I could write for hours about what I think of Wuthering Heights — about its fidelity to the novel, about how romantically devastating it is when the story narrows to Catherine and Heathcliff alone, about the tragedy of words that die unheard and love that arrives too late. There are countless creative decisions to unpack: generations collapsed, characters reshaped, emphasis redirected. I already did that in depth here.

But whatever one thinks of its narrative choices, this Wuthering Heights is…

So much of Little Fish feels like trying to remember a dream you’re still inside of. The film begins steady, grounded — the camera sure of itself, as though it trusts the world it’s showing you. The early scenes are calm, almost suspended in a soft natural light that makes everything feel familiar, safe. And then, little by little, that steadiness fractures. The frame trembles, the focus slips, and the camera begins to move with the same unsteadiness the characters…