Jane Eyre at the National Theatre review
Everyone has their own idea of who Jane Eyre is. To some she’s a 19th century feminist, fighting to make her way in the world. To others she’s a doormat, a person to whom interesting things might happen, but not nearly as interesting as the woman in the attic.
I’ve always fallen into the latter camp but Sally Cookson’s production, transferred to the National Theatre after a successful run at Bristol Old Vic, lays its claim fiercely for the first. And it’s convincing.
Prior to its transfer this adaptation of Charlotte Bronte’s classic novel was performed as a play in two parts.
This time around it’s been folded into one (very long) play, and it shows. One of the production’s strengths is its instinct to indulge some of the story’s smaller moments: the washing-coughing-praying montage at Eyre’s school is fabulously choreographed, as are her helter-skelter journeys.
But other moments are inevitably galloped through Sadly these often involve Eyre’s only friend Helen Burns, played by the overworked and under-appreciated Laura Elphinstone.
Burns’ death feels rushed, for example, and Eyre’s relationship with St John (also played by Elphinstone) is never developed enough that you might believe he was a threat to Mr Rochester.
While I would have liked to have lingered longer on some of Eyre’s other relationships, it is her love for Rochester – played by Felix Hayes as a rakish hipster – that drives the play and leads to a reappraisal of the girl at the heart of it.
This is an Eyre of flesh and blood: she might say “yes, sir, no sir”, but it sounds far less dutiful when spoken by Madeleine Worrall than it ever did in the book.
Still, for all the pace and passion I was left wanting more when it came to the infamous Mrs Rochester. We all knew what was coming, but the big reveal felt anticlimactic after all the sinister hints.
This is a world in which Jane Eyre really is more interesting than the woman in the attic – I just wish it wasn’t quite so clear-cut.