Hong Chau, Alison Oliver, Shazad Latif, Margot Robbie, Emerald Fennell, Jacob ElordiPhoto by: David Jon
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.
