KESHISHIAN'S STAGING strategy is, in some sense, the opposite of television or film--where the performer wanders against elaborate scenery and looks soulfully into the camera, forced to imagine his audience. On the sound stage, the performers do the work and the audience is left to take it in at their leisure.

Wuthering Heights operates counter to this scheme, making the show seem self-indulgent. The actors, particularly Glucksman, are having a blast, as they act the Tom Cruise fantasy scene with loud music, costumes, and a crowd. But the audience is less happy, trapped in someone else's dream without the requisite backdrops and richness of scenery that might be needed to carry the fantasy to reality.

Some aspects of the staging are marvelous. Without complicated sets, the lighting must carry the burden, and John Malinowski often brings the stage to life with his intricate work.

The five dancers as "The Moors" literally provide live scenery, contrasting with the otherwise minimalist setting. A video, though, needs more. This is more than your average two and a half minutes of Van Halen and 20 women in bikinis, it's two hours, 26 numbers and quite intricate. And for that reason alone, the dancers are not sufficient to create the setting.

While it might be argued that Kershishian is making a stylistic point, the starkness of the stage is infuriating, particularly for the concert scenes which beg at least a large slide backdrop of a screaming horde of teeny boppers or some illusion of grandeur. The aural illusion needs a stronger physical complement.

When you watch a video on TV, you can talk to your friends, pass the Doritos and even change the channel. With Wuthering Heights there is no such option. The viewer is trapped for the duration of each number--songs which lose their cleverness in the first 30 seconds. The next two and a half minutes just continues to play out a dead punchline.

But all the jokes aren't stale. The production may not in the end break ground for a new genre. While Keshishian doesn't give us much Bronte, he gives a whole lot of Madonna to whistle on the way home.