Feather Theatre’s rendition of Jane Eyre was a production with some definite highs. The immortal words of Charlotte Bronte carried throughout, brought to life by the obviously talented cast. Many technical aspects were also pleasing to the eye, with the lighting being notably successful. Lighting colour shifted subtly between scenes, reflecting the emotions of the characters without being garish or glaring, truly utilising to the maximum the lighting facilities of the Assembly Rooms; the proposal scene did this particularly well with a beautiful pink flush.

As the titular lead, Estelle Pollard-Cox definitively stood out as Jane Eyre. Her accent was almost flawless, and for a character that is introspective like Jane Eyre, it can be difficult to adapt their inner thoughts for a performance, yet everything from Pollard-Cox’s gestures to facial expressions perfectly encapsulated this. Mr Rochester was played by Ross Killian, and he did not shy away from the more unlikeable aspects of the character, making him a truly intimidating figure, with Rochester’s domineering nature coming out from his first scene.

On the whole, the ensemble did what every good ensemble does, and truly brought their best, with many actors juggling multiple characters successfully; this was particularly seen with changes in accent and manner. Considering the small size of the cast, they really made the most of it, with quick changes happening with ease and fluidity. Lauren Williams did a notable turn as three characters: Bertha, Blanche, and Leah, differentiating each character with panache.

Co-direction by Nat Pryke and Nell Hickson was well-suited to the almost simplistic nature of the story. A minimal set and mostly constrained movements allowed for Charlotte Bronte’s prose to immerse the audience seamlessly. The different levels on stage were utilised to their full potential, allowing for the manor of Thornfield to be depicted dynamically within the constraints of a small stage. While the direction of the actors was energetic, this worked better in some scenes than others. It may have been more effectual for there to be a gradual build in energy towards the intermission, though this did help retain interest.

What limited this performance the most was the script. While I am no Jane Eyre sycophant, I have read the book, and it was clear the parts that deviated from it were the weaker portions. This was partially due to the dialogue becoming either overly expository or trying to force in humour where it was neither needed nor actually funny, despite the actors’ best efforts. The main virtue of the script was how it ruthlessly cut parts of the book that dragged, such as Jane’s childhood. The only time when this was perhaps confusing was when Jane’s time after Thornfield was not present, so she seemingly reappears with little context, missing out parts (while seemingly not key to the plot) are essential to her character development. To someone unfamiliar with the source material, this would likely be jarring.

Overall, Feather Theatre’s Jane Eyre was engaging and definitely brought up by the skill of its actors and technical team. While there were undeniably weaker parts, it was nevertheless rather enjoyable. All of these actors have immense amounts of talent and skill, and the pacing was snappy enough so that there was never a dull moment. (Emily Hatwell)

Nearly 200 years since Charlotte Brontë published Jane Eyre, her unconventional orphan Jane – with her intense emotions and sense of injustice – continues to captivate and intrigue readers. [...]

As an autistic woman*, I have long felt a particular affinity to the character of Jane Eyre. Like Jane, I have been perceived as unconventional and abnormal. I, too, experienced a childhood of unintentional error, in which “I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty”.

But despite my efforts, I frequently found myself getting into trouble. I would speak directly and honestly, causing offence without intention. I would ask clarifying questions which were perceived as personal attacks. I, too, was perceived as “naughty and tiresome”. I often felt I was “not like other girls”.

As an adult, writing my master’s thesis on Jane Eyre, I was haunted by my undiagnosed autism. It threatened to escape at any moment – much like Bertha, Rochester’s mad wife imprisoned in the attic. A family secret. Through a lifetime of learning to mask – to conceal my “externally noticeable” autistic traits – I built a kind of attic within myself. Inside it, my autism, like Bertha, fought against its incarceration, threatening to reveal itself.

After I received my diagnoses of autism and ADHD in 2022, I began to see Brontë’s novel in a different light. Then, I discovered that reading Jane Eyre as autistic is not new.

In 2008, literary studies scholar Julia Miele Rodas first showed how Jane Eyre can be interpreted as autistic. Specialising in disability studies and Victorian fiction, Rodas later wrote that Charlotte Brontë’s narrative voice “resonates with autism”.

Charlotte Brontë’s biographer Claire Harman has suggested various members of the Brontë family, including Charlotte’s sister Emily (author of Wuthering Heights) and their father Patrick, might have been autistic.

In addition to autism, other forms of “neurodivergence” have been explored in the novel, from ADHD to complex trauma, mental illness and disability. (Although “neurodivergence” is commonly associated with autism and ADHD, the term’s true meaning is much broader.) Feminist disability studies scholar Elizabeth Donaldson pioneered interpreting Bertha’s madness as a form of mental illness and disability. Drawing from Rodas, disability and literary studies scholar Jill Marie Treftz interprets Jane’s childhood friend Helen Burns as having ADHD.

Opening up new ways of reading the text, the autistic Jane Eyre also transforms older interpretations, particularly of madness and gender. Most famously, Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar’s essay A Dialogue of Self and Soul: Plain Jane’s Progress (published in their collection of feminist literary criticism, The Madwoman in the Attic).

Gilbert and Gubar interpret Jane Eyre as the story of a woman who learns “to govern her anger” to survive Victorian patriarchal standards of femininity. In the process, Jane is “haunted” by her own repressed “hunger, rebellion, and rage”, represented through the literal haunting of Bertha, the “madwoman in the attic”.

This reading is transformed when Jane herself is interpreted as another kind of neurodivergent: autistic. Read this way, her story becomes more than that of a woman who learns to “govern” and eventually “kill” her unfeminine anger. It becomes the story of an autistic woman, learning to mask and stifle her autism to survive patriarchy’s ableist standards of womanhood. These standards are at odds with autism’s very nature. (Chloe Riley) (Read more)

   

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After some rather underwhelming key art for Emerald (Saltburn) Fennell's upcoming adaptation of Bronte's cult-lit classic, Wuthering Heights, the character posters come through with a cold and tactile pair of character posters. I have highlighted Margot Robbie's Catherine Earnshaw here for the layers of gauze and fog and sky.
As she walks along the Yorkshire Moors in an elaborate wedding dress, she surrounded by the hazy mists; her train uplifted by the languid morning air. You can see the hills in different shades in the background, further framing her form. It is grim and cold. Against the angst and the passion of a potential coupling, this is about as a succinct an image as one might get for the story. Robbie, of course, has just the right poise here. 
The title card is framed by the director's credit and release date. (I suppose you could classify this as a teaser poster, given the lack of main credit block, even as the film is releasing in a couple of weeks, and several other posters and key art have been released). 
Given it's UK setting, one wonders why there is not a QUAD style poster released (point me to it if you know of one) given the horizontal framing and lines here. (Kurt Halfyard)

Wuthering Heights tells us that love should hurt. Actually, it should burn. Lacerating your heart and excavating your soul, it will, in the words of Emily Brontë herself, drive you mad. Fans of the 19th-century classic were reminded of this when the first full-length trailer for Emerald Fennell’s highly contentious but much-anticipated adaptation, which stars Margot Robbie and Jacob Elordi, came out in the fall.
The trailer depicts Cathy (Robbie) and Heathcliff (Elordi) meeting as children before becoming embroiled in what it describes as “the greatest love story of all time.” While it’s not clear how far Fennell has strayed from the 1847 novel—the film has raised eyebrows among literary types who’ve pointed out that Heathcliff is described as “dark-skinned” in the book, while Cathy wears a shiny red dress, among other things in the film—it’s set to be a major cinematic event, with original songs by Charli XCX and a Valentine’s Day release date.

Make no mistake: Wuthering Heights—which focuses on the intense bond that develops between Cathy and Heathcliff and the subsequent devastation that occurs when social mobility prevents them from being together—is a heart-wrenching tale, one that offers up meaningful commentary on everything from class and revenge to generational trauma. For me, though, it has always been about one thing and one thing only, and that’s Heathcliff, a.k.a. literature’s original fuckboy. Brooding, handsome, and troubled beyond repair, he epitomizes everything straight women are supposed to run from, and yet tend to run towards. I do, at least.

Unfortunately, I’ve got a long history of fancying terrible men. The highly functioning alcoholics who pledge sobriety after an argument, only to get hammered a week later? Tick. The self-destructive avoidants who are addicted to you one minute and repulsed the next? Tick. The tormented artists who haven’t discovered bed frames and trade on empty promises and incessant love-bombing? Tick, tick, and then a few more ticks.
I blame all of this on Brontë—partly because it’s more convenient than analyzing my own self-destructive patterns, but mostly because I remain convinced that the precedent for chasing toxic love stories was one set out for me as a teenager, by Heathcliff. To be clear, in the book he is a truly abominable character. This is a man who not only speaks in growls and terrorizes children, but who also hangs dogs and beats women (character traits that we should all skip when it comes to dating prospects, obviously).
And yet he is often upheld as a romantic antihero, which I suspect has something to do with the fact that two of the most popular Wuthering Heights adaptations (William Wyler’s 1939 classic starring Laurence Olivier and Andrea Arnold’s stark but stunning 2011 version) conclude with Cathy’s death, neatly glossing over the second half of the book, which sees Heathcliff going full sociopathic mode. 

For me, though, the allure of Heathcliff was always less about the man himself than what he, and his relationship with Cathy, represented: a love so deep and destabilizing that it could hardly exist. Given they are—spoiler!—never actually together, their dynamic is defined by absence, possibility, and longing, which are arguably the most romantic things of all. Their love never becomes a reality, confining it to the realm of fantasy, where everyone and everything feels so much better because you made it all up inside your head.
This is the trap I’ve fallen into many times, creating my own epic Cathy-and-Heathcliff love stories with men who couldn’t be less interested in me. There was the boy at school who, in my mind, was stringing me along for years, but in reality just never wanted to be with me. The filmmaker who told me quite clearly that he “didn’t want anything serious,” which I took as a challenge to change his mind. And several others I won’t mention to save a little face. 

There’s also something about Cathy and Heathcliff’s relationship being rooted in childhood that holds a certain amount of appeal. They know each other so well. They grew up together. They have history. After yet another disappointing experience with a man, I often find myself craving the comforts of familiarity, returning to exes I’ve romanticized and convincing myself that someone I dated two years ago was actually the one for me.
It makes sense why I—and others like me, I’m sure—might be craving Brontë’s maddening breed of passion. I can’t tell you how many mediocre dates I’ve been on recently, swapping the same insipid stories about siblings and pets, hoping for a sudden spark of excitement and settling for it not being a complete disaster. The bar is absurdly low; these men will get a round of applause for texting us back or booking a restaurant. Where are the ones who’ll cry for us on the moors and dig up our graves? They might not be healthy, but at least they’re interesting.
I know in reality that nobody should conflate drama with romance. We all know that real love is supposed to be quiet, stable, and safe, and that it also probably shouldn’t extend into the afterlife—least of all with a raging psychopath. But when dating feels so relentlessly and desperately dire, can you blame the toxic girlies for occasionally wanting something a little spicier? If not to inject a little energy into our dating pursuits, then to give us something a little more compelling to talk about in the group chat?
With this in mind, I personally cannot wait to watch Fennell’s Wuthering Heights. I’ll admit, as a dedicated fan of the book, I was skeptical at first. But now I no longer care about accuracy. Give me madness on the moors. Snogs in a storm. And the kind of love story that will ruin my life. It’s probably a little wiser to experience it on screen than off, anyway. (Olivia Petter)