Review of ‘The Tempest’ (The Globe, 2026): “Whimsical revival delivers electrifying staging, but its narrative skills are clouded”

Following its edgy and critically acclaimed remake of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the venue opens its 2026 season with this new interpretation of the Bard’s late romance. Guillermo Nazara shares his views on the show to let us know if the results were prosperous.

“I’m out of here.” She didn’t say like that, but that’s what she did. A magnanimous Prospero has forgiven his siblings for their wrongdoings. A gender-swapped Antonio, who wisely responds to the name of Antonia, isn’t having it, nonetheless. She takes her theatre ticket and slaps it on her brother’s chest. “I know the text, and I can’t recognise the play at all”. She picks up her coat, complains about the poor view from her seat, and vows revenge by speaking to The Telegraph — she certainly is a new level of twisted.

You might be confused. It’s not quite what you would expect when you think of The Tempest’s climactic scene. Or how it’s supposed to be performed. And it appears director Tim Crouch has tried to cover his back by adding those lines to the text. In his defence, it’s not that misleading. And the essence of the classic still makes its way through this version — but it’s a clogged passage, and some of its tools lie closer to obstacles.

There’s an understanding of the piece, but it doesn’t show satisfactorily. All of The Tempest’s defining traits are there. What makes Shakespeare the Bard, however, is a different story — a tragedy, most likely. There’s too much spectacle and very little introspection, a lot of experimentation and not enough preservation. And in the end, our response to the work isn’t quite what we would have hoped for.

The main issue stems from its grandiloquent attempts. Every characteristic is pushed to the edge, and it’s done through a rather formulaic approach. If there was slapstick in the original, there is ten times as much in this one — no reason other than just the sake of it. The same goes for the metatheatrical segments, which are now extended to every member of the cast, most of whom await camouflaged beyond the stage.

It’s a strong feature that adds surprise and demonstrates inventiveness. It also accentuates the unpredictable nature of live theatre, where virtually anything can happen. At the right dose, it would have been an excellent addition. The problem stems from its oversaturation. The attention is centred on the amount rather than the placement and quality. Consequently, the adaptation ends up devoured by its own ambition. And instead of a play, we are given a gimmick.

The staging is fanciful and eccentric, and admittedly, the production’s greatest accomplishment, which oozes the spirit of a Jules Verne novel. A collection of curious artefacts concocts the set, effectively transporting us to a new world of wonder and adventure. We are pilgrims in an uncharted land, and we are bound to discover its marvels.

Simultaneously, the use of aboriginal costumes for Caliban and Ariel (now a shaman) and European explorer’s clothes for Prospero suggests a potential commentary on imperialism, which Trinculo and Stephano’s Spanish makeover might reinforce.

Two native actors play the drunken butler and the jester. As such, their interventions are shaped by a heavy Manuel-sounding accent, over-the-top renditions, and an unending stream of Spanish remarks, most of which go right over the audience’s heads. If it’s any consolation, they were not funny even for those who speak the language.

The theatre is turned into a character-interaction space during the interval. Similar to a theme park, several personages rumble across the venue, eager to intercept any low-guarded viewer. It’s a nice touch, but once again, it proves the director’s focus on stunt and spectacle rather than curated storytelling. And when all these schticks pile up, most of which are repeated ad nauseam, the experience gets tiresome at best and unbearable at worst.

Some company members regale us with extraordinary renditions. The highest praise goes to Joe Stone-Fewings as Alonso, Joshua Griffin as Ferdinand, and Amanda Hadingue as Antonia, all of whom flaunt nuance, expressiveness, and flair in their delivery. The opposite is also present, and it’s persistent for the most part. Neither Tim Crouch nor Naomi Wirthner give convincing performances as Prospero and Ariel, coming off flat and suffering from excessive declamation, especially in the beginning.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream was turned into a winter’s nightmare, and it succeeded above all precedents. The Tempest has preserved its comical origins and pushed them out of their orbit. That way, it has forgotten its gravitas, and it’s been denied its pathos. As a droll spectacle, this adaptation has a pulse — but when it comes to insight, narrative deftness, and emotiveness, it’s rather inert. And there is no point in watching Shakespeare if it doesn’t let us feel.

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All pictures credit to Marc Brenner.

The Tempest plays at London’s Shakespeare’s Globe until 12 April. Tickets are available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara