Heathcliff has a problem, and it’s not the brooding. It’s that people keep mistaking intensity for love. Wuthering Heights has been feeding that confusion for generations, and the 2026 film version only makes it easier to fall into the trap because it’s built for big feelings. You’ve got Jacob Elordi bringing that cold-heat magnetism, Margot Robbie as Catherine with a kind of feral glamour, and Emerald Fennell shaping the whole thing like a gothic pressure cooker.
So yes, it can look romantic if you squint. Two souls, one wild landscape, everyone else “doesn’t get them.” That’s the fantasy. The movie keeps handing you that fantasy, then quietly shows you why it’s dangerous.
The Movie Makes Him Look Like a Dark Romance Lead on Purpose
Elordi’s Heathcliff has the kind of face and physical presence that modern movies love to dress up as tragic. He’s silent at the right times, watchful in a way that reads as depth, and visibly simmering like he’s one meaningful hug away from becoming a better person. It’s easy to project a whole tender interior life onto that.
Fennell’s style also helps. The atmosphere is thick, the emotions are turned up, and the story moves like it’s being told by someone who’s still haunted by it.
That’s not an accident. The story wants you pulled in. It wants you to feel the romance impulse, and then realize you’ve been rooting for something that eats people alive.
Heathcliff’s Version of Love Is Built Around Control
A romantic hero wants the person he loves to be safe, respected, and free to choose. Heathcliff wants Catherine to be his.
That’s a very different engine.
When Catherine moves in a direction that doesn’t match his internal story of “us,” he doesn’t respond with grief and acceptance. He responds like someone’s stolen his property. He treats her choices as betrayal, not as choices.
If you’re watching closely, you can see the emotional terms he keeps pushing. Loyalty means obedience. Love means exclusive ownership. Pain means he gets to lash out. That’s not devotion. That’s control wearing a romance costume.
And the part that really matters is how steady it is. It’s not a one-off mistake or a badly handled moment. It’s a pattern. Once you see the pattern, it’s hard to keep calling him “romantic” with a straight face.
His Trauma Explains Him, but It Doesn’t Absolve Him
Heathcliff’s suffering is real. The story makes sure of that, and the film’s supporting cast helps ground it. Hong Chau’s Nelly Dean, in particular, often feels like the person closest to the audience, watching this disaster unfold with the weary clarity of someone who’s seen what cruelty turns into.
But explanation is not excuse.
Heathcliff’s choices are deliberate. He holds grudges with both hands, he plans and escalates. He keeps going long after any reasonable person would admit it’s destroying him too.
That’s what separates “tragic figure” from “romantic hero.” A tragic figure can still be sympathetic. A romantic hero has to show you some kind of care that isn’t conditional, possessive, or punishing. Heathcliff doesn’t.
Revenge Becomes His Real Love Story
At a certain point, Heathcliff isn’t primarily in a relationship with Catherine. He’s in a relationship with revenge.
That shift is crucial, because it tells you what he values most. He values power and making other people feel small. He values “winning,” even if the prize is misery.
Heathcliff isn’t simply heartbroken. He’s offended. And that kind of emotional posture tends to produce one thing: collateral damage.
That’s not romance. That’s a slow, grim obsession with payback.
Isabella Shows You Exactly What He Is Willing to Do
If the Catherine dynamic can still tempt some viewers into thinking, “They’re both messy, so it’s passionate,” Isabella removes the soft focus.
Alison Oliver’s Isabella is drawn toward the myth. She wants the intensity. She wants to be chosen by the dangerous man and mistakes the warning signs for spice. It’s painfully believable.
Heathcliff sees her vulnerability and uses it. He doesn’t treat her as a person with interior life. He treats her as a tool, a lever, a way to hurt other people, and a way to prop up his own ego.
This is the moment where the romantic interpretation should collapse. If someone can be affectionate only when it benefits them, and cruel when it benefits them, then affection is not love. It’s strategy.
And there’s something else here too. Isabella shows you that Heathcliff isn’t “only like this with Catherine.” He is like this. Catherine is not the cause of his cruelty. She’s just the person he’s most fixated on.
The Story Is Not Asking You to Ship Them, It’s Asking You to Watch the Damage
A lot of modern romance storytelling trains us to look for chemistry and then declare it a love story. Wuthering Heights doesn’t work like that, and this adaptation doesn’t either.
Catherine and Heathcliff burn bright, and they also scorch everything within reach. Their connection isn’t healing. It’s reinforcing. It brings out the worst in them and then dares the world to call it fate.
A Romantic Hero Changes, and Heathcliff Hardens
Here’s a simple test I always come back to. Does the character learn anything that reduces harm?
Heathcliff doesn’t soften. He calcifies and turns feelings into weapons. He keeps choosing the version of himself that causes the most damage because it gives him the illusion of control.
That makes him compelling, sure. He’s a great character to watch because the emotions are huge and the stakes feel personal.
But romantic heroes, even the tortured ones, reveal care. They show restraint. They show some capacity to choose love over ego. Heathcliff keeps choosing ego and calling it love.
Rachel Sikkema is a New Zealand-based writer and creative entrepreneur who explores the intersection of film, culture, and modern relationships. Through her articles, she examines how stories shape the way we connect, love and see ourselves. When she’s not writing about film and television, she’s watching Dexter and The White Lotus for the third time.