally attractive white guy. now how do you explain heathcliff’s bitterness? how do you explain the cruelty he dishes out? how do you explain the rawness of his love for catherine without that foundation? you can’t. you’ve gutted the character.
and catherine. don’t even get me started. catherine and heathcliff’s relationship is not supposed to be some hot and heavy situationship. it was built on yearning. on the pain of wanting and not having. on obsession that was spiritual and destructive all at once. where is the yearning? where is the ache? where is the gothic desperation? nowhere. instead, they’ve decided to drown it all in sex scenes, because apparently everything in 2025 must be dark romance with smut. it’s pathetic. bronte wrote tragedy, not wattpad fanfiction. and releasing this on valentine’s day is just diabolical. as if wuthering heights is some cutesy date night love story. who thought this was a good idea? honestly, this whole project feels like “try not to turn every classic into sexual fanfiction challenge.” spoiler - impossible. the costumes don’t fit, the tone is wrong, the trailer is laughable, and there’s zero respect for the original text. if this is their idea of honoring emily bronte, i’d rather they hadn’t touched it at all. i hate it.
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i only have crushes on guys that are a faint concept and dgaf bout me, and the moment we talk i will go ick you're out.
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i like being on call with people while they yell at their siblings. i feel like i'm part of their family.
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i don’t think boredom stems from a lack of activity. rather, it emerges from the cultural refusal to allow ourselves the freedom to do things badly. every action is expected to be aesthetic, consumable, scrollworthy. the ordinary joy of imperfection is lost. we no longer write unless it appears profound, we no longer sing unless it pleases the ear. this relentless demand for performance is exhausting. not every hobby needs to be monetized or aestheticized. sometimes the truest form of leisure is in permitting ourselves to fail, and still finding pleasure in the act itself.
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