I have issues with Twelfth Night. Every time I see a production I remember why. Among the twists and turns of confused love, Malvolio receives a comeuppance he never seems to fully deserve.
Peter Hall’s new production at the National Theatre is no different, with Simon Paisley Day’s gaunt, stretched steward – who, in Anthony Ward’s design has a hint of the vampire about him – subjected to mental torture far outweighing his disagreeable pomposity. I have never yet been able to laugh at the servant’s suffering, though, in this production, I was more than happy to laugh at the servant himself, Paisley Day delivering a performance that balances dignity and desperation.
Of course, there is more to the oft-performed comedy than this sub-plot; there is the famous love triangle of the girl-disguised-as-a-boy Viola, played by Hall’s daughter Rebecca, who acts as go-between for the lovelorn Count Orsino and the in-mourning Olivia.
Ward’s distinctly bare set, which uses few props to aid the imagination, leaves all focus to fall on the performers themselves; in the hands of the cast, Shakespeare’s large characters grow to fill that space.
Marton Csokas’s mullet-wearing Orsino is drenched in melancholy to the point where I had to resist the urge to wring it out of him, Simon Callow glows red, slurs and stumbles his way through a delightfully drunk Sir Toby Belch, while Charles Edwards is a silly but loveable Sir Andrew Aguecheek, at times channelling the spirit of a dopey puppy though dressed as a camp musketeer. David Ryall’s fool Feste is not as bitter as can often be the case, attempting valiantly to lead the press night audience in his final song.
By the close, of course, everything is resolved. Everything, that is, apart from the unrequited love of Antonio – whose reasons for helping Viola’s twin Sebastian are as clear here as they have ever been – and the as yet undelivered revenge of Malvolio upon his tormentors. I know I shouldn’t, but I would love to see that play.
MA