The Winter’s Tale

Royal Shakespeare Theatre

Directed by Yaël Farber

Tuesday 22nd July 2025

Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale is a play that defies easy categorisation. It begins as a psychological tragedy, steeped in jealousy and tyranny, and transforms into a pastoral romance filled with redemption and renewal. The story follows King Leontes (Bertie Carvel) of Sicilia, who, consumed by irrational jealousy, accuses his wife Hermione (Madeline Appiah) of infidelity with his childhood friend King Polixenes (John Light) of Bohemia. His actions lead to death and tragedy of his own making, and the loss of his entire family. Sixteen years later, in the land of Bohemia, his lost daughter Perdita (Leah Haile) has been raised by shepherds and is now in love with Polixenes’ son, Florizel (Lewis Bowes). The play culminates in reconciliation and forgiveness, with Hermione miraculously restored and Leontes reunited with his daughter.

This journey from tragedy to reconciliation is traditionally accompanied by a tonal shift—from the cold austerity of Sicilia to the warmth and humour of Bohemia. The second half of the play introduces rustic characters and comic interludes and these elements typically serve to soften the emotional weight of the first half and usher in a sense of renewal.

In Yaël Farber’s 2025 RSC production, the tonal shift from Act 1 to Act, or from court to country, is not a relief but a reimagining. Farber replaces the pastoral levity traditionally found in Bohemia with a visceral, ritualistic intensity. The rustic scenes, often a source of humour and warmth, are instead steeped in sensuality, worship, fire and mysticism. This choice reframes the play’s second half not as a counterbalance to the tragedy, but as a continuation of its emotional weight, which feels certainly transformed, but relentless and the audience is not offered the lightness which the second half usually provides.

Bertie Carvel is a powerful Leontes, capturing the character’s descent into madness with unsettling conviction. His performance makes sense of a psychological turn that often feels abrupt in the text. Madeline Appiah’s Hermione is dignified and compelling, her strength and composure adept at drawing sympathy from both her attendants onstage and the audience. Aicha Kossoko’s Paulina brings humour and resolve, though occasionally struggles to be heard over the production’s fabulous but relentless musical score.

Trevor Fox takes on the dual roles of Time and Autolycus, a doubling that is not uncommon and is here conceptually intriguing but uneven in execution. Autolycus, typically a comic rogue rooted in Bohemia’s earthiness, is transformed into a languid, narrative presence throughout Act I. His “Time” speech is not Shakespeare’s, but drawn from Brecht’s The Antigone of Sophocles, aligning with the production’s thematic focus on mortality and ritual. While this reinterpretation fits the character’s expanded role as a commentator on the action, it sacrifices the earthy charm and mischief that Autolycus traditionally brings. The result is a character who feels detached from Bohemia’s world, and whose symbolic weight doesn’t fully land. If anything, more exploration of this dual-role and a deeper immersion in storytelling would have worked better, although notes on the night suggested that Fox was a later addition to the company.

Matthew Flynn as the fated Antigonus shines, although this character is always overshadowed with the audience’s general expectations on how he will “exit pursued by a bear.” In this production, this was certainly presented as a design choice, and not one I understood or enjoyed. However, with a stage direction this famous, it is never going to be easy to apply it. Amelda Brown does a great job as the Shepherdess, transposed from the father figure of the original to a mother here, which works really well, and John Light does a decent job of Polixenese, but the interpretation of this character from the opening scene is one of a testosterone-fuelled King, which means that his anger in the second act feels expected rather than reactionary.

Farber’s production also shifts away from focus on the classical allusions to Apollo and the oracle. Whilst still referenced, the scenes involving the ambassadors’ journey to the oracle are cut, replaced by a decree read aloud amidst music and celebratory noise. This staging choice obscures the significance of Leontes’ defiance of divine judgment—a pivotal moment that triggers the play’s tragic consequences. By also removing Time’s references to the oracle and his prologue-like introduction to Act II, the production loses narrative clarity and for those unfamiliar with the play, these omissions make the story harder to follow, and some key plot points are easily missed.

Visually, the production is stunning. Soutra Gilmour’s vast globe dominates the stage, at times the moon and other times the earth, its colours reflecting either the stark court-like setting of Sicilia, or the dreamlike sensual world of Bohemia, reinforcing the play’s themes of time, the seasons and transformation. Lighting (Tim Lutkin) on the whole is effective, though matching the lights to the grey costumes in the first act washes out the space. This may have been the intention, but it’s hard on the eyes. The music (Max Perryment), relentless and atmospheric, adds urgency but occasionally overwhelms the actors’ voices, particularly in quieter scenes.

The reconciliation between Perdita and Leontes – arguably the emotional climax of the play – occurs off-stage, a decision that feels anticlimactic given the narrative’s long build-up, and ultimately disappointing. While Hermione’s reveal is handled with grace and theatrical power, the absence of Perdita’s reunion with her father leaves a noticeable gap.

Ultimately, this Winter’s Tale is a production of exceptional theatrical moments and bold conceptual ambition. It challenges the audience with its intensity and reimagining of tone, but at times sacrifices emotional connection and textual clarity for spectacle. One of Shakespeare’s later plays, The Winter’s Tale is notoriously difficult, and Farber’s interpretation offers a fresh, feminine lens, but one that may leave some viewers distanced rather than immersed.

It is not greater than the sum of its parts, but it is certainly worth a watch.