Read Virginia Woolf’s experimental 1931 novel, The Waves, and the challenges of stage adaptation hit you like thundering surf. There’s its form: a patchwork of six friends’ highly lyrical inner monologues spanning childhood to middle age (no helpful dialogue or action in sight); a linchpin character – seventh friend, Percival – who doesn’t speak at all; and the small matter of replicating Woolf’s near-perfect expression of the human experience. But this deft production rises to meet them all.
Flora Wilson Brown’s adaptation appoints Rhoda (Ria Zmitrowicz) – an anxious introvert who feels forever on the outside of life – as chief narrator, using her lens to focus the group’s disparate voices. Zmitrowicz is more than up to it, bringing sensitive introspection and wry observation amid the chattering rush of parties and babies and loss.
Woolf’s most beautiful and revealing lines are woven into a naturalistic script that is by turns relatable, moving and extremely funny. “How can people bump into me on the tube […] and they don’t seem to know?” asks a grieving Susan. Meanwhile, the boys’ discovery of masturbation makes it “quite impossible to sleep” because “it is brilliant”. Crucially, the script introduces dialogue, letting the group’s decades-long connection grow before our eyes.
