Theatre in Review: Wuthering Heights (Wise Children/National Theatre/St. Ann's Warehouse)

	Katy Ellis, Lucy McCormick (with microphone), Tama Phethean, Jordan Laviniere. Photo: Teddy Wolff

I'm not one to accuse others of criminal tendencies, but let's face it: Emma Rice gets away with murder. The writer/director has the knack of taking unlikely materials from literature and film -- for example, Noël Coward's Brief Encounter, seen at St. Ann's in 2009 -- converting them into stage entertainments marked by a brazen theatricality and cheeky wit. I don't know how she does it.

Consider Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë's novel of frustrated passions and revenge served ice cold. Earlier adaptations, including a 1939 Broadway staging and a 1996 musical starring pop singer Cliff Richard, vanished without a trace. It's easy to see why: The book is exactly the kind of complex, generations-spanning narrative that should be a nightmare to put onstage; Indeed, surveying the tangled, intermarried, violently unhappy cast of principals, a minor character says, despairingly, "This is all too difficult. Far, far too difficult. How is anyone expected to follow this?"

Well, keep your eyes glued to the stage as Rice's nimble company whisks us through Brontë's tumultuous tale, using every trick in the theatrical book to keep us up to speed and on our toes. Two scenic units, a doorway and a windowed wall, roll and spin into place, instantly creating multiple locations. Puppets stand in for angry dogs and rambunctious children. Characters running across the windy, desolate moors must navigate two enormous jump ropes that sometimes ensnare them, dragging them backward. Books, attached to the ends of poles, magically become a flock of birds. A set of small blackboards serve as tombstones, keeping tabs on the narrative's ever-rising body count. When events get too involved, or a change of pace is needed, The Moors, a sort of countryside Greek chorus, arrives to fill in a plot point, interrogate a character, or to erupt in song, admonishing us, "If you want romance? Go to Broadway!"

That last comment is an example of the giddy wit in which the entire production is festively wrapped; it is also an apt warning. Rice embraces Brontë's remorseless narrative, a comprehensive account of the damage people can inflict on each other. At the heart of the emotional carnage are the neglected, abused orphan Heathcliff, who shares a profound, yet obsessive, attachment with his adopted sibling Catherine. Separated by Catherine's jealous, vengeful brother Hindley; willfully making terrible decisions that leave them unhappily married to others; the lovers forge a legacy of sorrow and death that reaches into the next generation. Even if you haven't read the book or seen William Wyler's swoony cinematic romance, it's obvious that this "harsh harvest of hate" (as The Moors put it) can only end in ruin.

At the same time, the production's exuberance strikes unexpected sparks of humor. A stranger approaching the front door of Wuthering Heights during a windstorm is, literally, blown sideways. Catherine is first seen brandishing a whip, the tragic Victorian heroine as she-demon. Some of the most amusing touches focus on Hindley's toothy, empty-headed spouse Frances, her attempts at befriending Catherine frigidly received, or on Little Linton, Heathcliff's "whey-faced wretch" of a son, a neurasthenic weakling who can't settle into a chair without turning it into a princess-and-the-pea style exercise in agony.

That Rice can accommodate such moments of fun inside the swirl of tragedy is proof of her deep attachment to a novel that one shocked contemporary reviewer dismissed as "a compound of vulgar depravity and unnatural horror." Even now, it packs plenty of potent jolts. Despite their class differences -- he is made to sleep outside with the estate's animals while she is on track to become a fine lady -- Heathcliff and Catherine are driven by a mutual and all-devouring passion. "Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same," she says, a statement more fearsome than enchanting. They taunt and tease, making each other miserable if only to prove their love's unfathomable depths. Even when she is gravely ill, they can't stop furiously trading recriminations. Heathcliff, unable to bear it, says, "I wish I could hold you till we are both dead! I shouldn't care if you suffer. Why shouldn't you suffer as I do!" And when Lucy McCormick, as Catherine, steps downstage, grabs a mic and hurls down curses on the world, this Wuthering Heights makes a convincing case that Emily Brontë is the very soul of punk.

Whether running wild on the moors, flouting every Victorian notion of propriety, and or hurling herself into fits, McCormick is a Catherine to contend with; so powerful is her presence that she continues to draw focus in her later, silent appearances as a ghost. The imposing Liam Tamne is a figure of coiled fury as Heathcliff, who, maddened by the loss of everything he loves, matures into cruel manipulator of others. Most of the supporting players take on dual roles: Sam Archer is amusing as Lockwood, the aghast interloper to whom the story of Catherine and Heathcliff is told, and as Edgar Linton, the overbred aristocrat who marries Catherine in haste and lives to regret it. Tama Phethean is equally effective as Hindley, a sadist who, widowed and heartbroken, slides into alcoholism, and as Hareton, Hindley's love-starved son. Eleanor Sutton is touching as the defenseless Frances and captivating as Cathy, Catherine's spirited daughter, the object of Heathcliff's vengeance. Arguably the production's biggest scene-stealer is Katy Owen as Isabella, Heathcliff's luckless wife, and as needy, demanding, crushingly vulnerable Little Linton. Acting as our authoritative guide to these tortured souls is Nandi Bhebhe, the leader of the Moors.

The production isn't a classic book musical but Ian Ross' steady underscoring, courtesy of a fine musical combo, occasionally erupts into indie rock-style numbers that gives powerful voice to the characters' torments. The action unfolds on the sturdy stage deck designed by Vicki Mortimer, whose eccentric collages of chairs and ladders are put to good narrative use. (Her costumes range from simple and utile to a confection for Catherine, in her country-lady phase, that suggests a Christmas cracker with legs.) Projection designer Simon Baker fills the upstage screen with cloud-filled skies and empty landscapes; he also is the production's capable sound designer. Lighting designer Jai Morjaria's judicious color palette and muscular use of side and high-side angles are masterly. In a production where actors often tumble or jeté into a room, the work of movement director and choreographer Etta Murfitt cannot be overestimated.

Rice never quite solves a central weakness, that the narrative takes a bit of a dive after Catherine's death, requiring some time to regroup before it becomes once again gripping. And a good ten minutes could profitably be cut from the nearly three-hour running time. But the final scenes, when two characters, brutalized by all that has gone on before, find forgiveness and a fruitful form of love, is as moving as anything I've seen lately. The overall effect is a total immersion into the strange and emotionally resonant landscape of Brontë's novel. It's a sumptuous experience because the production's skill is matched with so much love for its source material. --David Barbour