THE PROSPECT OF SEEING A BOOK which brings back teenage struggles with the Brontësaurus canon turned into a larky riff filled me with some trepidation en route to the National Theatre’s production of Wuthering Heights.
When it comes to the classics, the director, Emma Rice, is a dedicated shredder of reverence. She brings puppetry, extra-narration, whimsical additions and a bit more of whatever she might fancy to stories from A Midsummer Night’s Dream to Brief Encounter.
Her irreverent doctrine of amping-up theatricality with music, racy lighting and
