Review: The Winter's Tale (Royal Shakespeare Theatre)

Review by Raphael Kohn

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It isn’t easy to categorise The Winter’s Tale. Is it a tragedy? Is it a comedy? Is it a ‘problem play’? Its first few acts are so dark and tragic, yet it picks up into a happier tale (tinged with some bittersweet remnants of the earlier action) later on. This year, the RSC’s revival of this enigmatic fable dives headfirst into the complexity, unafraid to explore its nuances and intricacies, and delivered in style.

What strikes you first is the stylish minimalism of it all. It may be in vogue to radically revive Shakespeare in increasingly minimalist ways, eschewing sets and costumes (and dare I say, sometimes plots), to impart a new interpretation of the text. This is not what is happening here. Rather, the minimalism all serves a particular purpose, and one that proves just why its stylistic genre exists in the first place. The focus is squarely on the actors, the detail of their performances, and their interrelations.

That’s not exactly unexpected, though. After all, the RSC has smartly enlisted director Yaël Farber for this production, a director known for her deep and brooding interpretations of Shakespeare with liberal runtimes (perhaps too liberal for some of us) and darkness aplenty. That’s all present here too, no doubt. But I’m not trying to simplify her into a set of tropes here – this is a director who fundamentally truly understands the text she’s directing. Each theme, from the destructive power of jealousy and anger to forgiveness and redemption, is brought to life in gorgeous detail.

That’s mainly thanks to her excellent cast, led by Bertie Carvel as Sicilian king Leontes in yet another excellent performance of tremendous dynamic range. While he has a challenge on his hands to make Leontes’ rapid (and poorly-explained) slide into jealousy believable, he makes it work in an angsty and pained performance. His Leontes may be thoroughly flawed, but somehow his redemption (though coming at a cost) feels moving and meaningful. His wife Hermione comes in the form of Madeleine Appah, who brings grit and passion to her role, standing up to Leontes’ tyranny and delivering a heartbreaking performance in her tragic situation.

Defending Hermione and bravely challenging Leontes’ tyranny is Aïcha Kossoko’s Paulina, bearing her courage through gritted teeth while demonstrating tremendous empathy to the blameless. And throughout, the whole play is less narrated and more observed and manipulated by Trevor Fox’s personification of Time. He stalks the stage when you least expect him, delivers some surprising musicality in his speeches, and transforms into the role of Autolycus with a sly smile in a magnetic performance.

In what can be described as excellent creative synergy, Farber’s actor-centric directing style is beautifully reflected in the visuals of the piece. I’m often critical of shows recently that seem to put style over substance too much, but this is truly a work of style underpinning and emphasising the substance. It just looks gorgeous, on master designer Soutra Gilmour’s stylish set with two revolves, a number of benches, and a shimmering water feature. Above, a huge moon hangs ominously as a reminder of the turning of time and the nature of life. Almost everything is monochromatic, from her greyscale costumes to her blackened floors and walls – and when it’s not, it’s visually arresting.

As the actors turn round Gilmour’s revolves, Tim Lutkin illuminates them with more shadow than light and covers it all in smoke and haze. Mainly lit from behind to cast their silhouettes out along the deep thrust stage, Lutkin works sparingly throughout to let the actors fade in and out of the void behind smoothly, while letting Gilmour’s rippling water in front of them reflect onto the ceiling. There are only a few moments of actual brightness – the spine-tingling court scene in the first act and the riveting opening to the second – and when they arrive, the intensity is palpable in the air.

I’m almost going to suggest something weird here, though – it feels like the darkness sings to us, the audience, but also the characters. Max Perryment’s ominous yet cinematic score underscores the entire play, reducing to murky, drone-filled soundscapes in the quieter moments. As Leontes’ loneliness and jealousy constantly put fear (and later despair) into the back of his mind, there’s always the sound of doubt and regret behind him. In the more reflective moments, Philip Glass-esque repeating motifs in the violin, cello, and guitar gently accompany the action, rippling like water. But it’s not all darkness, as Perryment’s music picks up into folk and rock-infused songs.

This is where the trump card comes into play, as Farber brings the musicians out onto the stage as a part of the action in the second half. Violinist Tonny Shim and cellist Ailsa Mair Fox may not have any spoken lines in their roles, but they are almost full characters in themselves, weaving in and out of the action and reacting to it all with music rather than words. Music and dance go hand-in-hand in this production, though, and Chihiro Kawasaki’s gorgeous and expressive dancing is a welcome addition, whether she is in the background to explore the narrative through interpretive dance or in the foreground to mesmerise and amaze.

Sometimes, some productions just work, putting the text first and foremost while exploring it in detail through a director’s focused and clear vision. This is one of those times. This is what minimalism in Shakespeare productions should be – letting the text’s detail shine and focusing squarely on the drama and the characters. Mesmerising, striking and moving all at the same time, this is a Winter’s Tale for these summer evenings.

The Winter’s Tale plays at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre until 30^th August.

Tickets from https://www.rsc.org.uk/the-winters-tale/

Photos by Marc Brenner