The Winter’s Tale at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre – review

The Winter’s Tale is one of that strange group of Shakespeare plays that defies categorisation, and as such is often a favourite of directors wanting to push the boundaries with their interpretations of the Bard. In this instance, it’s South African Yaël Farber, making her RSC debut, who’s looking to make a mark with her dark, brooding take on magical realism.

She’s certainly got the ingredients lined up, from a set design (Soutra Gilmour) in which the stage is surrounded by water, featuring not one but two revolves, and is overhung throughout by a giant spinning moon, to a vaguely threatening underscore by composer Max Perryment which literally never stops for the entire two-and-a-half-hour running time. There’s gloomy, almost dismal, lighting from Tim Lutkin, Gilmour’s costumes are almost exclusively monochromatic and drab, and some otherworldly singing and dancing from an ensemble of mud-spattered rustics.

But while the dystopian aesthetic and ethereal visuals promise much amid swathes of dry ice and a formidably impressive fire pit, like the music, they never really go anywhere, and you’re left with an overriding sense of style over substance. Certainly, the story suffers in this telling, with the catastrophic jealousy of King Leontes springing out of nowhere and the consequent tragedies rolling out in a monotone of unvarying emotions.

The theatrics always overshadow the performances, and actor after actor is left struggling to be heard – in spite of everything being mic’d up – or battling to make their lines intelligible. The rapid-fire delivery of many further hampers the flow of the narrative.

Those who emerge best are Madeline Appiah as the wrongly-accused queen Hermione, who maintains regal dignity whatever disasters are thrown at her, and Matthew Flynn as the hapless royal adviser Antigonus, whose exit, pursued by a bear, is one of the most famous in all of Shakespeare. Flynn speaks with clarity and weight, which sadly can’t be said for everyone on stage.

Bertie Carvel’s Leontes is a fidgety, angsty performance that somehow never quite conveys a distraught, penitent monarch rueing his folly, while Trevor Fox – a late addition to the cast as the roguish Autolycus – brings an air of Geordie melancholy that further amplifies the downbeat atmosphere. Like pretty much everything else in the production, they’re both fine, but it says much for the production’s priorities that they’re constantly being upstaged by the moon.

It looks and sounds impressive – there’s some particularly terrific work going on from percussionist Kev Waterman – and there are some ideas that certainly stand deeper reflection, including the clear emphasis on themes such as motherhood, loss and regret. But the pushing of the boundaries only seems to go as far as the sound and fury, and the resulting confection, while hardly signifying nothing, does feel like something of a missed opportunity.