Twelfth Night is one of Shakespeare's most scintillating comedies - although one would not know it from Lindsay Posner's funereal production. In truth, there is a degree of melancholy in the play, but this production wrings out every last, dark drop of it, so that the comedy is almost a light relief.

This production is set in the Edwardian era. But this is not the Edwardian era of unbridled hedonism and golden summers - this is a truly dark world. The programme notes refer to another side of the Edwardian age, the herald of the war, of social upheaval and fascism. Such an interpretation would make sense; the play delights in subverting class differences and proposing a world where the servants can become masters. But there's no hint of that in this production. In fact, this is about the most deferential a bunch of servants that one can imagine. Rather than the anarchy of a world turned upside down, we are presented with unremitting gloom.

The first scene between Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek sets the tone. Normally a riot of humour, including some of Shakespeare's most outrageous puns, here the scene scarcely raises a titter. The word-play is ignored while Barry Stanton's Belch and Christopher Good's Aguecheek play ineffectively off each other.

"What should I do in Illyria?" wails Viola. What indeed, for there is nothing here to captivate anyone. The atmosphere is about as a festive as a drizzly, Welsh Sunday.

What is really missing is any sense of sexual spark. Jo Stone-Fewings makes a decent fist of lovelorn Orsino, but there's little sexual ambiguity in his discourse with the disguised Viola, played with gruff youthfulness by Zoe Waites. As Olivia, Matilda Ziegler never convinces as a woman fighting against physical longings while mourning her brother.

The main thrust of Shakespeare's comedy is, of course, directed against the pompous Malvolio. And here, Guy Henry does what he can to raise the tempo - and the level of laughter overall. But even this accomplished actor oversteps the mark, trawling through a repertoire of funny walks like an Edwardian John Cleese.

Only Mark Hadfield as a whey-faced, philosophical Feste, resembling a potential silent movie star, emerges unscathed from the farrago. His closing song, sung to Gary Yershon's jaunty cabaret tune, accompanies the shuffling departure of Belch, Maria and Aguecheek. I can't say I blame them; one gets the impression that this Illyria would not be a bundle of laughs.

Maxwell Cooter

Note: This review dates from May 2001 and the production's original run in Straford-upon-Avon.

This rich comedy of unrequited love, mistaken identity, separated twins, pretentious servants and unruly gentry has been set by director Lindsay Posner in Edwardian England. Playgoers will enjoy this production more if they bring no expectations to it. Fans of Zoë Waites who loved her Juliet and Desdemona, and those of us who regard Guy Henry as the greatest comic actor of his generation, will have expected much of their performances as Viola and Malvolio. Yet, to a degree, both disappoint.

Waites is fine when playing Viola as a girl, but she's less convincing when she comes to impersonate a man. She seems to assume that men shout most of the time, stress every syllable and lack variety of tone and pitch, and this removes much of the subtlety from her performance. Henry gives us an unusually young Malvolio, and there's no reason that shouldn't have worked well. But too many of his laughs rely on the funny walk and cross-garters and too few from the soul of this sad and ridiculous character. Because Henry lacks authority at the beginning of the play, his subsequent fooling is less funny and his ultimate humiliation less tragic than they need to be.

Fortunately, elsewhere, there are a number of good performances and one great one. Orsino (Jo Stone-Fewings), Olivia (Matilda Ziegler), Feste (Mark Hadfield) and Sir Toby Belch (Barry Stanton) are all well played while Alison Fiske's Maria comes over as a rather grand and well-spoken housekeeper/companion - an unusual interpretation, but it works. Wayne Cater's Welsh Fabian is superb, but the real acting plaudits are stolen by Christopher Good's magnificently absurd Sir Andrew Aguecheek. He's both funny and sad and walks with assurance that knife-edge between comedy and melancholy - so unerringly hitting the heart of this work while others just miss the bulls-eye.

Twelfth Night is a wonderful piece, a warm, dark comedy full of depths and delights, and this production's few shortcomings don’t destroy that quality. The play easily survives them and triumphs in the end. In many ways, it's a sober and restrained production which gives plenty of scope for the text to take control. By the end of the evening, Shakespeare's material has worked its magic and the audience can go home content and happy.

Robert Hole

Twelfth Night opened at The Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, 10 May 2001 (previews from 13 April) and continues there in repertory until 12 October 2001.