There is something liberating about Shakespeare in a foreign language. And Declan Donnellan, working for the fourth time with Cheek by Jowl's Russian ensemble, has come up with a remarkable, wittily inventive, two-hour version of a play that, for all its verbal beauty, can seem stubbornly undramatic.
Narrative clarity is the keynote from the start. Prospero, an old man in belt and braces, sits downstage in front of a curved wall inset with three doors. As if by fierce concentration, he conjures a storm whose turmoil is only glimpsed through the partially opened doors. When he recounts to Miranda the reasons for their exile, the usurping Antonio and his Neapolitan accomplice emerge to re-enact their treachery. Not only does this enliven Shakespeare's sluggish exposition, it also suggests the magical power and long-nurtured political rage of this seemingly frail Prospero.
Donnellan never lets us forget this is a play drenched in marine imagery. Waves periodically foam and tumble, through projections, on the back wall of Nick Ormerod's set. Water is everywhere: Caliban hauls it in pails for Miranda's ablutions, buckets are poured over Trinculo, and the naked figure of the mud-caked Ferdinand undergoes a ritual cleansing at the hands of Prospero. This, in itself, highlights another aspect of Donnellan's production: Prospero's struggle between embittered revenge and patriarchal concern for those in his power. We are used to seeing The Tempest played as a colonial metaphor, but Donnellan gives this a twist by emphasising the bonds created by territorial occupation: there's a deeply moving moment when Anya Khalilulina's Miranda, due to leave for Naples, rushes back to tearfully embrace Alexander Feklistov's inconsolable Caliban.
Admittedly, the relationship between Prospero and Ariel is diluted by having many of the latter's functions executed by a chorus of besuited Russians. But this is turned to advantage when Ariel's arraignment of the play's villains is turned into a Soviet show trial. The often faintly embarrassing rustic masque also becomes a Slavic peasant ritual plausibly filled with "sunburned sicklemen, of August weary". And, even though this is an ensemble show, Igor Yasulovich is unforgettable as a Prospero torn between his quasi-divine power and residual humanity. I was also much amused by Ilya Iliin's fey Trinculo who, during the rebellion against Prospero, is tricked into donning smart clothes from the Russian equivalent of Rodeo Drive. It's typical of a production that takes a familiar play and, through cultural cross-fertilisation, makes us see it in a new light.
