"Twelfth Night" as Seen by a Fool
Having shown Troilus and Cressida through the eyes of Thersites, John Barton now gives us Feste's version of Twelfth Night: and again the fool proves himself the best guide to the play.
This is not the funniest or most inventive Twelfth Night I have seen; but I can remember no production that held all the comedy's elements in such harmony. Played amid fragile white properties, against a sombre background, it is in key with Feste's last song: its humour and melancholy both springing from a sense of transcience underscored with music and the sound of the waves that lodged the two castaways on Illyria.
At present some parts of the production are not fully assimilated in the general pattern. Muted though the atmosphere may be, it could stand a less subdued Sir Toby than Bill Fraser's whose big moment comes only with the wintry dismissal of Aguecheek (which almost suggests Fal-staff rejecting Hal). Conversely Donald Sinden's Malvolio seems to have wandered in from another production. It is an extremely knowing performance, avoiding the old tricks and finding new ways of getting laughs (struggling to get Olivia's ring off his finger): but anything as actorish as this jarrs against the prevailing mood.
A Scottish Aguecheek also stirred initial doubts. Why turn a prodigal into a bagpipe-toting tightwad grudgingly rummaging in his sporran for tips? However, Barrie Ingham amply justifies this reading by turning the Knight into a fully fledged clown capable of gymnastic feats (including a sensational back-fall) and for ever trudging after Olivia (Lisa Harrow) with pathetic little bunches of flowers. The presence of Feste is felt even in his absence. When he does appear he polarizes the action, creating those moments at which Shakespeare touches hands with Chekhov as in the "Catch" scene, which reduces Sir Andrew to tears and brings back Brenda Bruce's aging Maria after a false goodnight in the hope of luring Sir Toby to bed; or in the Tabour scene with Viola, where cross-talk gives way to music and unspoken communion, as the two characters sprawl out together ruefully surveying the human scene from some other plane.
Emrys James's grizzled Feste would hardly have commanded such effects, if the rest of the show had not been working for him: but he gives a most musical performance that blends the senses of long-term melancholy, and present pleasure. Judi Dench's Viola, suited seductively in olive green, is attuned to the same broken harmony and matches it with her characteristic inflections, that combine a chuckle with a catch in the throat.
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