A moon – or is it a planet? – stares down at us; huge, nebulous, ominous, as we enter the auditorium for Yaël Farber’s production of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale. It reminds us that we are tiny people minimised by this great celestial influence; and wherever we go or whatever we do, we can’t escape it. It’s as old as Time – one of the play’s main themes – and it sets the tone for a certain otherworldliness for this production, which seems to put most of its theatrically inventive eggs in one basket – Act Four – leaving the rest of the play to fend for itself.

I always worry when an RSC production announces that Time will be one of its central themes – yes, I’m looking at you Macbeth – because it can overwhelm all the other aspects of the play. However, here, the emphasis on Time is neatly and appropriately placed, wrapping the Chorus and the character of Autolycus into one character. The Winter’s Tale features one of Shakespeare’s most curious structures for a play. Three Acts of tragedy, then a sixteen-year pause followed by two Acts of comedy; four Acts in the Sicilian court, one Act playing pastoral in Bohemia. This production makes a point of highlighting these contrasts, which not only makes for a visual spectacle, but deliberately unsettles the audience trying to bring both parts of the play into balance.

It’s among Shakespeare’s least cosy comedies, with destructive jealousy, a wife turned into a statue, an amiable son killed, and the frequent appearance of Time, reminding us to enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think. Indeed, the production does take a few liberties which might annoy the purist. Not only that aforementioned popular song from the 1940s, but they’ve inserted a little Brecht, and there’s an exchange between Autolycus and the Clown that includes the insults bellend and wanker. It’s mildly amusing; fortunately, the play is big and strong enough to survive the occasional meddling.

But the production is at its most effective when it leaves the work to Shakespeare. The chilling story of Leontes’ idiotic suspicions that his wife Hermione has been unfaithful with his brother Polixenes and that his brother is the father of Hermione’s unborn child is told with quiet, dignified clarity. After the interval we leave Sicilia for the ritualistic fire and dance fiesta that is Perdita hosting the sheep-shearing solstice festival; the programme notes tell us that the production explores Perdita’s connection to the myth of Persephone/Proserpina. Hold that thought. When we return to Sicilia for the final resolution, all is sedate again.

It’s very clever dramaturgy, and there’s no doubting the visual and indeed musical impact of the solstice scene; but it’s such a contrast to what went before that, more than standing out like a sore thumb, it actually feels unintegrated with the rest of the play. After the lean, business-like atmosphere of the first act, this just feels like so much padding. Whilst watching it I could only question how this portrayal of the union of Perdita and Florizel, and the subsequent disapproval by Polixenes, in any way helps our understanding of the plot. I don’t think it does. Fortunately, the final “statue” scene is presented and acted immaculately, and that’s what you remember when you go home.

There is little in the way of set – and that works to the production’s advantage. All the changes of mood and setting are suggested by Tim Lutkin’s lighting design and Reuben Cohen and Oli Quintrell’s video projections. The incidental music composed by Max Perryment is hugely evocative and contributes enormously to the atmosphere and storytelling; there’s suspense in every chord.

A strong cast brings class and gravitas to the main roles. Bertie Carvel is excellent as Leontes – seemingly affable, flipping into viciously jealous in an instant. With his reputation at stake, this Leontes shuts himself off from all reason, delivering indiscriminate cruelty in all directions. Like a divine version of BBC Verify, when the words of the Oracle deliver their verdict on the innocence of Hermione and Polixenes, and the tyranny of Leontes, his fragile world simply falls apart. In these times of fake news and AI deception, it would be very useful to have a reliable Oracle like that come in every so often to make us see the truth.

Madeline Appiah is superb as Hermione; gracious, kindly, the perfect hostess, who gathers magnificent internal resolve in the face of her husband’s stupidity and vindictiveness. And she makes a fantastic statue; every eye in the Royal Shakespeare Theatre concentrates on her to see if she makes a tiny move and there isn’t an iota of a blink. There’s a very touching scene at the end when Hermione and Perdita are reunited, Ms Appiah’s joy at seeing her long lost daughter almost brought a tear to the eye – as did the excellent Amelda Brown as her “foster” shepherdess parent, knowing she must give back the daughter who was always only ever “on loan”.

Aïcha Kossoko brings power and a no-nonsense grimness to the role of Paulina, stepping in to protect her friend Hermione’s reputation and whatever future might be ahead. Great performances too from John Light as the wronged Polixenes and Raphael Sowole’s delicately spoken and faithful Camillo. Trevor Fox brings out all the mischief and cheerful lawlessness of his chain-smoking Autolycus, and there’s nice support from Leah Haile’s Perdita and Matthew Flynn’s Antigonus.

It’s a moody, atmospheric production that tells its story clearly, apart from a total flight of fantasy in Act Four which just left me wondering why. But if you ever wanted a clear account of the characters of Leontes and Hermione so that you fully understand their story, this is the production for you.

P. S. Not so much exit pursued by a bear, more exit, listlessly observed by an indolent bear. But it’s very hard to act out that stage direction credibly.

Production photos by Marc Brenner

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