These made me wonder, how much can a classic text change before it is no longer authentic, and who gets to decide?

The idea of authenticity in adapting books for film and TV is complex. Classics in particular are often treated as untouchable, framed as the ‘correct’ version of a story. Any deviation, whether it’s a modern cast, tweaks in dialogue or a shift in setting, is seen as a betrayal.

But this attitude assumes that authenticity exists only in the original text, rather than in the emotions and questions the story raises. I would argue that creative takes are not only acceptable but sometimes necessary to keep the classics alive and meaningful, especially for new generations.

The debate has intensified with Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights”. Heathcliff, the orphaned outsider, and Catherine, the headstrong daughter of a wealthy family, share a powerful, almost inseparable childhood bond, but pride drives them apart when Catherine chooses to marry for social status. Hurt and angry, Heathcliff spends years seeking revenge, causing pain for nearly everyone around him until the next generation finally begins to break the cycle.

The casting of Jacob Elordi as Heathcliff divided audiences well before the film was released, with some arguing that it overlooks a key aspect of the character’s identity.

Heathcliff is described as dark-skinned, which Elordi isn’t, and repeatedly marked as an outsider. He is also treated with suspicion and prejudice, which suggests that his marginalisation is not just social but potentially racial. Because of this, casting decisions matter: if Heathcliff’s experience of being othered is softened or erased, it can change how we understand the roots of his anger and need for revenge.

The backlash to Fennell’s film follows a similar pattern. Emily Brontë’s novel is intense and it can feel distant to readers encountering it for the first time, especially in a classroom. A film that reinterprets its tone or aesthetic risks criticism, but it also opens a door for viewers who might never have picked up the book.

If an adaptation preserves the emotional core: obsession, isolation, love and revenge, does it really matter if the presentation looks different?

Part of the resistance to change may come from how our brains respond to familiarity. The more we encounter something, the more comfortable and emotionally attached we become to it. Neuroscience calls this “mere exposure effect”.

Familiar stories activate the brain’s reward and emotional centres, including the amygdala, which plays a key role in processing emotional significance and detecting perceived threats. When an adaptation changes a beloved story, the amygdala may trigger discomfort or defensiveness because the brain interprets the unfamiliar version as a disruption of something emotionally safe.

Nostalgia also plays a role. Originals often become tied to personal memories, making adaptations feel like an intrusion rather than an interpretation.

But discomfort does not mean something is wrong. Classics have survived not because they remained unchanged, but because each generation reinterpreted them through its own cultural lens. Shakespeare himself borrowed heavily from existing stories, his famous tragedy closely following Arthur Brooke’s 1562 poem ‘The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet’.

 

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If we demanded absolute originality, many of the works we now consider ‘classic’ would not exist at all.

This debate feels especially relevant to teenagers, constantly navigating change while trying to build an “authentic” identity. But authenticity, like literature, is not static. It evolves. We are not the same people we were at 12, and we shouldn’t be expected to be. In the same way, stories that matter should be allowed to grow with us.

If an adaptation understands why a story mattered in the first place, it can honour that while still taking creative risks. Bold reinterpretations don’t erase originals, but instead offer new perspectives.

So perhaps the real question isn’t how much a classic can change before it loses authenticity, but whether refusing to let it change risks losing its relevance altogether. If adaptations help stories move from something we study to something we feel, then maybe that is authenticity in its most powerful form.