Last semester, I took a Media Studies class where, you guessed it, we studied media. We used advertisements, movie clips, newspapers, and numerous excerpts and studies to analyze the social, cultural, and political dimensions of various media. One of the readings that stood out the most to me was Platforms are Infrastructures on Fire, by climatologist and University of Michigan professor Paul Edwards, who wrote a chapter for the book Your Computer is on Fire. The book offers a critique of the social impacts of technology. Edwards argues that digital platforms, such as apps and social media, are newer infrastructures that depend on older ones, such as roads and power lines. Digital platforms grow fast but burn out much quicker than older systems.
Something about the burnout of new and trendy systems stuck in my mind because of how true it was. Quick and flashy platforms can only survive for short periods of time because the older and more enduring systems give them the space to do so. I started to wonder what other platforms depend on older infrastructures. I realized that this framework can be applied to the relationship between books and film adaptations. People have been reading and writing for ages. Film is much more contemporary in comparison. Literature is an old and enduring foundation for all other art forms. It is not uncommon for musicians and filmmakers alike to use books as inspiration for the work they build on top of them.
I find that this is especially true of Gothic adaptations. Whether it’s Dracula, Frankenstein, or Wuthering Heights, no adaptation has ever done the source material complete justice; something always gets left out of translation. Yet, some liberties may be overlooked or completely forgiven if the majority of the themes are not minimized or dismissed. Because the Gothic genre explores themes that many people are uncomfortable with, such as death, grief, abuse, generational suffering, etc., creating an adaptation that stays on track with the novel’s message may be intimidating to filmmakers who may only want to sell one side of the story. To sum up, film adaptations are flammable platforms built on the infrastructures of literature; they depend on novels for their titles, significance, and legitimacy, yet they tend to disrupt and simplify the details that give the original works their endurance and profundity. With Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights being the most anticipated adaptation coming out this month, I found it topical to write about this seemingly parasitic relationship.
Wuthering Heights is the only novel by Emily Brontë, in which she confronts issues of racism, classism, obsession, abuse, and how love and suffering can be inherited through the generations. It is part of a literary infrastructure that is enduring and still deeply resonates with readers. It is important to note that any romance in the text is secondary to the other theme it discusses. From what the trailers tell us, Fennell’s adaptation of this dark novel is a very stylish, fast-moving film designed for contemporary audiences.
Building on this, the tension between Emerald Fennell’s vision and the literary foundation of Wuthering Heights illustrates a form of dependency. Hollywood films have essentially locked themselves into “temporally indefinite commitments” (Edwards 316), in the sense that they use the infrastructure of literature for their titles, legacies, and fan bases, yet they fail to maintain the very infrastructures that provide the context for these films to thrive. Edwards notes that the maintenance costs are “borne grudgingly—and are frequently neglected until an advanced state of breakdown” occurs (Edwards 316). Within the context of adaptation, this breakdown manifests as content that uses the name of a classic while neglecting the meticulous upkeep required to preserve complex themes.
This disconnect is further explained by a layering phenomenon, where systems at a “higher level” can operate “without any knowledge of or even any reference” to the lower levels they depend on (Edwards 318). This is precisely why modern film adaptations can feel hollow at times. The platform of the film presents itself as an aesthetic experience, operating without the “hardware” of the original texts.
Ultimately, Edwards reminds us that while platforms are “fast,” they can “vanish into ashes in just a few years,” whereas the infrastructures they disrupt are built to “endure for decades, even centuries” (Edwards 313). Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights may achieve a “wildfire-like speed” (Edwards 321) in the current cultural landscape, spreading rapidly across social media feeds and streaming platforms. But without a commitment to the literary infrastructure it builds on, it becomes just another disruption that is bright and flashy, leaving the original work to be misunderstood.