Torpor Clouds a Strong ‘Tempest’

Shakespeare is so pervasive, so entrenched in Western cultural life, that his plays can sometimes be overzealously adopted by directors looking for a blank slate. Ophelia the flapper! Macbeth the CEO! King Henry IV the Quarterback! Perhaps no playwright is more frequently a victim of hyper-ambitious, conceptual updates.

But after viewing the Harvard-Radcliffe Dramatic Club’s new production of “The Tempest,” directed by Rob D. Salas ’09 and Sarah C. Kenney ’08, and executive produced by Ben M. Poppel ’09, I found myself wishing that someone had gone digging through Shakespeare’s last, great, plotless Romance with a little more enthusiasm. While this production has some neat dramatic tricks and a few lovely moments, its incredibly rich script floats by with little to no examination. Why do a play if you’re not going to sink your teeth into it?

Much of the play’s mood comes from incidental music composed for “The Tempest” by Jean Sibelius in 1925. Under the direction of Julia S. Carey ’09, the chamber orchestra near the back of the stage produces a warm, friendly sound. Early in the play, the island ruler (and rightful Duke of Milan) Prospero (Jason M. Lazarcheck ’08) recounts the tale of his exile to his daughter Miranda (Lauren L. Creedon ’11). As he speaks, six dancers take the stage to illustrate his story.

The dancers return again and again, sometimes as mischievous island spirits, and sometimes as plain old dancers. Sibelius’ score has its whimsical moments, but they are always shaded with pathos, and this darker side helps to ground a play that could very well fly off into sugary, magical fantasy. Prospero’s exile is something that needs to be deeply felt as the price paid for the omnipotence he enjoys on the island. While Prospero’s tale would be compelling on its own—Lazarcheck’s stage presence is strong—Sibelius and the dancers ensure that it is felt.

This production’s other conceptual flourish is its treatment of Caliban, a grotesque, half-formed savage who has particularly fascinated directors since the rise of postcolonial theory in the 1950s. Because Caliban is enslaved by the exiled European duke Prospero, he is sometimes portrayed as a heroic rebel, or at least as a more “noble savage.”

I think such readings are shallow, and it is to Salas’ credit that Caliban is petty, disgusting, and crude throughout the play. Seemingly unable to let the character be, however, Salas has split Caliban in half (or doubled him, I’m not sure). Caliban is played by two people: James M. Leaf ’10 and James Smith ’10, each dressed in rags and dirt, stomp around together, dividing up their character’s lines.

They do a nice job of it, too. Their scenes with King Alonso’s servants Stefano (Jugo Kapetanovic ’07) and Trinculo (Molly O. Fitzpatrick ’11), to whom they swear an ill-fated allegiance, are very funny. Fitzpatrick, who brings a really wonderful, engaging ease to Trinculo’s drunken stumblings, is a perfect foil for Caliban’s spluttering rage. Kapetanovic does a terrific job of enjoying his new found servant(s): “Moon-calf!” he calls it/them.

But I still don’t understand why there had to be two moon-calves. The choice doesn’t seem to be motivated by any kind of political agenda, and little use is made of the fact that Caliban could be in two places at once if he wanted to. It’s an interesting decision, but not a very productive one.

Leaf and Smith do help to fill the stage, however. As is frequently the case with Loeb Mainstage productions, there is far too much available space. John A. Slusarz’s set design looks like little more than heaps of painted styrofoam (painted to look like rocks) and lashed-together two-by-fours. More importantly, the design frequently strands the show’s cast in an expanse of empty stage. When characters are very far apart, it seems strange that they do not move closer. When they are close, they are swallowed up by all the space around them.

This problem goes away near the play’s end, as Prospero finally brings the island’s wandering inhabitants together. Once everyone is onstage, however, Salas seems to be in a rush to get everyone off, and some really wonderful scenes don’t get the attention they deserve.

I am especially thinking of the poignant scene in which Prospero breaks his staff and drowns his book in the sea, thus relinquishing the magical powers that have made him the ruler of the island. Prospero, who will return to Milan to reclaim power, is too much a scholar and a mystic to really succeed in earthly politics. He will never be more at home than he has been on his island. So why does he give it up?

I do not mean to say that this production should have provided an answer. The music and dance evoke the metaphysical uncertainty of Prospero’s island in some terrific ways. Still, a mood is not an intellectual stance. “The Tempest,” as a text, is so experimental and so daring that I cannot understand why this production seemed to be unwilling to wrestle with Shakespeare’s many suggestive questions.

—Crimson reviewer Richard S. Beck can be reached at rbeck@fas.harvard.edu.