I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that I haven’t yet read any of the Brontë novels. (They’re on my list for this year, I promise.) Brontë: The World Without is not concerned with the specifics of the stories they wrote; playwright Jordi Mand attends to the sisterly dynamic of the women themselves. Set in their shared home, the play affords us an intimate glimpse of their circumstances, personae and literary pursuits in a series of revealing snapshots spanning their later years. While I have some niggles with the material, Guild Festival Theatre’s earnest and beguiling presentation holds fast.
It takes some time for their writing to emerge and, when it does, the decision to seek publishing is framed as more of a pragmatic strategy than the intrepid artistic impulse that usually drives most narratives about creative types. With their alcoholic brother and ailing father unable to properly provide for the Brontë household, the burden falls to them—Charlotte (Laura Del Papa), Emily (Hilary Scott) and Anne (Lara Lucia).
To makes ends meet, they wrestle with a few tactics, but always snag on something. Cut back on expenses? Coffee and bacon are too delicious. Get jobs as teachers or governesses? Positions are scarce. Sell their belongings? They can’t bear to part with tokens of family history. Desperate, yet with a certain integrity, they land on a fanciful proposition—sell their writing.
To be taken seriously, they initially publish under male pseudonyms. The precarity of their situation as 19th century women is a significant, though understated, aspect of the story, and there is great irony in the fact that the men in their lives, brother and father, though loved, are ineffectual and entirely dependent. We never see them, though they exist on the periphery as sort of an ominous nuisance, manifesting only as offstage stumbling, door slamming, and potentially calamitous crashes.
As a trio, Del Papa, Scott and Lucia have palpable charisma and their interactions, even in lighter moments, feel richly textured and lived in. Through rhythm and movement, they register as distinct and compelling. Del Papa’s Charlotte has poise as a practical, authoritative presence. Scott’s embodiment of Emily is the most endearingly neurotic. As Anne, Lucia has, at first, an impish manner with bursts of childlike bluster and bravado. As they negotiate their newfound existence as published authors, resentments and insecurities bubble to the surface. Eventually, each personality is given room to breathe, to evolve, and the whole is a solid portrait of a nuanced, ever-adaptive sisterly bond.
A quaintly thrilling episode—in which they claw and clamber over a returned envelope from a publisher, dread and hope pulsing through their kinetic maneuvering—really epitomizes the stylish, emotive momentum of director Helen Juvonen’s production. Rather than swallowing the intimacy, the open-air, classical vibes of the The Greek Theatre gives it expansive dimension.
As she often does in this venue, with which she has forged an intuitive dexterity, Juvonen cultivates a lyricism in her blocking and business. The gestural language of the production, supported by Leah Wilton’s choreography and fight direction by Siobhan Richardson, culminates in some hauntingly heartfelt and poetic sequences that keep the sisters entwined, even as they slip from this world to the next.
With a few changes to break up the aesthetic monotony, Alex Amini’s costumes adhere to a tri-colour pallet first established by the shawls they wear over nightgowns. Elisia Evans’ minimalist production design feels sparse yet purposeful, with some whimsically stylish props that highlight key motifs. The act of writing is rendered almost mythic by the brandishing of feathered quills and their impassioned scribbling upon bands of fabric. The draping of black cloth over chairs in a gesture of mourning is especially resonant for its simplicity.
It’s tricky to achieve specificity in an outdoor venue, so I was impressed by the subtle mood shifts and ethereal quality of Honey Hoseiny’s lighting, increasingly perceptible as dusk approaches. Maddie Bautista’s sound design is yet another well integrated element. The musical interludes, in which the sisters sing hymns together, further the elegance of this production.
While the script gets a bit tedious for me in later scenes—as the sisters needle and cajole each other, wielding reviews of Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey, comparing their perceived literary successes and failures—this cast and creative team maintain a persuasive enough atmosphere to keep me invested. And the tender gravitas of the finale is effective and well earned
It’s a fine send-off for co-artistic director Juvonen (along with Tyler J. Sequin, whose own final production as GFT leadership, Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey: A Most Horrid Mystery, goes up next month) and a solid crystallization of her talent and deep affection for the venue.



