On paper, it’s something of a curious starting pistol for the RSC’s new joint artistic directors, Daniel Evans and Tamara Harvey, to be launching their tenure with Love’s Labour’s Lost. For a start, it ranks amongst the lesser-known and least played of the Bard’s outings, and to pitch a slightly more muted, grounded comedy so soon after the fantastical elation of perhaps the definitive Shakespeare comedy, with Eleanor Rhode’s raucous reimagining of A Midsummer Night’s Dream so fresh and recent in the memory, posits the risk of looking like an also-ran.

And yet the bedevilment is in the details, and whilst Emily Burns’ production may not have the high-concept bells and whistles and high fantasy of Midsummer, it carries itself with a lightness, whimsy and, yes, silliness all of its own. It also boasts some wattage – the big pull and poster boy (quite literally) for the piece being Bridgerton’s Luke Thompson as the charming Berowne. And, bookended with some geopolitical and emotional heft, this slightly truncated version of the text does a terrific job of bringing the tale’s sensibilities and ideas onto a distinctly contemporary footing.

The central thread of Lost interweaves the tale of a young princess (Melanie-Joyce Bermudez) seeking to reclaim her dying father’s land, with that of three friends who have made a vow of learning and abstinence to its current king (Abiola Owokoniron). Perhaps inevitably, the four young men, sworn to take neither company nor pleasure from the fairer sex, each become immediately smitten with one of the princess’ court (or in the case of King Ferdinand, said princess herself), and the expected hijinks ensure.

As touched upon, Burns and her team pitch this take firmly within a modern framework. Navarre itself is handsomely realised as something akin to Apple Park via a Pacific spa resort, with the four men at the heart of the tale seemingly equally plucked from Silicon Valley. Mobile phones are commonplace, with Brandon Bassir’s Dumaine a hostage to both the selfie and possibly even a TikTok or two, and the ladies holding their judgement court and hearsay via, naturally, a few swipes of social media. And, fittingly for a tale that sets its female minds as the superior power players, Bermudez’ princess and her entourage are themselves pant-suit wearing, golf-buggy commandeering women on a mission.

“In an age of Tates and Musks, it’s a canny pitch…”

In an age of Tates and Musks, it’s a canny pitch. For whilst Thompson and co’s oath-breaking, cupid-struck band of bros are fairly harmless – and often quite hilarious – in their attempts to win over their lady loves (brace yourselves for Backstreet Boys on the stage of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre…), the undercurrent of female empowerment that ebbs through Lost, and a refusal to yield to more infantile notions of love and lust lends it a refreshingly blunt and, again, contemporary edge.

If that all sounds a touch preachy, then fear not. Whilst it is innately a less punchier and altogether more contemplative affair than, say, Midsummer or Twelfth Night, with something of a stop-start jolt to some of its character rumination and interludes in particular, Burns does a strong job keeping the comedy rarely a beat or two away.

Particularly funny are this production’s take on the outlandish Don Armado (Jack Bardoe), a larger-than-life, tennis playing and short-shorts wearing Spaniard vying for the affections of young worker, Jaquenetta (Marienella Phillips) and a down-on-his luck Costard (Nathan Foad). Bardoe is particularly animated and a whole lot of fun in a hilarious, ridiculous role, that bounces well off of Foad’s deliciously dry and camp put-upon. Elsewhere, Tony Gardner makes for a gloriously stuffy and self-important Holofernes.

Of its leads, Melanie-Joyce Bermudez brings gravitas and dimension to her Princess, particularly strong in her scenes as political strategist and regent in waiting. Ioanna Kimbook lends a venerable warmth to her Rosaline, feeling the most grounded and ‘real’ of the almost Desperate Housewives power foursome. Speaking of which, Burns and the company inject plenty of sass and even occasional venom into the ladies’ circle, casting down even entire Nations with derisory asides. But even at its most seemingly vicious, it’s consummately entertaining cattiness.

“Luke Thompson delivers an impressive RSC debut, injecting plenty of charm and fun into what could easily be quite rudimentary or even mawkish passages…”

Luke Thompson delivers an impressive RSC debut, injecting plenty of charm and fun into what could easily be quite rudimentary or even mawkish passages with a likeable, roguish Berowne. The previously mentioned Brandon Bassir, too, is a terrific, energised and suitably laddish Dumaine.

A funny, likeable, mature retelling of one of Shakespeare’s less prolific pieces may have been something of a roll of the dice for the new captains of the good ship RSC. And yet, glancing over the forthcoming 2024/25 season, with a number of less obvious choices given the star treatment and being brought front and centre, it’s clear that there is a vision and direction to pluck at every thread and string of the Bard’s catalogue and see what gems can be unearthed, or even forged.

As a litmus for what’s to come, this funny, charming, surprisingly modern revisit to Love’s Labour’s Lost is a strong, confident start, and pitches this new era for the RSC as one very ready to be still and contemplative in living art, and a court more than a little Academe…

Dreamscapes and the fae are commonplace, almost the point of mundanity, within Shakespeare. Be it the servile Ariel and fellow island spirits of The Tempest, the foreboding misdirection of dreams in Romeo and Juliet, or the outward supernatural malevolence of Macbeth’s witchery, the Bard’s offerings are replete with the fantastical and otherworldly.

Yet nowhere are they more intertwined with the whinnying of character and narrative than A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

This celebrated fool’s playground of mistaken identities, unrequited loves and fairytale mischief is the latest offering from the RSC, in a boisterous and kinetic production steered by Eleanor Rhode (a RSC returnee, after her 2019 production of the rarely-seen King John).

Given the whimsy and heightened nature of Dream’s fable, coursing through realms and concepts of high fantasy that even Tolkien and Carroll would likely balk at, anything resembling the words ‘stripped back’ as an approach might (understandably) alarm even non-purists.

And yes, to strictly label Rhode and designer Lucy Osborne’s take on the great romp as such would be unfair. For whilst this Dream may not be bursting at the seams with intrusive set decoration or any overt on-stage busyness, it still commands attention and offers up a colourful, inventive style all of its own. From its overhanging canvas of rose-like paper lanterns, its glitching, flickering projections of analog transmissions (complete with flashes of the iconic ‘Test Card F’), its not-quite-Eighties-but-the-shoulder-pads-are-close-enough costume design, through to at one point literally dropping a technicolor ball pit onto its company member’s heads, there’s a tangible retro vibrancy to where (and when) Rhodes pitches her ‘Athens’.

“…this is a handsome, whimsical and transportive Dream, for certain.”

It’s a distinctive and interesting approach, and for a brief moment, one that almost makes the slightly more traditional depictions of Dream’s fairy folk that follow feel a little more de rigeuer, perhaps even staid, as a consequence. Fortunately, Osborne’s spunky costume design carries through (with Bally Gill’s decadently punk Oberon making a vivid, immediate impact), and some splendid illusory and lighting work from John Bulleid and Matt Daw keeping things suitably ethereal. Levitating floral macguffins, micro poi balls dancing about as enchanted fairy folk, a cascade of neon pink petals to consummate a consummation, and even a pair of animatronic donkey ears offering up perfectly timed comedic droops – this is a handsome, whimsical and transportive Dream, for certain. One that fuses technology and theatricality, whilst shrewdly managing to avoid overreaching or stuffing itself silly on needless, excessive spectacle.

As the impending marriage of a nervy duke (Bally Gill, again) to his unenthused betrothed (Sirine Saba, also on multi-role duty) approaches, four young wannabe lovers flee into neighbouring woodlands to pursue their heart’s desires. Feisty Hermia (Dawn Sievewright) longs to abscond with the object of her affections, young Lysander (Ryan Hutton). The only catch is, she’s already been promised to strapping Demetrius (Nicholas Armfield), who himself commands the affections of envious Helena (Boadicea Ricketts).

Elsewhere, a performing troupe are making ready to perform for the Duke at his wedding, led by self-assured Bottom (Mathew Baynton) who is beyond confident that he can deliver a performance for the ages.

“Measure for measure, pound for pound, this is the sharpest, funniest RSC production in recent memory.”

As its colourful cast of characters intrude upon the realms of the fantastical by venturing into the glen, they fall foul of mischievous sprites and scorned fairy folk, leading to farce, silliness, switched desires and oscillating loyalties par excellence.

Measure for measure, pound for pound, this is the sharpest, funniest RSC production in recent memory. Rhode’s taut direction keeps things punchy and regularly injects invention and flourish. See a forest of ladders in Act II which the cast clamber up, thrust upon and slide down amidst a hilariously charged four-way verbal fracas. Bask in the gloriously melodramatic, ludicrous and even occasionally bawdy spot of late game metafiction.

It’s charged, kinetic and utterly entertaining stuff. Buoyed immeasurably by Rhode clearly letting the instincts and talents of a wonderful assembled company not only breathe, but run rampant.

Boadicea Ricketts’ brash, frustrated Helena crackles with some deliciously contemporary sensibilities and ticks, her gradual descent into exasperation and neurosis sublimely pitched. She’s handsomely met by Dawn Sievewright and Nicholas Armfield, both excellent and characterful as Hermia and Demetrius, respectively. But it’s perhaps a side-splitting, animated Ryan Hutton, a leaping bundle of comic and physical elasticity as Lysander, who gets amongst the most consistent and effortless laughs of the evening.

Not that he’s without stiff competition, mind. This is a uniformly fantastic company, with even smaller roles such as Emily Cundick’s Snout, Helen Monks’ fraught troupe leader Peter/Rita Quince, and Mitesh Soni’s Flute all amongst those getting laugh-out-loud moments to shine, particularly come the show’s closing scenes.

Bally Gill starts out strong and sets the tone from the off with his quirky, giggle-inducing Theseus, and if Sirine Saba is initially given little to work with as Hippolyta, she positively springs to life by the time she’s slinking, strutting and even boogying her way through the woods as Queen of Fairies, Titania. Credit must go, too, to an impressive Premi Tamang, stepping in to cover the role of Puck and giving a lively, winning turn (on press night no less).

Which brings us to Bottom. In what turns out to be an unsurprisingly inspired spot of casting, Ghosts and Horrible Histories’ Mathew Baynton is perfect as a heightened, grandstanding iteration of one of Shakespeare’s silliest creations. Where past productions may pitch their Bottom as courageous or fearlessly assertive, here he is hilariously self-important and pompous. And whether dialling up the melodrama and absurdity of his luvvies’ performative chops to the stratosphere, or sinking into the jackassery (quite literally) and physical lampoonery of the character post-transformation (just you wait for those ears and gnashers…) or even just daintily prancing about on stage in skimpy attire, Baynton serves up an absolute comedic masterclass in the role throughout, lighting up the stage with every inch of his spindly, wide-eyed, hyper expressive and giddily farcical turn.

“…Baynton serves up an absolute comedic masterclass…”

There will doubtless have been – and likely continue to be – visits to the whimsical farscapes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that carry even more showy spectacle and grandeur than this latest outing from the RSC. It is after all, by some measure, Shakespeare’s most heightened and outlandish hour, and for some that means big production value and stage wizardry dialled up to the nines.

And still, as pretty, colourful and occasionally otherwordly as Bulleid and Daw’s work confidently keep things here, no amount of aesthetic distraction or set pieces can compensate for the true magic of the Bard’s high fantasy hijinks. It’s a code that Rhode and company seem to have quite effortlessly cracked; a frisson they have plucked, bottled and ebbed into every beat and pulse of this giddy, winning and, yes, magical production.

Tirelessly funny, effortlessly vibrant in performance and character both, and a razor-sharp, immaculately performed evening of comedy and jollification, here is a Dream of a show that deserves adoration from top to scantily-clad Bottom.

A rare vision, indeed.

At one point midway through the second act of Erica Whyman and Lolita’s Chakrabarti’s stage adaptation of Maggie O’Farrell’s Hamnet, Tom Varey’s ‘William’ (you know the one) asks his fellow players to imagine the seats of their newly-founded Globe theatre to be full of patrons. Moments before, a comedic beat sees one of the Bard’s troupe almost tumble off the edge of the stage and into the laps of (gamely amused) actual audience members. Nestled, as Hamnet currently is, in the Swan Theatre at the RSC, it’s all laced with echoes of cultural poignancy, not to mention some cheeky, fourth-wall breaking knowingness.

Plenty of Whyman’s transplant of Hamnet resonates to this canny, autobiographical enrichment. Mentions of Stratford and Warwickshire abound (and even received audible murmurs of approval from the audience), whilst the whole thing feels leant a sense of authenticity by dint of company and locale alone.

And yet, for all of the myriad fun had in exploring the unique meta opportunities of bringing this tale to the stage in Stratford (and soon to be London), fundamentally O’Farrell’s story is one of grief, loss, absence and departure. For sure, the power of performance and the cathartic nature of theatre are indeed important threads of the Hamnet tale, and there’s fun to be had with a smattering of references and Easter eggs for enthusiasts of the Bard’s oeuvre, but all the frolics and intertextuality in the world wouldn’t save it from a failure to deliver on the story’s most profound and affecting beats.

“…an assured, indomitable turn, with Mantock lending an air of venerability and wisdom beyond age to the orphaned Hathaway…”

Thankfully, a resplendent company deliver us to the eventual heartbreak and anguish with sincerity and clout. Front and centre is a captivating Madeleine Mantock, as Shakespeare’s wife, Anne – here renamed Agnes (‘the g is silent’) – Hathaway. It’s an assured, indomitable turn, with Mantock lending an air of venerability and wisdom beyond age to the orphaned Hathaway, which bounces well off of Varey’s likeable, boyish vim as a young Shakespeare. Whyman and Chakrabarti’s adaptation doesn’t shy away from the ethereal and spiritualistic elements of O’Farrell’s storytelling, either; introducing Agnes from the off as a figure attuned to whispers on the wind, an affinity with the natural world, and the perhaps inevitable consequential sneers and accusations of witchcraft and ungodliness. Where less confident productions would perhaps hedge their bets on ambiguity, Hamnet quite literally gives voice and presence to the manifestations of spirits and the supernatural, that end up being a crucial part of its heroine’s identity and arc.

More grounded are practically the entirety of characters about her. From Sarah Belcher’s unabashedly venomous step-mother, Peter Wright’s boorish, oft-abusive and shame-ridden father of Varey’s Shakespeare (or his flatulent luvvy), to a wonderfully droll and deadpan Elizabeth Rider as his mother Mary, it’s a rabble of earthy, colourful Elizabethans. Sure, we rarely scratch beneath the surface for most of them, but they’re a rich and vibrantly performed collective who add plenty of grit and character, to a slightly meandering first half in particular.

For it’s certainly a lopsided affair. The first act, which centres around the blossoming romance between lowly Latin teacher William, and Hathaway, surely takes its time, but is a little too doe-eyed, occasionally to the point of threatening to feel languid. By contrast, the sheer amount of incident and high drama that rips through the punchier, powerful second half almost leaves it feeling too fleeting. Chunks of Hamnet’s opening hour may be characterful and involving, but pale into relative inconsequence by the time the tragedy that threatens to tear the Shakespeare homestead apart begins to unravel post-interval.

Thankfully – if one can say such a thing when discussing the bubonic death of the young – Whyman’s production strikes these pivotal moments with heartrending precision and impact. Mantock’s anguish and desperation as a woman facing the sum of all maternal fears is raw and devastating. It’s a truly blistering demonstration of grief. Loss hangs palpably in the air and upon the shoulders of the cast, and if it is indeed these wrenching throngs of pain that Hamnet has been building toward, the production and cast more than deliver.

“…one can’t help but feel that the cosier safeness of Hamnet’s first half deserved something of a squeeze to allow its more interesting second half time to breathe.”

It only amplifies the regrettable nature of its disjointed structure. Just as we begin weaving into heady issues such as survivors guilt, expression through language and other interesting wrinkles, the breakneck pace of the second Act sees it all needing to be wrapped up. That it does so on a beautifully satisfying, bittersweet coda is welcome, but one can’t help but feel that the cosier safeness of Hamnet’s first half deserved something of a squeeze to allow its more interesting second half time to breathe.

Structural gripes aside, this is nevertheless a slick, handsomely-realised production. Staging designer Tom Piper plays with levels and constructs (ladders, unfolding stages et al) to at times quite literally build the story of Shakespeare’s evolution, in a woody fashion that feels totally organic and resonant within the confines of the recently (sublimely) refurbished Swan. Movement and transitions are smooth, and the depictions of place feel lived-in and authentic. Prema Mehta and Xana’s lighting and sound work are cannily utilised, in understated yet surprisingly evocative fashion. Some may find the occasional otherworldly whisper a touch on the nose, but the sound of flies (or are they bees?) buzzing away faintly in the distance serves as a reminder that death and decay are creeping in at the periphery.

Much like its fascinating lead character, Hamnet is a curio of gentle otherworldliness and raw, unbridled emotion. That it spends a little too much of its runtime on the former, whilst slightly rushing through the weightier ebbs, makes for a production that lands with perhaps a touch less elan and rhythm than enthusiasts of O’Farrell’s novel may have anticpated. Yet, despite this slightly choppy pathway, when it comes to realising the emotional fulcrum of its titular tragedy, a riveting, powerhouse Mantock and company more than deliver.

It’s just a pity that it wraps itself up far too soon afterward.

For as the Bard himself knew only too well, and indeed as Varey’s Shakespeare emphatically notes to a freewheeling Will Kempe at one point, it simply doesn’t do to mess up on rhythm and structure.

There are likely all manner of frightfully topical nuggets one could pepper around discussions of a Julius Caesar that finds itself landing in our troubled political landscape. Boris Johnson standing trial for his questionable oration in Parliament closing out a truly tumultuous twelve months for the UK body politic, whilst Stateside, the terms ‘impeachment’ and ‘conviction’ never stray far from the conversation when discussing a certain other former World leader.

Heck, we even had showboating Culture Secretary dingbat, Nadine Dorries, using the very imagery of Caesar’s senatorial assassination when attempting to discredit now-PM Rishi Sunak, during last year’s doomed leadership election.

Cast a wider glance, and the international scene remains depressingly replete with examples of destabilisation and conflict incited by the forced and even supposedly altruistic removals of despots.

In such charged political times, there’s unavoidable pathos and resonance here, in a piece that asks questions of motivation, betrayal and the greater good within the coordinated takedown of a perceived tyrant.

There’s simply no getting around the sheer degree of resonance it offers in 2023.

With all this said, there’s a striking and immediate minimalism to Atri Banerjee’s bold interpretation of the Bard’s politic thriller, and one which echoes right through to its admirably restrained performances and stark, foreboding staging. There’s a definite sense that this is, first and foremost, about the people, not the politics. It’s moody, for sure: harsh casts of light offer this Caesar’s conspirators little avenue or space to hide, whilst projected silhouettes of eclipses and ominous countdowns loom over proceedings. A bleak, monochromatic bluntness cuts through the visuals, perhaps most strikingly in how its ‘most noble blood of all’ is cast here in deep, staining smears of inky, black oil.

But this patently isn’t about elaborate sets, or even set pieces; it’s about the human dynamics at Caesar’s core. The visual language is striking, angular, contemporary. It’s a piece that – on aesthetics alone – would not look amiss staged in, say, the National. Lee Curran and Rosanna Vize in particular help to craft out a stark, distinctive courtyard for its machinations and misdeeds to play out in.

And yet, despite all this, and the lofty, embedded themes of betrayal, fate, rhetoric and beyond, there’s a marked restraint to the performances that find themselves housed in this revised Caesar. For a play not short of grandstanding moments of address to the crowds, inciting rhetoric and more, it’s rather in the quieter, raw moments that the production really shines.

“For a play not short of grandstanding moments of address to the crowds, inciting rhetoric and more, it’s rather in the quieter, raw moments that the production really shines.”

Much of this orbits around an absorbing central turn from Thalissa Teixeira, as the conflicted Brutus – moral figurehead (smokescreen?) of the cabal of Roman conspirators seeking to topple the man they perceive to be dictator. It’s a gorgeously-observed performance; searching, tremulous and rarely too assured. Teixeira lends the character the quiet dignity and sense of respect needed, and yet so too is there something else bubbling just beneath the surface; a twitchy, physical trepidation that could perhaps stem from the poignantly-observed dynamic shared with Jamal Ajala’s Lucius, a relationship which offers amongst the production’s most powerfully original moments.

Kelly Gough is similarly excellent, delivering a bitingly cold, intense and neurotic Cassius, whilst Gina Isaac laces her influential Decius with just the right degree of cunning and performative fawning at the Caesarian ego. William Robinson lends some volume and bombast to an otherwise slightly hushed production with his ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen’, and is well-met here by Annabel Baldwin’s soothsayer-cum-crowdsfolk. Ella Dacres and Nadi Kemp-Sayfi both offer great work with limited stage time, whilst the Stratford wing of ‘Community Chorus‘ ensure the sporadic incidence of vocal accompaniment is haunting and rousing in equal measure.

“…a gorgeously-observed performance; searching, tremulous and rarely too assured.”

It doesn’t all work, though. Whilst much of the on-stage physicality is suitably evocative – all grand gasps of air and almost balletic tussles – helped immeasurably throughout by Claire Windsor’s throbbing, pulsing sound design (listen as the bass of Caesar’s returning triumph plays out here akin to a distant rave), there are moments where the more heightened, choreographed beats tiptoe perilously close to undercutting the tension. And, on a similar note, the gravity of the show’s early plotting and conspiring can feel a little lacking or undercooked in places. This is murder and assassination being bandied around, after all.

Finally, Nigel Barrett’s Caesar himself, whilst showcasing hints of a disingenuous, discomforting edge, generally struggles to register as even a proposed megalomaniac.

Sadly, there will likely be a small band of merry ‘not my Shakespeare’, dyed-in-the-wool purists who will balk at some of the show’s handling of gender, and indeed gender relations, too. You only need to dip a toe into the cess pit of Twitter reactions to Teixeira’s casting to further depress one’s self. And let’s not bother going anywhere near the historical and cultural hypocrisy of taking umbrage with gender portrayal within Shakespeare, either; instead, we’ll simply take it as a given that all such regressive irrelevances are to be considered – and disregarded – as nothing more than just that.

“Our ensemble – made up of both the professional company and our community chorus members – is drawn from across the country and beyond… The company members’ own several identities, and the negotiation of all these in relation to everyone else’s, have fed into the show in ways that have been quite magical.”

Banerjee, in Julius Caesar’s programme, appraising the collaborative, collective richness of this distinctive, idiosyncratic production.

The promising young director’s vision may not be executed here faultlessly – at a base level, there’s probably even a fair argument to be made that it’s actually in places all a bit too quiet, for starters – but there’s clearly no lack of ambition, artistry or original thinking at play, either. And for sure, whilst Caesar offers sobering warnings on the danger of ambition run wild, at the same time, so too does it posit this within a sobering reflection on the dangers of persuasive talk and rhetoric, also.

So, in true, reflective ‘Caesar’ style, on balance perhaps you ought not listen to anything proffered by either this particular reviewer, nor any of his peers. Be your own senator, hand yourself over to this fascinating, original adaptation, and see whether Banerjee’s blunt, subtle blade carves itself a dish fit for the gods, or instead renders the most unkindest cut of all.

Personally? Not that I loved this Caesar less, but that I loved at least what it aimed for, more.

You aren’t going to be offering much in the way of groundbreaking or original thought drawing attention to the timelessness of any particular thread or motif in a Shakespeare production. There’s a reason the Bard’s oeuvre is enduring, and ingrained in educational syllabuses across the English-speaking world. Throw a dart at any of his pieces, and you’ll hit some broader, innately human motivational nerve.

The Tempest, for instance, fringed though it may be with the fantastical and the fay, pivots heavily around such consummately relatable themes as the corrosive, self-destructive nature of resentment and embitterment, the necessity of empathy or appreciation and, ultimately, the virtue and power of ‘letting go’ – of grievances, of vengeful impulses, and indeed of control. Indeed, the balance of power and influence are in constant flux in this tale of an exiled Duke (Alex Kingston) seeking to right the wrongs wrought upon them  (even if it does occasionally allow for slightly discomforting undertones of subjugation and colonialism to rear their heads in the process).

The RSC’s latest spin on the tale hits the salient beats of the source material with flair and impact, courtesy of a solid cast and some evocative staging. But so too does Elizabeth Freestone imbibe her staging of Tempest with other wrinkles and subtext that feel just that touch more timely and prescient. The play’s late-game cry for empathy and understanding particularly resonates in this day and age of immediate cancel culture and organised, unyielding judgement, but it’s a creeping ebb of environmentalism that really takes root.

Freestone and designer Tom Piper quite literally litter the edges of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre’s stage with a collection of un-recycled detritus and uglies. Where the book calls for logs or even wooden flagons, they are replaced here with ugly, heavy oil drums, or semi translucent, plastic fuel cartons. Symbols of bondage and servitude take the form of garish blue nylon rope, or equally synthetic discarded fishing nets. When Heledd Gwynn’s spirit Ariel takes on the form of an avenging harpy to wreak fear upon her master’s enemies, the grand, five-person illusion takes on the appearance of a wretched, black-stained great winged thing, reminiscent of unfortunate birds seen in practically any coverage of lamentable oil spills. Even the ‘sweet nature’ elementals of the second-Act masque must first shed themselves of skirts comprised of carrier bags, discoloured plastics and other such rubbish, whilst Prospero’s own conduit through which she executes her ‘rough magic’ is an orange, plasticky remnant of a former life jacket.

In terms of its visual language at least, there’s a palpable sense that plastic, unnatural things, and man’s own irresponsibility, have polluted this production of The Tempest. It may seem at first glance to some like a decidedly modern, some may even suggest clumsy, Thunberg-esque bolt-on, woven in for flair or effect, but in execution it actually marries perfectly organically with the story’s existing warnings of how man’s excesses and shortcomings can have an impact on the natural order and way of things. It’s also something of a treat to watch the journey of a show gradually ridding itself of its canted steel rigging, shipwrecked flats, articial adornments and on-stage clutter – one of Ferdinand’s (Joseph Payne) indentured tasks is to literally litter-pick, including one on occasion straight from the hands of the audience – to reveal the light and air of nature. Again, Piper’s set work here is particularly engaging, but it’s handsomely met by Johanna Town’s transportive lighting, and Adrienne Quartly’s oft-ethereal sound design and music.

“There’s a palpable sense that plastic, unnatural things, and man’s own irresponsibility, have polluted this production of The Tempest.”

Gender swapping in Shakespeare is notably less, well, noteworthy. Heck, even with The Tempest, Helen Mirren delivered up a female Prospero, Hollywood-style, with the 2010 movie adaptation of the piece. And yet this does nothing to dilute how exciting, immediate and fresh Alex Kingston’s handling of the character is here. The actress – perhaps best known to many of late for her roles in the likes of Doctor Who and A Discovery of Witches – is an RSC stalwart, and every inch of her experience pumps through the veins of this commanding, absorbing take on the wronged Duke of Milan. She may bring some big name credentials to the production, but so too does she deliver the performance chops to go with it. Watch as her Prospero masterfully glides between subdued, maternal delicateness to malefic cunning to giddy grandstanding and showmanship, and the myriad emotional pit stops in between. Given the uneven, discombobulating structure and focus of Tempest, it takes a solid Prospero to – deliberate pun incoming – steer this particular ship through its wild waters, and Kingston more than delivers. A captivating, heartwarming and deeply human central turn that will not be easily matched, let alone bettered.

Other standouts amongst a strong company include Gwynn’s earnest, flighty and oft-musical take on the loyal Ariel, an intense, raw Peter De Jersey as the potentially-bereaved Alonso, and a feral, at-times animalistic take on Caliban from Tommy Sim’aan who, for all of his character’s venomous hissing and bounding, all-fours energy, is nonetheless able to plumb the character’s more tender moments – including iconic ‘full of noises’ verse – for flashes of tenderness and sympathy. Enigma and whimsy encircle many of The Tempest’s roster of characters, and this cast do a game job of adding dimension and nuance to their roles, amidst the unearthly and the mystical about them.

Others are given decidedly more one-dimensional material, yet deliver fun character work with it. Young Prince Ferdinand is paper-thin, cookie-cutter love interest fare on the page, yet the talented Payne mines a surprising amount of levity and boyish, awkward comedy from it here. Ishia Bennison (recently seen whipping up a collection for Sarah Lancashire’s Catherine Cawood in the BBC’s hugely-popular Happy Valley) is immensely likeable, and elicits plenty of giggles, as the honourable Gonzalo. And whilst Stephano and Trinculo remain amongst Shakespeare’s more oafish and atypical of fools, Simon Startin and Cath Whitefield elevate the material with infectiously silly and frequently-hilarious takes on the roles; he all pompous, inebriated self-importance, and she delivering quirky, cockney oddity. Sure, occasionally the characters’ extended dips and subplots into intoxication and moral turpitude can languish for just that fraction of a spell too long, but we can lay the blame for that more at Shakespeare’s door, and certainly not with Startin and Whitefield, who remain irrepressible joys throughout.

Hinged on an electric, must-see central performance, this is a Tempest that has consciously (in every regard) strewn the pollutants and wreckage of its own internal plot devices right out bare upon its stage. Environmentalism creeps at the periphery of its visual impact, as Kingston’s Prospero crackles with the same preternatural charge that the character itself possesses. It all makes for an absorbing evening of theatre. Sure, this may not be amongst Shakespeare’s most elegantly or seamlessly constructed of pieces, but Freestone’s assured production and a game cast do a fine job of smoothing over many of the bumps in the road. They conjure up a gripping, earnest flight of fantasy and humanity that is, in voice and quality, both timeless and decidedly modern at once.