Shan

Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights is a neon bruise on the Yorkshire moors—a "Brat" gothic funeral where the Victorian rot is traded for a hyperpop fever dream. It’s a velvet-choked haunting with a VIP list, proving that Emily Brontë didn’t die just for Heathcliff to sync his toxic obsession to a heavy bassline.

Mama a girl behind you..

Charade is a Givenchy-clad fever dream where the plot has less structural integrity than a silk scarf. It’s a Hitchcockian shell game that swaps genuine dread for Parisian chic, proving that a body in the morgue is just a minor social inconvenience if your pillbox hat is perfectly centered.