THE TEMPEST, Shakespeare's comedy, with music by Thomas O'Horgan.
Staged by Rolf Forsberg; choreography by Lee Foley; costumes by
Bobb Nicholls; scenery by Andrew Johns and Robert Darnell; Lighting by
Timmy Harris; stage manager Marc Reyna; revived by Festa Productions (Mr.
and Mrs. Forsberg, Dr. Lother Hussman and Mr. Reyna).  At the East 74th Street
Theater, 334 EAst 74th Street.
Alonso...............................Marc Reyna
Sebastian........................Robert Gibson
Prospero.........................Edward Asner
Antonio........................Donald Whitney
Ferdinand..........................Robert Kidd
Gonzalo.................................Lex Luce
Adrian.........................Richard Bauman
Caliban.................................Lee Henry
Trinculio.....................Thomas Aldredge
Staphano..........................Rolf Forsberg
Master of Ship.................Martin Rogoff
Boatswain............................Lair Parent
Miranda.............................Monica May
Ariel...............................Barbara Berjer

In Shakespeare, those who cannot walk must be cautious about running.  If they cannot speak poetry they should leave "The Tempest" alone.

Under Rolf Forsberg's slovenly direction, a dispirited troupe is making a gesture toward it at the East Seventy-fourth Street Theater, where it opened last evening.  As you come in the production looks promising.  The setting by Andrew Johns and Robert Darnell represents a shell-like island, good enough for the fabulous Bermuda of Shakespeare's time.  And Thomas O'Horgan's preliminary music has a dainty texture that is appropriate.

But the incompetence of the production appears simultaneously with the actors.  During the raging storm, a demented quartermaster turns a steering wheel back and forth, no doubt drawing prodigious S's in the wake of the ship; and the savage surf of the Bermuda coast (not at the time a bland holiday resort) drowns more poetry than passengers.

Don't expect the poetry to come alive when the surf stops blasting the loudspeakers.  For Edward Asner, as Prospero, speaks verse with the rhythms of a train announcer.  Monica May's Miranda is insipid; Barbara Berjer's Ariel is like a senior in a finishing school.

Compounded of verse, fancy and wisdom, The Tempest is insubstantial.  It came at the end of Shakespeare's career when he, too, had survived raging storms and had sailed into an enchanted harbor of forgiveness and dreams.  In previous plays, he had written more tumultuous poetry, but never before with such purity and grace, all passion spent in torrents of flesh, mind and spirit.

Better companies than Mr. Forsberg's have not been able to capture the (word unreadable) of the verse. But not many have made The Tempest seem so witless and heavy.  You would think it had been written by a chartered accountant.

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