It’s the strangest production of the season, and talking about it is difficult—almost torturous. Words must be chosen carefully to navigate between the Scylla and Charybdis of pathos and mockery, between confusion, irritation, and—admiration.

One of Shakespeare’s final plays, The Tempest is incredibly complex, filled with specific Elizabethan-era allusions that modern audiences fail to catch, and which directors often don’t even attempt to convey. Today, The Tempest is often seen as a tale of an insulted sorcerer and a love that conquers all.

The anger of the Duke of Milan, Prospero, smolders for years, crystallizing into a desire for revenge against his usurping brother. When the opportunity arises, it flares up in bright flames.

Apologies for this plot aside, but the vividness of Shakespeare’s character’s emotions and experiences is crucial to understanding Jamie Lloyd’s production.

Because the director’s interpretation pulls the very foundation out from under the play. And yet, it’s impossible to look away from what’s happening on stage—almost meditative in its effect. First of all, it’s beautiful. Seriously. Incredibly so.

The storm, the wind, the mist, the phosphorescent air—moisture and oxygen literally cover the island like a veil. The intricate theater machinery unfurls a delicate canvas, with light painting phantasmagoric images on it, creating the sensation of an otherworldly landscape.

The island, Prospero’s domain, is presented quite literally: the stage is strewn with soil, riddled with burrows, and uneven like the hide of some mythical dragon.

Poor Caliban, one of Prospero’s servants, is a grotesque, muddy creature with a patched-up shoulder. Pathetic and comical, like a forgotten doll on a playground, he scrambles through the burrows, appearing whenever summoned by Prospero. Meanwhile, Ariel hovers above—adorned with black feathers and metallic armor—the airy spirit who emits the sweet sounds of heavenly spheres, in other words, sings. The two servants have divided the island’s space between them, competing to serve their master.

And it is in the character of the Master that we find the most unconventional aspect of this Tempest. Prospero is played by Oscar-winning actress Sigourney Weaver. She wears an astonishingly beautiful costume—a minimalist yet complexly tailored duke’s robe—with such grace. Her proud bearing and platinum hair, styled like a regal crown, frame a face of delicate and austere features.

As we know, in the play, the tempest occurs not only on the sea but also in Prospero’s soul. Yet this Weaver’s Prospero possesses a truly Nordic temperament. Have his emotions withered during the years of exile? Was he cold from the start? Only the heavens know. Shakespeare’s text, full of longing, love, and pain, is delivered as an icy, emotionless recitative, punctuated by unexpected, sometimes illogical pauses. It’s as if Prospero becomes lost in his own memories mid-sentence, only to return abruptly to pick up where he left off.

Of course, everyone recalls Ripley from Alien, where Weaver earned her Oscar, or Dr. Grace from Avatar—roles set in fantastical worlds born of directors’ and artists’ imaginations. It seems Jamie Lloyd has populated the fantastical island of The Tempest with a character explicitly played by Weaver, evoking her well-known cinematic roles. A kind of meta-modernism cubed: science fiction morphs into fantasy, science into a fairy tale, and the Duke of Milan into the commander of a motley crew of spirits.

There’s nothing new about Prospero being turned into a woman—15 years ago, Helen Mirren played Duchess Prospera in Julie Taymor’s film.

In this Tempest, the story of Miranda and Ferdinand (played by Mara Hough and James Poon) hardly matters. They flit about with their tender, youthful beauty. Blood pulses beneath their radiant skin, and they perform their love so vividly and traditionally that it disrupts the play’s harmony. They are mere distractions to Prospero as she continues her measured journey, like a stone orbiting the moon in a cosmic, understated yet grandiose turn.

It’s time to return to science fiction. In The Mandalorian series, there was a character, Peli Motto, a base owner played by American comic actress Amy Sedaris. Jumpsuits, space, curls—it was a gentle homage to both Weaver and, as it turns out, her Prospero. This Peli lived on her asteroid, served by a pair of robot-spirits, and was a character brimming with life and hunger for events.

Weaver’s Prospero’s renunciation of magic at the end of the play feels like an act of despair, almost a social death. This icy queen forsakes her only means of influencing the world.

Though she remains on stage, ever-watchful over her domain—could it be that this island exists solely in her imagination? Is there no Caliban? Does Ariel sing only in her mind? And Miranda—not a daughter, but a figment of her imagination? A dream? A painful yearning to live on through another being? In reality, all that remains is barren land, shimmering air, and Prospero’s icy voice—which eventually falls silent, leaving the character in solitude.