The Tempest

(seen at the preview performance on 16th December 2024)  

According to the programme, Sigourney Weaver has only ever played in Shakespeare once before – 1986, Portia, New York. Going on the reviews back then, her Prospero is a considerable improvement.

On stage for much of the two hours running time, observing. Sometimes still, sometimes amused. This enchantress has a firm grasp of pentameter and commanding hold of the large auditorium when soliloquizing. “Full Fathom Five” is one of the monkey’s all-time favourite speeches in any Bill the Quill epic, and Weaver does not disappoint.

Alongside her, Mara Huf is an energetic Miranda – Weaver is lucky to have the magic to put her to sleep at will. When awake, her delivery is infectious and coupled with James Phoon as Ferdinand, their romance carries the show – providing Prospero some much needed comedy in the process.

Where comedy is required elsewhere, Forbes Masson (Caliban), Mathew Horne (Trinculo) and Stefano (Jasoin Barnett) are formidable. Masson’s leather-nappied form emerges from the grime several times to enlighten the evening. Horne is more direct, their first scene together well-timed. Barnett’s deadpan just adds to the occasion.

Floating above, Mason Alexander Park is a glorious Ariel. A fine singing voice and ability to dominate or conceal is impressive. We feel their / her pain, determination and relief without them / her needing to exaggerate a single movement.

There is fine work too from Selina Cadell as Gonzalo, a voice of balance.

Soutra Gilmour fills the stage with a “Waiting for Godot” like mesa, lumps of dirt as if hope has shrivelled. Jon Clark takes an oddly reductive approach to the lighting. Fewer than one might expect, paying off with a single illuminated sequence to cast off the shadows.

As usual, the Ringham men provide a soundscape which fills the auditorium and ensures clarity from even the quickest line and a chill from their and J’Asante’s score.

It is only Jamie Lloyd’s direction which might sometimes be questioned. The approach veers wildly between confident and “1980s student experimental.” The former is best when the cast address us directly. He keeps the resentments simmering, never boiling – a quiet fury which rather suits the environment.

The latter is rather too much crawling under chairs and between legs, with plenty of “significant circling” of the lead actor as well. Both outmoded and somewhat unimaginatively trite to the monkey mind.

Perhaps too we do not find the spectacle, clarity in narrative, nor the deft dissection a Trevor Nunn or Peter Hall might have brought to the vast space. Still, in Weaver we do have a leading lady who delivers a spellbinding performance, with a hugely talented troupe supporting her.

It is enough to generate the applause of life.