The production opens with the tenant Lockwood at the door of Wuthering Heights, desperate to escape the storm outside. But it’s a caricature: Lockwood is a prancing toff, the storm is represented by cringe-making yelling from studenty types on the side, and everything is terribly, well, theatrical.
My heart sank and sank as one by one the characters were reduced to the two-dimensional cut-outs of the Netflix age, depleted of all the articulacy and complexity of Brontë’s 1847 effort. While I confess to being unable to suppress a few tears, they were superficial – nothing like the deep grief and yearning with which the novel haunts its readers.
By far the hardest to watch was Cathy, Heathcliff’s beloved, played by Lucy McCormick, dressed in an ill-fitting green pullover and tattered sundress for most of it, she had the arrogant, uncontrolled volatility of the boarding school hippy wildchild and it seemed, at times, that Rice also wanted her to be autistic, her hands over her ears as she wheeled and shuddered and told people to get off her. Cathy here was no romantic heroine, but a deeply troubled, mentally ill girl hurtling to her death. Heathcliff (Ash Hunter) was a somewhat non-event.
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