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Wuthering Heights review: A blustering and boisterous production

With her National Theatre production, Emma Rice does a fairly remarkable job in making the text as lucid as it is, even if depth of character is sacrificed for breadth of narrative

Ava Wong Davies
Saturday 05 February 2022 12:02 GMT
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<p>Ash Hunter and Lucy McCormick in National Theatre’s production of ‘Wuthering Heights'</p>

Ash Hunter and Lucy McCormick in National Theatre’s production of ‘Wuthering Heights'

Welcome to the wild and windy moors. Emma Rice’s unwieldy production of Wuthering Heights, newly transferred to the National Theatre from Bristol Old Vic, bursts through the door, blustering and boisterous (and complete with some ropey Yorkshire accents).

It’s a tricky text to adapt: Emily Brontë’s gothic classic has a plot as twisty as a gorse bush, with a number of convoluted family trees for an audience to get their heads around (indeed, Rice makes a point of having the chorus discuss just how confusing it all is). Still, Rice does a fairly remarkable job in making the text as lucid as it is, even if depth of character is sacrificed for breadth of narrative. The majority of the runtime is taken up with Cathy and Heathcliff’s doomed romance: as Cathy, Lucy McCormick, best known for her bonkers performance art, has that requisite wildness in her eyes. Her long blonde hair is matted, she stalks the stage like a vengeful ghost, and she snarls and yowls through a rock solo that lets her virtuosic voice rip through the Lyttelton. Ash Hunter as Heathcliff plays it more straight: Rice seeks to emphasise the way in which Heathcliff is othered by the whiteness of the society around him, and Hunter plays the anti-hero first with fiery rage, and eventually steely cruelty. The pair don’t quite make this strange, turbulent relationship sing, though; their love for one another – the kind of love that defies all logic and reason – is never fully convincing. It’s a shame, too, that McCormick, a performer who has the unique ability to feel properly dangerous and unpredictable onstage, is a little constrained here. Rice sends her into the auditorium at one point, but frustratingly (perhaps due to Covid protocol) has her meekly return to the stage before she can wreak havoc.

In the end, it is the tireless ensemble who anchor the show: Nandi Bhebhe leads the chorus of the moors, who guide the story through Etta Murfitt’s rippling, jig-like dance numbers, accompanied by Ian Ross’s folky music. And Katy Owen, first as Heathcliff’s eventual wife, Isabella Linton, and then as their squeamish son, Little Linton, all but runs away with the show, using her body like a contortionist and bringing a touch of grotesquery to the role (Vicki Mortimer’s costume design shines here too, placing an enormous, gaudy green bow on top of this Little Lord Fauntleroy).

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