Kings Theatre, Edinburgh
2 stars
Beyond the projections on the tilted sky in the play’s final moments, storm clouds aren’t much in evidence in April de Angelis’ new stage version of Emily Bronte’s wild and windy bodice-ripper. Which is quite a feat considering the all-consuming self-destructive love affair between Cathy and Heathcliff we’re asked to assess the consequences of. But there’s something oddly old-fashioned about Indhu Rubasingham’s Birmingham Rep touring production, which has something to do with its application of poor theatre techniques to a well-resourced commercial venture. The recent revival of Nicholas Nickleby suffered on an even bigger scale than this.
Everyone here seems to be acting in inverted commas, which makes for unexpected levity, but with the required throbbing passion absent. Admittedly, it’s hard for anyone to avoid appearing highly-strung when putting flesh on material which, on the page, can leave histrionics to the imagination. But to appear anything other than indulgent attention-seekers, there needs to be a sliver of sexual chemistry between the leads. There’s little, alas, in Antony Byrne’s grumpily bland Heathcliff for Amanda Ryan’s feisty Cathy to get worked up about.
Susannah York is a barometer of restraint as Nelly, who frames the play as its narrator and conscience. Even she, however, is left to hang around doing not very much while Simon Coates’ Lockwood all but winks at the audience in preparation for the spoilt brat Viz comic caricature that is Toby Dantzic’s sickly Linton. With the wooden doors of Mike Britton’s design opening and closing like some psychological fortress, at best this can be viewed as a pop-up book primer, attractively primary coloured, but with so little depth as to appear flat beyond fiction.
The Herald, November 6th 2008
ends
ends
2 stars
Beyond the projections on the tilted sky in the play’s final moments, storm clouds aren’t much in evidence in April de Angelis’ new stage version of Emily Bronte’s wild and windy bodice-ripper. Which is quite a feat considering the all-consuming self-destructive love affair between Cathy and Heathcliff we’re asked to assess the consequences of. But there’s something oddly old-fashioned about Indhu Rubasingham’s Birmingham Rep touring production, which has something to do with its application of poor theatre techniques to a well-resourced commercial venture. The recent revival of Nicholas Nickleby suffered on an even bigger scale than this.
Everyone here seems to be acting in inverted commas, which makes for unexpected levity, but with the required throbbing passion absent. Admittedly, it’s hard for anyone to avoid appearing highly-strung when putting flesh on material which, on the page, can leave histrionics to the imagination. But to appear anything other than indulgent attention-seekers, there needs to be a sliver of sexual chemistry between the leads. There’s little, alas, in Antony Byrne’s grumpily bland Heathcliff for Amanda Ryan’s feisty Cathy to get worked up about.
Susannah York is a barometer of restraint as Nelly, who frames the play as its narrator and conscience. Even she, however, is left to hang around doing not very much while Simon Coates’ Lockwood all but winks at the audience in preparation for the spoilt brat Viz comic caricature that is Toby Dantzic’s sickly Linton. With the wooden doors of Mike Britton’s design opening and closing like some psychological fortress, at best this can be viewed as a pop-up book primer, attractively primary coloured, but with so little depth as to appear flat beyond fiction.
The Herald, November 6th 2008
ends
ends
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