'The Tempest' review — Sigourney Weaver makes her West End debut in Jamie Lloyd's stylish production

Read our review of The Tempest, starring Sigourney Weaver as Prospero, now in performances at Theatre Royal Drury Lane to 1 February 2025.

It has been 67 years since Shakespeare’s work was staged at Theatre Royal Drury Lane, but thanks to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s passion (as owner of the venue) and director Jamie Lloyd’s vision, The Tempest has opened at the theatre, headlined by Hollywood actress Sigourney Weaver — who, herself, has not performed Shakespeare publicly for more than 30 years and now makes her West End debut aged 75.

Weaver’s casting as a gender-swapped Prospero should be the production’s coup. After all, she has starred in everything from Ghostbusters to Alien to Avatar, and earned a Tony Award nomination for Hurlyburly on Broadway. But despite being present on stage for most of the play’s 2 hours and 15 minutes runtime, Weaver does little to elevate the role of Prospero: the usurped Duke — here, Duchess — of Milan, who is exiled to an island with her daughter Miranda.

She is there at the play’s opening, sitting (as she is for most of the show) in the middle of a tempest, as Jon Clark’s lighting design and Ben and Max Ringham’s soundscape work overtime to produce a crashing, disorientating theatrical experience, which is genuinely breathtaking. Large curtains billow and bulge in the cavernous black stage space, as deep as it is wide, while lights flash and blind the audience. Sadly, her magnificent entrance is also her high point in the play.

She is too detached to have much impact, often simply speaking the lines rather than offering up a new interpretation. There are snatches of intrigue, such as when Miranda finds herself enchanted by Ferdinand and Weaver wields her parental power to knock some sense into her daughter with the putdown, “To the most of men, this is a Caliban.” Otherwise, it is an underwhelming performance, with her transition from vengeance to forgiveness so subtle it is missed completely.

Happily, there are other stand-out performances. Mason Alexander Park as the spirit Ariel brings an ethereal, otherworldly presence to the stage, descending from the sky dressed in a gold corset and feathered neckerchief. They veer between fearful servitude and biting anger, spitting out the demand to be given “my liberty” in a rich, husky voice, which also sings beautifully. Forbes Masson is grotesque as the slave Caliban, emerging from volcanic rubble head first, with black spittle running down his chin. When his full body is revealed, it is clad in a bondage style corset, while the rest is covered in dirty smudges. He snarls and thrusts, crawling through people’s legs in a show of his baseness, and cleaves to pretend lords Stephano (Jason Barnett) and Trinculo (Mathew Horne, both ridiculous though mildly entertaining).

There is sweet chemistry too between Mara Huf’s Miranda and James Phoon’s Ferdinand, as they marvel at each other’s beauty and excitedly plan their wedding.

Soutra Gilmour’s grey-scale, futuristic, moon-like set, with mountainous rock face and rubble, is visually striking and, once lit by Clark’s lighting, aptly captures the hostile environment of this rough, wild island. There’s little substance in this production, but plenty of style. It’s worth a trip just to see Gilmour’s beautifully bleak set.

Book The Tempest tickets on LondonTheatre.co.uk

Photo credit: Sigourney Weaver in The Tempest. (Photo by Marc Brenner)