Emerald Fennell’s wondrously sicko “Wuthering Heights” is a real-time aesthetic parallel to the ever-elaborating Epstein/Mountbatten epic. She couldn’t have timed her exploration of our darkest urges more brilliantly: Her film pulses with the power of perversity, but does its thing playfully, as art will.
In the real world we cluck and cluck about famous greedy depraved self-destroyers. We pretend astonishment at each new twisted twist.
As in:
Nurse Rached gasps to find ICE Barbie melting in the arms of her sub! Before this, she was a perfectly normal person who shot puppies (Heathcliff hanged them).