has proved a particularly pliable canvas on which to paint contemporary socio-political concerns and theories. First came colonialism, with Prospero’s subjugation of the “native” Caliban and now, perhaps inevitably, we have climate change.
Kingston’s look is Captain Birdseye joins Extinction Rebellion, that famous tumble of auburn curls now the matted hair of the long-time eco warrior. Prospero and Miranda’s ramshackle cave set-up resembles a protest camp and Ferdinand’s never-ending task is to clear plastic waste from the shoreline.
Kingston is fitfully imposing but too often over-emphatic, whereas Rhodes has a default setting of squinty frowning. The most consistently fine work comes from Heledd Gwynn, who imbues the sprit Ariel with androgynous ethereality that suggests a beguiling meeting between David Bowie and Peter Pan. When Ariel sulks, she amusingly sticks a child’s sandcastle bucket on her head.
For all the lofty talk about Prospero-as-Shakespeare that always accompanies this play, what is perpetually under-mentioned and under-lamented is the surfeit of purgatorial “comic” – I use the word advisedly – scenes we must trudge through to reach the transcendent closing episode of reconciliation.
My overwhelming reaction on leaving the Royal Shakespeare Theatre was one of frustration that so many potentially winning elements didn’t amount to more. I longed for greater consistency and definition from Kingston and, strangely, heavier impact from the environmental references.