The Globe opts for comedy over commentary in this fun-filled staging of Shakespeare’s classic.
On an island somewhere near Italy, Prospero, the one-time Duke of Milan, and his daughter, Miranda, live with two servants: Caliban, a half-human half-monster, and Ariel, an airy spirit. Prospero, now a powerful magician, creates a tempest that shipwrecks his old usurpers, and murderous plots, drunken fools, and a classically-quick romance occur before the day is through.
The Tempest is a play that can be taken either way, but Sean Holmes’s staging leans firmly in to the comedy—and it’s a hoot. Huge yellow crates, plentiful rubber ducks, and Ibiza-stag-do vibes abound in this colourful production which plays to the crowd with the joy and aptitude one expects from a Globe ensemble. The moments of playfulness, silliness, and superb ad-libbing are hilarious and feel as if they were discovered organically in what I can only assume was a delightful rehearsal process.
It feels obvious to say, but I couldn’t help but feel I was in the presence of proper actors. The vocal ability of every member of the cast is excellent and there is certainly no lack of chemistry. Lucy Phelps’s Sebastian and Patrick Osborne’s Antonio make much of what could be forgettable roles, with a sparky, calculating, gangster-ish portrayal of the two plotters (suitably armed with golf clubs). Peter Bourke makes the audience smile as the surprisingly spry yet out-of-touch Gonzalo, and Katy Stephens’s Alonso offers an increasingly-touching portrayal of grief that reaches beyond the play’s comic surface. Accessibility is key, and Olivier Huband’s Ferdinand and Nadi Kemp-Sayfi’s Miranda put in skilful turns, lifting the romance off of the page and making their newfound love, or lust, perhaps, modern and familiar to a 21st-century Love Island audience. Comedically, though, it is Stephano and Trinculo—masterfully brought to life by George Fouracres and Ralph Davis—who steal the show. Aided by Ciarán O’Brien’s desperate Caliban, played with a depth beyond his tattered Hawaiian shirt and tight shorts, the trio light up the audience with every arrival and always leave them laughing.
Prospero is always a difficult role, and anyone taking it on will inevitably be compared to past greats who have donned the cape. Ferdy Roberts’s Prospero spends most of the show in tight yellow budgie smugglers, instead, and does an excellent job keeping the exposition engaging and personal. Special credit must be given to his delivery of the final speech, offering a profundity which lands well and reminds the audience that the beauty of theatre lies in its ephemerality: it was here and now, sadly, it’s gone.
In fact, Roberts sometimes felt underutilised as the magical puppeteer. The play’s tragic-comic tightrope means there exists the potential for vast darkness within Prospero and I occasionally missed the powerful sorcerer, here replaced by a lighter, slightly mad-driven narrator. The same might be said for Ariel, a fun and capable performance from Rachel Hannah Clarke, who, while enjoyable, lacks the mischievousness, resentfulness or twinkle the role can offer.
Ultimately, though, this isn’t what the play is going for, and, for what it is, it is only really the singing that lets its down. The band, led by Rio Kai, are very impressive and lend an offbeat, magical soundtrack to many moments, but some actors clearly struggle with the contemporary and chromatic melodies.
So, is the show a damning critique on colonialism? Is it trying to say something about power and privilege and the damaging effects of capitalism on distant lands, and on the self? No, not really. But it doesn’t need to. It’s the Globe giving you what you want from the play the First Folio labelled as one of Shakespeare’s comedies. It’s a wonderful time, provoking laughs and mmm’s galore from a roused crowd. On a beautiful night in an historic venue besides the Thames, it doesn’t get much better. It’s such stuff as (albeit comparatively superficial) dreams are made on. Just make sure you grab a cushion if you’re on the bench.