Something Rich And Strange

Sam Mendes's production of The Tempest did not disappoint. It did what a good modern production should do: it gave a sense of being bang up-to-date, with no sense of gimmickry. It felt like a new play, yet stayed true to the spirit of the original.

And isn't that original an odd thing in itself, often disconcertingly so? Several of the big laughs in the theatre yesterday had a distinctly troubled undercurrent to them - especially the one following Caliban's wry observation that being taught language means he knows how to curse.

I found myself, for the first time ever, watching the Ferdinand - Miranda sequences almost entirely from the perspective of Prospero. The fruits of aging, I guess. Their Romeo & Julietishness was as obvious as ever, but so was the truth, yet fragility of their beauty. It was almost unbearably lovely-sad, as is the comedy as a whole.

Art changes nothing. The enchantment will never last. The books are for drowning or burning. And the afternoon in the theatre made it all worthwhile. Perhaps.