I’m going to start with a spoiler, because we’re talking about a nearly 200-year-old novel with more than a dozen film adaptations: there is no corpse-fucking in Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights.
Granted, in Emily Brontë’s story, the corpse-fucking is only implied as the logical next step after a character digs up a coffin, rips open one side, and lies with the partially decayed body inside. All of this is of course shocking, but it is carried out with undeniable passion. For me, this is the measure of any Wuthering Heights adaptation: its willingness to become what Brontë contemporary Dante Gabriel Rossetti called “an incredible monster.”
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