I Went to the Wuthering Heights Hollywood Premiere—and I Left Crying

My day began on horseback. Under the Hollywood sign, I mounted my steed and inhaled the crisp air, trying—earnestly—to picture myself inside Emily Brontë’s gothic universe. For a fleeting moment, Los Angeles’s Griffith Park morphed into the Yorkshire Moors and I was Heathcliff galloping towards ruin. By nightfall, I would be attending the global world premiere of Wuthering Heights, the novel once again reimagined for the big screen.

The movie will be released, somewhat perversely, on Valentine’s Day weekend—and if Fennell’s last film, Saltburn, offered any foreshadowing, it’s that restraint is not really her thing. Written in the 1840s, Wuthering Heights has lived many cinematic lives: a 1939 film starring Laurence Olivier was followed by adaptations in 1970, 1992, and 2011. This latest iteration feels less like a revival and more like a provocation: sharper, darker, and far more feral.

I invited my friend and fellow Vogue writer Tish Weinstock to join me. (She’s also the author of How to Be a Goth, making her the perfect plus one for the night in question.) Tish arrived at my house in a black Fendi gown by Karl Lagerfeld, while I wore my mother’s Chanel dress from the same era, as well as a Christian Lacroix black velvet ribbon with a broken-heart charm around my neck. It felt fitting, if perhaps a little too on the nose.

We arrived at the TCL Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard in our black finery. Warner Bros. had shut down the Walk of Fame entirely, rolling out a sprawling red carpet that felt both lavish and chaotic, with hoards of screaming fans clamoring to get closer. Attending a Hollywood premiere in Hollywood—the cattle-call choreography of velvet ropes, handlers, and hurried gestures—when you are not involved in the film is uniquely humbling. I whispered to Tish that I might leave the event hating myself, but we kept walking.

From behind a velvet rope guarded closely by a man with some sort of powerful credentials, we caught glimpses of the cast. Margot Robbie appeared in a sculptural, corseted Schiaparelli gown, looking absolutely luminous. Jacob Elordi was harder to spot—even at 6’5”—though his presence somewhere was unmistakable. You could hear of him before you saw him, his name being screamed out constantly by the crowd.

Inside the Chinese Theatre, that shrine to old-school movie royalty, gowns shimmered under the lights. The dress code for the evening was “Old Hollywood Glam,” with a deck of James Bond-type references and Oscars-appropriate silhouettes sent out to premiere guests ahead of time.

We awkwardly clambered over people to reach our seats. In the rows, I spotted Cara Delevingne, Jeremy Scott, Petra Collins, and Phoebe Tonkin with her husband Bernie LaGrange. A woman next to me in her early 30s was practically vibrating with anticipation—and when the cast appeared briefly to introduce the film, she leaned forward and bellowed across the cavernous room: “I LOVE YOU, JACOB ELORDI.” As the lights dimmed, the applause was quickly swallowed by total silence. And for two hours and 15 minutes, everyone was transfixed.

There is something unhinged about watching an explicitly sexual film in a room full of strangers. When Elordi’s Heathcliff first puts his fingers into Robbie’s mouth, the woman next to me audibly gasped before letting out a small moan. She shifted in her seat like she was trying to make what was clearly a very personal experience socially acceptable, failing spectacularly.

I won’t spoil the plot, but Fennell takes bold liberties with the material, reshaping Brontë’s story for a 21st-century audience without softening its cruelty. The surreal-leaning sets and costumes do not care for historical accuracy either. (Please peep Heathcliff’s fuck-boy gold hoop earring when you watch.) Tumblr users circa 2010 would simply have gone crazy for these stills, if you ask me.