The Tempest, Sam Wanamaker Theatre

Goodnight Dominic. Saw this Tempest on its final show on Friday, and I’m just back from the final Globe to Globe Hamlet, and I find myself rather moved by his extended farewell. The last five shows at the Globe/Wanamaker have seemed a perfect example of why the last ten years under his regime have been such wondrous years for a theatregoer.

Pericles was, for me, Dromgoole airing the play not to re-assess a lost masterpiece or the usual gubbins which comes with the lesser-knowns, but quite the opposite – to prove that, beneath the language we love and the dust 400 years gathers, Shakespeare was capable of writing an adventure every bit as much damn fun as Sinbad the Sailor or The Princess Bride. It wasn’t a production people will write about in years to come, but that was rather the point, and I left with a grin on my face and a spring in my step and with my buckle fully swashed.

Cymbeline, unexpectedly and possibly entirely due to the night I saw it, will be one of this year’s highlights – not because it was a great production (it was a good production) but because it was a great evening. Yates played this rather as Shakespeare the sitcom (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I never understand why people see the word ‘sitcomy’ as derogatory), as criss-crossing couples fall in and out of love in laughable situations. That meant some of the serious battle scenes and high-stakes deaths didn’t mean as much or have as high stakes as they could elsewhere, but Yates knew what he was doing. Probably half the audience were probably under 25, and there was definitely a group of tourists or students or what you will from America there. In the air it was evident that most of us hadn’t seen the play or knew what was coming, and I think what made Yates’ show great was that he deliberately played it to that exact audience. The noise that night shows it worked. I’ve never been at the theatre with so much laughing and smiling and oohing and aahing and clapping and cheering and whooping and hollering, entirely sincerely, entirely appreciatively – and this wasn’t Romeo and Juliet or Much Ado or a student favourite, this was bloody Cymbeline! That a lesser-known (and, frankly, lesser) ‘tragedy’ could charm the pants off everyone and remove behavioural inhibitions was a joy. It was wonderfully done by Yates, it’s what Dromgoole’s done in his ten years, it’s what Rylance did before him, and somewhere in the ether of the building next door, I felt that Sam Wanamaker was smiling a very broad smile that night.

The Winter’s Tale seemed the exact opposite of the Branagh one, in that where that show floundered in Bohemia but worked in court, I thought this came into its own when it was finally made free in its carefree Bohemian way. In court, I think the scales were tipped too far, with Leontes too violent and unpleasant and Stirling’s wonderful Hermione so hurt my heart bled for her. In Bohemia, on the other hand, there was a lovely simplicity to a life of farming and dancing, a breezy freedom to the lifestyle, and another stunning scene-stealing cameo from the great James Garnon. I can’t say it was my favourite Winter’s Tale of the year, but – shockingly – it managed to make the entertaining scenes genuinely entertaining. And a great bear.

And so to The Tempest, with which Dromgoole grants us farewell with characteristic warmth, wit and humanity. The Wanamaker leant itself to this play surprisingly well, converting its stage to a tiny little blip of an island and its candles to flickering fairy-like magic, and onto this, this cast of characters fit beautifully. Pippa Nixon’s Ariel was never of this world but full of wonder towards it, where Caliban was too of this world and full of hatred instead. Ferdinand as a funny flirt works, and Phoebe Pryce’s emotional vulnerability made their meeting beautiful. There was something so delightful about seeing familiar old faces in the cast of the crew of the ship. All these were of course overshadowed by Rowan and Fox, with Trevor’s timing and Rowan’s ridiculous improvisations (as Stephano’s a fool who thinks himself a king, Rowan’s Shakespearean delivery of absurd ad-libs fit the role to a tee) bringing me to tears with laughter.

And then we come to the subtle, wonderful Tim McMullan. Blest with one of the most naturally entertaining set of features, all eyes and eyebrows and THAT VOICE!, he can afford to be one of the best under-players there is. Beautifully, heartbreakingly repressed, his Prospero was a man whose tragedy was that he loved too much too deeply – Miranda and magic and Ariel and the island – and was now faced with the task of letting go of everything he held so dear.  Watching him repress the personal sadness this caused for the happiness of others meant that once I’d rubbed the tears of laughter from my eyes, I was rubbing very different tears away instead. The way he said “I’ll drown my book”, the way he said goodbye to Ariel, the way he forgave all... I’m genuinely welling up now, as Dromgoole and McMullan made The Tempest a very humane, almost moral tale of doing the right thing for the people you love, painful though it may be to you. And all to end with that beautiful, beautiful jig, then out with the candle...

And finally, a word on Hamlet. It wasn’t perfect, but it was fascinating in its imperfections. In soliloquy, for example, this didn’t just overthink the words but would gesture to his mind when he was thoughtful, his eyes when he was crying, his sword when he was angry. For us, that’s a bit OTT, but for moments I would imagine I spoke no English, and were it all Greek to me I’d still follow the emotions if not the events – so when I say it wasn’t perfect, what I mean is it prioritised plain-speaking, storytelling and clarity over innovation and artsiness; and for a show that needed to speak to so many people, that was perfect. It was very good regardless, though, from wonderful music that told the story in and of itself, to a couldn’t-be-bettered troupe who were brimming with life and energy, to a fantastic comic Polonius as if Ade Edmonson were playing Sigmund Freud. Miles better than the CUmberhamlet. It could have taken bolder decisions in its politics, in its melancholy, in its atmosphere, but in doing so it would have imposed an interpretation of the play upon 197 countries; instead, this broadly comic, broadly moving, swiftly moving version is one to which countries can bring their preconceptions and find personal significances within. It shows what an incisive and audience-aware director Dromgoole’s been these last ten years. And then there was just that thrill of knowing the languages, the lives, the landscapes this show and these people have soaked up and are now bringing back to us. It wasn’t a production, it was an experience, and that experience – buoyed further by an oh-so-enthusiastic audience packed with famous faces old and new and a crowd who clearly loved this building and all it meant to them – was incomparable.

What separates Dromgoole from the other great Shakespearean directors is that Dromgoole’s always prioritised honouring the audience over honouring the plays. Historical accuracy or contemporary appreciation? We’ll have Nunn of the former and all of the latter. Dromgoole’s always understood that Shakespeare was a shameless, crowd-pleasing populist, and the Globe at its best magnifies this. I don’t think this has ever gotten in the way of scholarly insight or theatrical inspiration. His Henry IV is an exquisite piece of near-perfection, and the filmed versions are up there in the top ten filmed Shakespeare. This Tempest didn’t shirk on the colonialism of Caliban, only filtered it through the moving human drama. Of last year’s three Measure for Measures, I think his was not only the funniest nor just the best, but actually the most profound through its populism. This problem play was hardly problematic; it was a sincere love story of a novice nun finding a kindred spirit in this clumsy plot-layer trying to rectify his many mistakes, a relationship of mutual understanding and confusion through which they can both grow. There was something so fresh, so heartening, so insightful and so enriching about this. He played the Duke not as vindictive and cunning and dictatorial, nor Vienna as an evil over-governed police state; but the Duke as an overgrown enthusiastic child making it up as he goes along, and Vienna as a place of glorious debauchery – a little, one imagines, like Dromgoole and the Globe themselves.

I’ve always loved the Globe, since coincidentally I first went in 2006. For actors, no other theatre permits, or demands, actors push themselves so. For audiences, no other theatre is so democratising, yet no other theatre is so demanding. That’s Sam Wanamaker’s doing, and we still owe him thanks. But programming one Bible, two Rylances, several Allams, 37 countries, 197 countries, one van Kampen love letter to theatre, and Nell Gwynn is Dromgoole’s magic. Not just overseeing the Wanamaker playhouse, but opening it with such glee and such panache is Dromgoole’s magic. Making sure – through tour, through cinema, through globetrotting – Shakespeare reaches as many people as can be is Dromgoole’s magic.

I do have every faith in Emma Rice, but opening with a ‘Wonder’ season at the Globe is something of a tautology. Under Dromgoole, this theatre has been a real wonder.