Jane Austen’s Emma at Theatre Royal Bath and on tour – review

Few things could seem more fitting than Jane Austen’s Emma being staged beneath the gilded cornices of the Theatre Royal Bath. The match feels almost predestined: a novel of manners, class, and romantic entanglement, set within one of England’s most elegant theatres.

Ryan Craig, who has all but become the theatre’s resident adaptor in recent years, provides the script. And for many in attendance, it was a clear triumph. At the final preview, the stalls brimmed with Austen devotees, some in full Regency cosplay. The auditorium rang with laughter, sighs, and a sense of satisfied anticipation. This is a production that knows its audience and delivers to them what they came for. As the old adage about Mamma Mia! goes: if you already know you’re going to love it, then you will.

For me, however, the evening proved curiously airless. It is a show of gleaming surfaces – heroes who posture, heroines impeccably attired – yet it never demands anything of its audience. Everything drifts by pleasantly enough, but without urgency, without heat.

Does this make me the caricatured Mr Sneer, Sheridan’s withering reviewer from The Critic? Possibly. But Peter Brook warned against “deadly theatre” half a century ago, and this production feels like a perfect specimen: handsome, decorative, but inert.

Austen’s writing was rooted in the rhythms of real lives and the contradictions of real people. Here, the characters are reduced to museum pieces: fine enough to look at, but frozen behind glass. Yes, we see love, pride, heartbreak – but always at a polite distance. The best revivals of the classics let us glimpse ourselves in their characters, reminding us how little human nature has changed. Stephen Unwin’s production instead keeps Austen’s figures embalmed. Craig’s script gestures towards the lively irreverence of the 2020 Anya Taylor-Joy film, but it never dares to let rip.

Still, there is no denying the production’s beauty. Ceci Calf’s set and costumes are sumptuous. The gowns sculpt elegant silhouettes for those who tune into Sunday night costume dramas, eager to swoon over a dashing gentleman or an independent-minded heroine. The raked stage tilts the action forward, as if characters are stepping out of the page, while Ben Ormerod’s lighting shifts from the silver hues of morning into purple-tinged evening skies. Visually, it is a feast.

And at its centre lies a heroine who refuses to be swallowed by the prettiness. India Shaw-Smith makes a dazzling Emma Woodhouse. She is both beauty and vaudeville, playing Emma as a meddler intoxicated by her own wit, while also allowing flashes of vulnerability to peek through. Her comic timing is impeccable: the lift of an eyebrow, the press of her lips, a sideways glance that skewers the room. She makes Emma not merely likeable, but magnetic – a woman both infuriating and irresistible.

Opposite her, Ed Sayer’s George Knightley takes longer to settle. At first, he plays to the gallery, tilting his head and delivering proclamations as if forever searching for his best angle. Yet as the evening wears on, he relaxes into a performance that captures Knightley’s duality: exasperated moral guardian and besotted admirer. His eventual declaration of love, heartfelt and simple, drew audible sighs from the audience – a testament to his gradual transformation.

There are other bright spots in the ensemble. Maiya Louise Thapar, making her professional debut fresh from Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, is a joy as Harriet Smith. She captures Harriet’s awkwardness, innocence, and open-heartedness, making her a character you ache for even as Emma manipulates her. William Chubb delights as the endlessly fretful Mr Woodhouse, forever worrying over his digestion, while Rose Quentin sparkles as a Bath socialite whose hauteur even outstrips Emma’s own.

So yes, if you come to Emma seeking fine costumes, candlelit drawing rooms, and Austen’s familiar cadences, you will have an enjoyable evening. Ignore this review and go; you will not be disappointed. But for me, it remains no more than a glittering trinket: admired in the moment, yet already fading by the time the night air touched my face outside the theatre.