If You’re Looking for Your Mother’s ‘Wuthering Heights,’ Look Elsewhere
Emma Rice’s adaptation skins away formality, exposing the manic, infernal heart beating behind Emily Brontë’s only novel.

As expectant audience members took their seats at St. Ann’s Warehouse, Brooklyn’s bastion of experimental theater, a light shone down upon a small package placed in the middle of the stage. It was a book shrouded in white paper, thrown forward in time from 1847, ready to unwrap itself. Emily Brontë’s beautiful gift to us.
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