Here, Prospero’s scenes become a piece of ritualised storytelling between him, his daughter Miranda and the island inhabitants, Ariel and Caliban, who he has enslaved. They sit in a square on stools, holding glimmering sconces like votive accessories. Lines are reallocated, translated or voiced by two or more characters at once, shifting meaning, authority or emphasis. The other characters – nobles and servants confounded in a storm of Prospero’s making, so he can test their moral fibre – are summoned into the quartet’s orbit, supposedly from the audience or the ushering staff.
The Tempest review: Caliban wears a Gazza shirt in fascinating and fresh take
