HBO’s new adaptation of Wuthering Heights is being described, without apparent embarrassment, as the version that leans into what the novel was actually doing. Brontë’s 1847 text has always been more violent and erotic and structurally strange than its reputation as a tragic romance suggests — the relationship at its center is obsessive and destructive and explicitly includes class warfare, generational revenge, and a ghost. The sanitized versions have historically missed the point.

There is a particular kind of disappointment reserved for things that were genuinely great before they failed. Game of Thrones at its peak — roughly seasons one through four, with season six as a late rally — was the most ambitious television drama ever produced. It did things no prestige show had attempted: it killed its protagonist in the first season, it made political consequence feel real and permanent, it treated its audience as adults capable of holding complexity.