The ObserverTheatreReviewLyttelton, London
Sally Cookson’s bold, tumultuous reimagining of Charlotte Brontë’s novel is a feast for the senses
Sally Cookson presents a picture of exultant feminism in Jane Eyre. Forget the word “adaptation”. Cookson’s production is a tumultuous re-creation of Charlotte Brontë’s novel. “It’s a girl” are its first and last words.
Devised by the company and first seen in a two-part version at Bristol Old Vic last year, this marvel conjures the substantial places of a Victorian fiction from airy spaces. Michael Vale’s design uses a background of white curtains, and a wooden adventure-playground platform, suggesting houses and institutions by floating window frames that constantly clang shut. The ardent nature of the book flares into life. The red room in which the small Jane is locked is evoked with a flood of scarlet light. Real flames flicker up the stage as Rochester’s house burns. In an unforgettable moment, the palms of orphans are held out towards the audience, made rosy by the glow of an invisible fire.
Benji Bower’s music – intense twists of string and percussion and accordion – is crucial. As are the rich mezzo notes of Melanie Marshall. She stalks around, patrolling the action. Gradually it becomes apparent that she is not an objective chorus. She is Bertha Mason, Rochester’s first wife, the “mad woman in the attic” who has been granted her own voice. When she breaks into Mad about the Boy – daringly anachronistic – she tells of more than herself.
Everyone here is touched by a passion that might turn to madness. Madeleine Worrall’s terrific, fervent Jane is no pinched little waif. She is sturdy and strong-minded. Yet at her most vulnerable, she looks the picture of theatrical derangement, swinging from a ladder, with wild Medusa hair. Felix Hayes’s Rochester, energetic, bass-voiced, unravelling in a surprising dressing gown, might well have been locked up were he not male and rich. As Rochester’s ward, Laura Elphinstone scampers about, endearing but alarming, as if blown in from a wuthering height. Craig Edwards, captivating as Rochester’s dog, bounds around, thumping a cord as his tail, suddenly flopping down full-length: barking.
Time and again, a description is translated into colour, movement and feeling. Jane’s veil billows out, ludicrously long, peculiarly shiny, looking like ectoplasm; then, like her wedding ceremony, it is abruptly severed. Is this what it would be to read the novel with synaesthesia?
Jane Eyre is at the Lyttelton, London until 10 January. Box office: 020-7452 3000
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