Narrated by the wayward ghost of Mary Shelley, Gyllenhaal's loopy, overstuffed fable is maddeningly uneven and just plain mad, in both the furious and off-its-rocker sense. I liked it more than any movie I've also considered walking out of.
A few days after Emerald Fennell's film adaptation of "Wuthering Heights" came out, a friend sent me an Onion headline about a bookseller frantically pulling classics off the shelf before Fennell enters the store. No beloved novel could be safe from the dangers of the director introducing anachronistic costumes, original songs by Charli XCX, selectively color-blind casting, and explicit B.D.S.M. scenes for its Byronic hero.
The film uses Austen as more of an entry point into a broader, comfortingly clever story about a 21st-century woman who navigates familiar emotional dilemmas.