Kenneth Branagh has returned to Stratford-upon-Avon to tread the boards of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, where we last saw him 33 years ago as the Prince of Denmark directed by Adrian Noble. This time around, Branagh takes on Shakespeare’s swan song under Richard Eyre. He gets to tick Prospero off his Shakespearean to-do list, and we get to watch another project where the actor-director-writer-producer sticks out like a sore thumb. Eyre struggles to keep Branagh under control.
The result is a show where Branagh plays Branagh. His Prospero is a fallacy, a small man built on the performance discordance of an actor’s anachronistic delivery. The supporting company is a cohesive front, but Branagh is too dramatic and declamatory to fit in. This said, Eyre presents an utterly charming take on The Tempest. He leans into the magical side of it as well as its implicit imperialism, but his vision loses sophistication somewhere between page and stage with sloppy choices and too-didactic dramaturgy. It’s a shame.
in The Tempest
The space is framed by the RST’s naked proscenium arch. Jutting out, the apron hosts a circular platform. A lonely music stand and a stool sit downstage; a large blue cloak emblazoned with esoteric symbols drapes the latter. Branagh conducts his human symphony with a thin baton, stuck between wizard and maestro. Thunder crashes, shipwrecking Prospero’s usurper brother Antonio and his convoy. From here onwards, Eyre tries hard to maintain a whimsical storytelling: Ariel (Amara Okereke) floats, dainty and airy, above the scene while Prospero conjures his illusions and manipulates the plot. A low rumble indicates his abuse of sorcery.
It all sounds very clever and awe-inspiring here, but Branagh slips into irate histrionics and grandiloquent declamations while his comb-over toils to keep pace. He is stiff and arbitrarily front-facing most of the time. It’s almost as if he were too preoccupied with avoiding the possibility of looking silly to give his all. Simply put, you never forget you’re watching Kenneth Branagh. His work is derivative, and he’s also not imposing enough to radiate any sort of menace. As usual, he channels Olivier in his bearings, but those days are long gone.
and Henry Pettigrew in The Tempest
In spite of whatever’s going on with its protagonist, there are a few elements to commend. Ruby Stokes is a remarkable Miranda. Bratty and young, she’s unspoiled by social expectations and naïve in her emotions. She marvels at the sight of men and teases her father lovingly (Prospero attempts a reciprocation, but Branagh doesn’t allow himself to let go). Keir Charles and Guy Henry turn the piece into their own two-hander as Trinculo and Stephano. They enter as the comic relief of a situation that doesn’t necessarily need its tension to be relieved.
Bob Crowley’s set blends video design (Akhila Krishnan) with physical backdrops, echoing a gorgeous colour palette in Fotini Dimou’s costumes beautifully. Projections engulf the island with Turner-ish seascapes or manifest Prospero’s hallucinations, while other sceneries move the actors across the landscape. There’s one, however, that’s strikingly out of place. The forest background, painted in lush and vibrant greens, looks like it’s from a cruise ship show, while the rest of the visuals are objectively more refined.
All in all, this production is a mixed bag and not really worth the trip to Stratford unless you’re a Branagh superfan. The whole conductor thing gets lost for too long, properly returning at the very end once Prospero decides to leave the island. The enchantment breaks, our belief can stop being suspended, Ariel and Caliban are freed from the sorcerer’s enslavement. We all get to live happily ever after, two hours and ten minutes older, and with a lot more questions than we had coming in.
The Tempest runs at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon until 20 June.
Photography by Johan Persson
Reader Reviews
Videos
