Sigourney Weaver in The Tempest [Mark Brenner]

A FEW hours before seeing this show I was involved in a somewhat disappointing end-of-year discussion with colleagues about our “highlights of 2024”. As the curtain fell on this rich and strange production, I felt like I had a new answer.

Sigourney Weaver is underwhelming as a largely motionless Prospero, who spends most of the night sitting in a chair, flatly declaiming lines like her former Alien spaceship’s supercomputer, Mother. But Jamie Lloyd’s spectral showmanship strikes at the heart of the “rough magic” of Shakespeare’s last solo play.

Forbes Masson’s Caliban lurches about Soutra Gilmour’s lunar-like set in leather pants, in a performance that at times made you sympathise with his enslaver. But he absolutely nailed the “be not afeard” speech in a spell-binding delivery.

Mason Alexander Park’s Ariel flies about the theatre on high wires and is, like the show, ethereal and visually stunning. Special mentions must go to Gavin and Stacey’s Matthew Horne as Gonzalo, and Jason Barnett as Stephano.

Jonathan Glew edited the complex script down to a fly-by two hours. Just sit back, get lost in the magic, let the language wash over you.

The Tempest is perhaps best understood as a final conjuring by Shakespeare, a kind of melancholic farewell to the magical arts island he had dominated for more than 20 years.

The character of Prospero has provided a fitting swansong for leading actors for more than 400 years since, but only men.

Now no one bats an eye-lid to see the lead role gender-reversed. And it was genuinely moving to see the iconic “Ripley” – 45 years after Alien – soliloquising to the “midnight mushrooms” and “noontide sun”, pleading to be set free from our “indulgence”.

Grumbling critics plotted mediocre reviews at the interval. But there was a standing ovation at the end.

Until February 1
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