Such stuff as dreams are made on

  • I read Sonnet 40 to a group of strangers in exchange for a shot of something alcoholic from a handsome bartender in doublet and hose.
  • A spirit stared into my eyes and smeared glittery sand all over my face.
  • I watched Shakespeare sleep for a bit.
  • Queen Elizabeth I lip-synced Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’.

These weird and wonderful encounters are not extracts from my dreams (promise), but moments from Sedos Theatre’s ‘Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On’ by Sarah Heenan, a dazzling immersive journey through Shakespeare’s The Tempest.

On the eve of the Bard’s birth/death day I found myself in a disused office block in London’s docklands that, from the outside at least, looked like the last place you would find exciting Shakespeare. On the inside, though, it was a whole other story. The space had been transformed into an island full of noises, a maze of rooms filled with sand, the timber of a ship wreck, leaves of paper and ivy, origami boats, and Trinculo’s wine bottles.

I can’t really do it justice in words. It was a beautiful piece of rough magic.

 

“Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.”

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REVIEW: The Tempest

The culture: ‘The Tempest’ by William Shakespeare, Sam Wanamaker Playhouse

The cheap seats: £10 standing tickets (very restricted side view, although I managed to sneak onto an empty seat with a central sightline after the interval)

The Tempest wasn’t Shakespeare’s last play, no matter how much we wish it was. It would have been perfect – a life in art, the master of theatre’s carefully orchestrated last goodbye to the stage before burning his books and begging his audience to set him free with their applause so he could retire to the country and turn his thoughts to death. But it was not so. After Prospero exits stage right, Shakespeare would return to write Henry VIII and a collaborative play, Two Noble Kinsmen. Editing these out of the Late Works canon according to the Sam Wanamaker Winter Season creates a much neater set of plays with a pleasing narrative arch, of which Dominic Dromgoole’s production of The Tempest is the climax. The problem is that it’s not quite a climax. It’s nice: nice candle-work, nice costumes, (mostly) nice acting, and a (mostly) nice play. As a good, old-timey piece of bardolatry it’s a masterpiece, though as a piece of drama it’s hardly ground-breaking

But if you want radical Shakespeare you will have to wait for Ivo van Hove’s upcoming trilogy at the Barbican; you go to a show at the Globe for its conservative, historical approach to the Complete Works. However even by these high standards resurrecting old Will himself and planting him on stage as the well-read wizard Prospero might be a bit much. For although he has more beard and less forehead than classic portraits of Shakespeare, Tim McMullan’s Prospero is clearly meant to be an incarnation of the playwright in a production that subscribes wholeheartedly and unapologetically to the autobiographical reading of the play. This Prospero is intensely dislikable – he’s irascible, smug, and, with a female Ariel (Pippa Nixon) and his daughter Miranda (Phoebe Pryce) as his main companions, appears misogynistic until the men of Milan show up and he’s just as abrupt with them. He is a genius, but also a man who likes the sound of his own brilliant, booming voice to such an extent that it’s hard to dredge up any pity for him at all come the play’s conclusion. There’s some great character work here and if his main role in this production wasn’t ‘Shakespeare Impersonator’, Tim McMullan might have been up there with the best Prosperos I’ve seen.

‘Shakespero’ aside, the production doesn’t do much out of the ordinary (although it does feature some fabulous dinosaur dogs in the second half). With the exception of halfwit drunkards Stephano and Trinculo (affable Globe favourites Trevor Fox and Dominic Rowan, who take considerable liberties with their scripts and ad-lib with all kinds of brilliant modernisms), this Tempest is a usual doublet-and-hose affair with traditional values and a jig at the end, just what the Globe does best.

I found my eye drawn to the musicians’ gallery several times (and not just because of the startling thunderclaps), to Dominic Dromgoole’s smiling face which looks down at the audience, immortalised, painted atop the wings of a cherub. This truly is his swan song. Like Prospero and Shakespeare before him, Dromgoole is saying goodbye to the thing he has loved and invested so much in. His Tempest is about as subtle as a sledgehammer, but as well as being a solid production it’s such a fond farewell from, and to, that marvellous director and master of bardolators that, however much I disliked it, I have to admit that I admired it hugely too.