It's an intriguing contrast to leap, across a 3-hour dinner break, from one of Shakespeare's greatest rarities to one of his most popular comedies, Twelfth Night. Any kind of detailed commentary on such a well-known script being superfluous, I will simply state that this is the Shakespeare play which I have seen staged more often than any other. Even so, I will gladly sit down to yet another production of Twelfth Night where such other staples as A Midsummer Night's Dream and As You Like It have long since worn out their welcome with me.
And with that, let us get right to the current production, directed by Martha Henry.
Henry has nicely accomplished the essential directorial balancing act in this play: the need to restrain and orchestrate the shenanigans of the merry lords of misrule so that they don't run away with the entire play. The best productions of Twelfth Night are those in which the company motto becomes "Everything to excess -- in moderation." This moderation matters because it isn't fair to the actors in the romantic roles if they are continually to be upstaged by the absurdities of the comics. With one exception, the actors framed their own personal performances in line with that basic style.
Key to her vision of the play is the "framing" of the action by the songs -- at beginning, at end, and at numerous points throughout the show. This framing role in the text was beautifully counterpointed by the visual metaphor of glass bowls placed at key points around the stage perimeter. At the very outset of the show, and in several later numbers, Feste (the fool, who does the singing) moved from bowl to bowl, gently striking them or rubbing the rims to produce musical tones. This kind of glass-bowl music produces sounds both ethereal and alien. Considered as both sound and vision, it was evocative of the exotic, topsy-turvy world of Illyria.
Key to her vision of the play is the "framing" of the action by the songs -- at beginning, at end, and at numerous points throughout the show. This framing role in the text was beautifully counterpointed by the visual metaphor of glass bowls placed at key points around the stage perimeter. At the very outset of the show, and in several later numbers, Feste (the fool, who does the singing) moved from bowl to bowl, gently striking them or rubbing the rims to produce musical tones. This kind of glass-bowl music produces sounds both ethereal and alien. Considered as both sound and vision, it was evocative of the exotic, topsy-turvy world of Illyria.
Equally important to this framing effect was the subtle, gently modulated Feste of Brent Carver. Right from the first note I was captivated by his approach to this role. Carver sang not so much to us, nor to others on stage, but to himself. This quiet, inward singing became more overt in a few key places only. His approach to the dialogue of the character was of a piece, again relying on subtlety and gentle nudging of vocal tones rather than on overt verbal cues-to-laugh. It was a fine example of classic theatrical clown work (not to be confused with horror-movie clowns, by the way), which always has to understand and live out the sadness found at the heart of life's jokes. In such an interpretation, Carver's highly expressive face proved a key asset.
At the polar opposite extreme was the performance of Tom Rooney as Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Yes, it's a role which contains verbal silliness by the mile, and is often taken as a cue for parallel physical silliness. Rooney delivered that in spades. But the kind of physical overkill he poured out was so far out of key with the rest of the production that it quickly became embarrassing, and then tedious -- and, for the most part, distinctly un-funny. Worse still, he indulged in the kind of overt signalling for laughs that I thought had gone out of style at Stratford 20 years ago. Rooney's excesses were thrown into sharp relief by the more moderate performance of Sir Toby Belch by Geraint Wyn Davies -- unexpectedly moderate, considering some of Davies' past excesses in other roles.
Lucy Peacock, celebrating her thirtieth season at Stratford, gave a vigorous, energetic performance as Maria. It's a piece of casting made in heaven, because a role like this one -- a comedic spinner of plots and weaver of webs -- is ideal for an actor with Peacock's expressive face and wide-ranging repertoire of vocal tones.
The comic honours of the evening, for me, went to the stuffy, pompous, self-aware Malvolio of Rod Beattie. This Malvolio never simply spoke -- he orated throughout the play. Every time he opened his mouth, he spoke as if he were addressing a meeting or conference. In his final scene, his tone became that of a counsel for the defence addressing the court. And the results were hilarious.
Speaking of casting choices, the selection of E. B. Smith for the role of Orsino certainly gave a unique slant to his scenes. Smith has enormous presence on stage, both vocally and physically. It's impossible to ignore the man when he walks on or speaks. With that commanding voice and manner, the lovestruck and lovesick Orsino remained partially hidden behind Orsino the ruler. As just one example, take the way (in the opening scene) he barked out the line, "ENOUGH! No more!"
Shannon Taylor also took an unusual and different tack with Olivia. While her appearance in mourning was stately in a traditional way, she fell apart when struck by love, and bleated and yammered at times almost as frantically and incompetently as a female Bertie Wooster.
Michael Blake made much of his limited opportunities as Sebastian.
Centring the entire play was the delightful Viola/Cesario of Sarah Afful. It's the finest performance I have seen her give. Without any excess, she captured all the diverse moods and emotions of a character who is buffeted this way and that, without warning at times, by the bewildering romantic emotions of others and by her own conflicted feelings.
To conclude, I want to mention an unusual and striking tribute. In her Director's Notes in the programme, Martha Henry spoke of the influence of Robin Phillips (to whose memory the production was dedicated) and of the collaborative nature of the production and rehearsal process. In doing so, she mentioned by name a member of the Festival's properties department, Ken Dubblestyne -- naming him as the craftsman who created the beautifully curved swirling silver trees that hedged around the stage balcony. Those trees proved to be versatile set pieces, not just ornaments, and added so much to the sparkling appearance of the stage -- appropriate for a festivity in the twelve days of Christmas, which is what the name Twelfth Night evokes.
It intrigues me that every production of this play I see leaves different visual elements and different characters firmly lodged in my memory. From this one, I will certainly take away and treasure the memory of Rod Beattie's pompous oratory, Brent Carver's gently inward singing, and the vivid expressions playing across Sarah Afful's face as the situation become more and more tangled about her.
At the polar opposite extreme was the performance of Tom Rooney as Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Yes, it's a role which contains verbal silliness by the mile, and is often taken as a cue for parallel physical silliness. Rooney delivered that in spades. But the kind of physical overkill he poured out was so far out of key with the rest of the production that it quickly became embarrassing, and then tedious -- and, for the most part, distinctly un-funny. Worse still, he indulged in the kind of overt signalling for laughs that I thought had gone out of style at Stratford 20 years ago. Rooney's excesses were thrown into sharp relief by the more moderate performance of Sir Toby Belch by Geraint Wyn Davies -- unexpectedly moderate, considering some of Davies' past excesses in other roles.
Lucy Peacock, celebrating her thirtieth season at Stratford, gave a vigorous, energetic performance as Maria. It's a piece of casting made in heaven, because a role like this one -- a comedic spinner of plots and weaver of webs -- is ideal for an actor with Peacock's expressive face and wide-ranging repertoire of vocal tones.
The comic honours of the evening, for me, went to the stuffy, pompous, self-aware Malvolio of Rod Beattie. This Malvolio never simply spoke -- he orated throughout the play. Every time he opened his mouth, he spoke as if he were addressing a meeting or conference. In his final scene, his tone became that of a counsel for the defence addressing the court. And the results were hilarious.
Speaking of casting choices, the selection of E. B. Smith for the role of Orsino certainly gave a unique slant to his scenes. Smith has enormous presence on stage, both vocally and physically. It's impossible to ignore the man when he walks on or speaks. With that commanding voice and manner, the lovestruck and lovesick Orsino remained partially hidden behind Orsino the ruler. As just one example, take the way (in the opening scene) he barked out the line, "ENOUGH! No more!"
Shannon Taylor also took an unusual and different tack with Olivia. While her appearance in mourning was stately in a traditional way, she fell apart when struck by love, and bleated and yammered at times almost as frantically and incompetently as a female Bertie Wooster.
Michael Blake made much of his limited opportunities as Sebastian.
Centring the entire play was the delightful Viola/Cesario of Sarah Afful. It's the finest performance I have seen her give. Without any excess, she captured all the diverse moods and emotions of a character who is buffeted this way and that, without warning at times, by the bewildering romantic emotions of others and by her own conflicted feelings.
To conclude, I want to mention an unusual and striking tribute. In her Director's Notes in the programme, Martha Henry spoke of the influence of Robin Phillips (to whose memory the production was dedicated) and of the collaborative nature of the production and rehearsal process. In doing so, she mentioned by name a member of the Festival's properties department, Ken Dubblestyne -- naming him as the craftsman who created the beautifully curved swirling silver trees that hedged around the stage balcony. Those trees proved to be versatile set pieces, not just ornaments, and added so much to the sparkling appearance of the stage -- appropriate for a festivity in the twelve days of Christmas, which is what the name Twelfth Night evokes.
It intrigues me that every production of this play I see leaves different visual elements and different characters firmly lodged in my memory. From this one, I will certainly take away and treasure the memory of Rod Beattie's pompous oratory, Brent Carver's gently inward singing, and the vivid expressions playing across Sarah Afful's face as the situation become more and more tangled about her.
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