It's raining cats and death. At least, I think that's what the visual metaphor is supposed to indicate in this pared-down adaptation of Emily Brontë's novel, in which the characters sombrely disappear behind big, black umbrellas every time one of them pops their clogs.
John Godber is usually extremely adept at substituting symbolism for scenery. Here, directing an adaptation prepared by Jane Thornton, he mixes metaphors confusingly. A cappella musical accompaniment and sound effects seem to be the order of the day, until we get recorded snatches of Bach later on. Weddings are signified by the physical-theatre cliche of a man miming a flash gun. But this is a good 30 years before magnesium flash photography was invented.
Some money has been spent on a washy backdrop vaguely suggestive of the moors. Why do this? Why not allow the actors to evoke the moors? They do occasionally swirl around under their umbrellas doing wind impressions. But with all these brollies and whistling it comes dangerously close to a bleak, hillside version of Singin' in the Rain.
Thornton's script is more a precis than an adaptation. The upside of this is that she does not linger unduly over the Catherine-Heathcliff relationship at the expense of the other half of the novel. The downside is that merely alluding to this passion as yet another occurrence in a very long sequence of events robs the story of its emotional power.
It is commendable that so much effort should have gone into keeping the evening compact. But you cannot help feeling that you would gain more by staying at home and reading the book. Best draw a big, black umbrella over this one.
· Until November 1. Box office: 01482 323638.
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