Ash Hunter and Lucy McCormick as one of literature’s most mutually toxic relationships are respectively brooding and unhinged. So much so in McMormick’s case that she gets licence to grab a mic and deliver a full throated angst, as if she is already possessed by the ghost she is destined to become. Or it might be the spirit of Kurt Cobain, such is are the suicidal depths the show reaches when it lunges abruptly into the realms of a grunge rock gig.
Rice’s production is finely balanced between playfulness and respect, not only for the source material, but for the dark themes that run through it. As Brontë’s characters die like flies from 18th Century illness, the role of Craig Johnson’s exasperated doctor is more of funeral director than medic.
Hunter is an excellent Heathcliff. His solid rage is never better illustrated than when the excellent Sam Archer as the lodger arrives at Wuthering Heights in the middle of a storm. And while Archer brilliantly conjures the power of the wind with a controlled physicality that sees him lean at impossible angles into the imagined gale, out steps Hunter’s Heathcliff as still as an oak’s trunk, impervious to elements, anchored by the mistreatment meted out to him since the death of the man who adopted him as a boy.
The book is constantly acknowledged. It is there in the hands of the chorus as they struggle to keep track of Brontë’s time-vaulting plot, and on the end of sticks, pages flapping like birds in the sky. This as much an homage to — as an adaptation of — a classic. Devotees can safely sip from this benign chalice. (John Nathan)
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