(a cheeky little review done for an in-class assessment which would be my pleasure to share with you…)
It’s a long, long way from provincial Russia to Haworth. But the two became beautifully entwined in Blake Morrison’s We Are Three Sisters; a brave re-imagining of Chekhov’s Three Sisters – swapping the usual protagonists for Yorkshire’s own Brontë sisters.
Re-working any performance from Anton Chekhov is a difficult feat to attempt, but the Northern Broadsides production stayed true to its predecessor’s blueprints, with some idiosyncratic quirks of Yorkshire life thrown in for added realism. The set looked simplistic at first glance, however it soon became clear that it was a fitting representation for the gloomy desolation that Charlotte (Catherine Kinsella), Emily (Sophia Di Martino), and Anne Brontë (Becky Hindley) had to endure through their productive, but tragically short lives.
The protagonists themselves, despite being siblings, were portrayed as having extremely diverse attitudes, which added so much to the dialogue. Charlotte’s maternal assertiveness was complemented by Anne’s wide-eyed optimism, which was balanced by Emily’s pessimism – “gloom bucks me up” laments the Wuthering Heights author.
The play included an unexpectedly high proportion of comedy, which is perhaps necessary when looking at how poor life must have been for the Brontë family as a whole; the three sisters and brother Branwell had lost their mother and two other sisters at an early age. The play begins at a time when father Partick is steadily losing his sight to cataracts and Branwell, the ‘genius’ of the family had turned to drink to help him cope with his love for Mrs. Robinson, the married mother of the children he tutors.
Morrison decides to offer us an insight into the sisters’ climactic year of 1847, ranging from the months of their collective successes of publication to the assumed death of Branwell, soon after this event Emily and Anne actually died through illness. Complications are also thrown into the sisters’ path to publication in the form of Patrick Brontë’s charming ‘lovesick’ curate, who becomes an object of affection for the younger sisters – to the rage of the family doctor, played by the convincingly morbid John Branwell, who happens to be hopelessly in love with Anne.
The dark, bleak set was overawed by a bright, colourful picture of the sisters placed commandingly in the middle of the stage, symbolically assuring the audience that the sisters’ hope of having a legacy has been realised, in spite of the trouble they’ve encountered on their journey to gain status. Complementing the stage was the costumes worn by the cast, making the two hour play seem more like a snapshot of early-Victorian Britain.
The play was a charming, upbeat, and often comical interpretation of a tale of woe. Both acted and produced at a standard so high that I felt obliged to make a second visit to the Lawrence Batley Theatre in Huddersfield to catch it before it left town. Neither viewing failed to impress; Chekhov would have been proud.
ENDS
Languid Prattle 