Sigourney Weaver (Prospero) in The Tempest at Theatre Royal Drury Lane. Credit - Marc BrennerCertainly when a curtain goes up more that 10 minutes late, most audiences are prone to nervous shuffling… and in this case, they were right to be concerned. As an ardent admirer of Ms Weaver’s film work, this (the last theatre assignment of my reviewing year) has been boldly ringed on the calendar with red marker pen, for literally months. But, my eagerness to witness the great lady take to a West End stage, is perhaps the reason for my profound sense of disappointment.
This was certainly not the way I had envisaged my reviewing schedule would conclude after well in excess of 100 press nights this year.
We open with the storm - all billowing pewter grey gossamer and lightning which illuminates an ultra still Prospero (Sigourney Weaver) muttering incantations downstage centre. Ariel, her captive sprite (Mason Alexander Park) descends from the flies in a harness, whipping-up mischief and mayhem with a transfixing androgynous air, oodles of stages presence and a voice to match. But where’s Sigourney? The answer in all fairness, despite her height and her world famous features, is nowhere. She seemingly evaporates. Her delivery of the meter is soft and lacks the demand for vengeance which has caused her to wreck her Kingdom-stealing brother’s ship, onto these shores.
Shipwrecked pretty boy Ferdinand (James Phoon) has a charming and ingratiating lilt as he attempts to land Prospero’s daughter Miranda (Mara Huf) for himself, whilst she pervades a feisty, modern air whilst conveying that she is just as eagerly (if not more) enamoured, with him. Hormones being what they are, everyone is commanded to wait.
The unfortunate Caliban (Forbes Masson) wears a black fetishistic nappy as he grovels and bemoans his witch mother’s demise and the resultant loss of his kingdom to an outsider. And the experienced and always eminently watchable Selina Cadell tries gamely to imbue a sense of proportion, rhythm and back history to Gonzalo.
By the half-way point, I was decidedly in a swirl, but less from the onstage tempestuousness and more from the seeming dampness of the squib before us. For an auditorium the size of Drury Lane, audibility is essential and it appeared that every actor was mic’d. However this also results in reliance (dependence) for projection and can inadvertently lead to a certain flatness in delivery. Don’t get me wrong, The Tempest has never been my favourite Shakespeare play (I far prefer the histories) but there IS poetry here — and it requires intensity and energy to be realised. Lloyd’s production instead cedes power to the minor characters of Trinculo (Mathew Horne) and Stephano (Jason Barnett) who between them, imbue idiocy and cheap mugging to elicit something approaching a reaction from the largely dumbstruck audience. It is excruciating to endure and has the effect of dividing the players into two distinctly different plays, further eradicating any sense of cohesion and single purpose in telling the already far-fetched story.
In closing, and while hanging-up my curmudgeonly stocking for 2024, I’ll state for the record that this was possibly the biggest disappointment in all the productions I have witnessed this year, not least because of my long-standing admiration for Sigourney Weaver. Pass me the Alien box-set, Dave, Gorillas in the Mist, The Year of Living Dangerously and The Ice Storm. There, I told you I was a fan. Sometimes these endeavours look far better on paper than they ever will be in reality, but I guess that’s the beauty of theatre and long may the surprises (both good and sometimes less so) keep coming.
This production is scheduled to continue until 1st February 2025.
