The Winter’s Tale at The Tobacco Factory, Bristol – a marvellous production with much to say about the modern world
The first half rips your heart out. The second attempts, tenderly, to put it back again. This is The Winter’s Tale, currently being performed at The Tobacco Factory, Bristol.
In Shakespeare’s tragicomedy, King Leontes of Sicilia, in a fit of jealous paranoia, falsely accuses his wife Queen Hermione of adultery with their friend, King Polixenes of Bohemia. Quickfire catastrophe unfolds.
Before you know it, the couple’s newborn daughter, Perdita, has been abandoned on a Bohemian hillside, left to the mercy of wolves and ravens. Sixteen years later, raised by the mercy of Bohemian shepherds instead, Perdita falls in love with Polixenes’ son. There are disguises. There are japes. And, astonishingly, there is reconciliation.
It’s a marvellous production, directed by Heidi Vaughan, and it marks a welcome return of Shakespeare to The Tobacco Factory after a hiatus. With a cast drawn from Bristol’s deep talent pool, the connections on stage feel secure, energetic, and richly nuanced.
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Hermione and Paulina are two of Shakespeare’s most intriguing roles for women, and Alice Barclay and Rose Wardlow do them justice. Barclay is stunning as the stunned Hermione, while Wardlow brings layers of vulnerability and sarkiness to Paulina’s righteous fury. Many of the smaller and medium roles shine. Amy Loughton (Perdita’s shepherdess mum) and Bill Ward (Polixenes) find organic situational comedy in moments that could easily have been merely functional.
King Leontes’ tyranny, which dominates the first half, is played by Felix Hayes as a kind of psychotic episode. I’m torn. Hayes has a strong stage presence, with a whiplash switch from gentle loveliness to shuffling, brooding, whimpering monstrosity.
It’s a spellbinding breakdown. But I was left wondering – might a less unhinged portrayal have better exposed the complicity of the court?
The costume and set design also feel a little elusive. This ambiguity means the nature of Leontes’ authority is hard to pin down, as is the misogyny that shapes his tyranny. With androgynous-suited courtiers and soft furnishings, it’s hard to pin down the time or place, unless it’s the soft play area at Wacky Warehouse.
The choice seems deliberate, leaning into that timeless fairytale quality. But The Winter’s Tale is specifically about time, including a particular time – now.
What The Winter’s Tale can tell us in 2025
The play celebrates the healing power of time, nature and the turn of the seasons. But the seasons themselves are not immune to tyranny. In other words, The Winter’s Tale is about responses to tyranny, as well as tyranny itself.
Paulina (Wardlow) attempts to bloody well sort it out. She directly confronts both Leontes (“this most cruel usage of your queen, / not able to produce more accusation / than your own weak-hing’d fancy, something savours / of tyranny”) and the cowardly court (“such as you, / that creep like shadows by him, and do sigh / at each his needless heavings”).
But how about the others? Camillo (Dorian Simpson) pragmatically scurries for the hills to bide his time. Cleomenes (Amy Loughton) musters some flustered bravery. Antigonus (Stu McLoughlin), let’s be frank, deserves to be eaten by a bear. It’s lucky there’s one handy.
The Winter’s Tale can be tricky to stage in the round. It’s a story filled with centripetal forces – characters beg, vow, comfort, cling, smother – yet the space encourages just the opposite: centrifugal forces, outward motion, striding away, lobbing repartee over a shoulder, performers unfolding like a clockwork mechanism. The round staging comes into its own, however, in beautiful scenes of revelry, song, and dance, which are also scenes of healing.
Someone once told me that boredom is an important part of healing. The lengthy pastoral scenes of the First Folio Winter’s Tale seem to bear that out. But for this production, Robin Belfield has given the script a tight edit, shortening many of these scenes.
Ultimately, I’m grateful for the judicious cuts – people do, after all, need to leave the theatre eventually, and the two halves feel equally balanced.
The Winter’s Tale proposes that real healing comes from remorse, time, and distance. It also comes from the company of those less wrapped up in the trauma. Your wounds will define you until you learn to relinquish the lead role in your own tragedy, and accept a supporting role in somebody else’s comedy.
By the end of the play, Leontes feels remorse – but is it enough to provide healing for those he has hurt? Or is something more missing – some more explicit reckoning or reparative justice? I don’t know. The Winter’s Tale won’t resolve the question of whether healing is ever truly complete. It only asks whether we are willing to live with the weight of what cannot be undone.
Jo Lindsay Walton does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.