Twelfth Night (Donmar)
As does his twinned production of Uncle Vanya, Sam Mendes‘ final offering at the Donmar takes its theme from a line in Shakespeare’s 23rd sonnet. But, while the notion of unspoken love may encapsulate Chekhov’s play perfectly, I’m not sure it applies so much to Twelfth Night, where only Viola’s love for Orsino is silent.
Perhaps Mendes is trying a bit too hard to find commonality between the two plays. A very sombre affair – taken at a pace as funereal as Olivia’s mourning weeds (nicely complemented by Caroline Humphris‘s evocative music) – his Twelfth Night seems oddly more like a Chekhovian production than a Shakespearean one.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. This is, after all, one of Shakespeare’s most melancholy comedies, and Mendes’ version provides an interesting contrast with this summer’s lively production at the Globe. But in emphasising the play’s sadness, a little of its comedy has been lost.
Luckily, there are some fantastic compensations. Simon Russell Beale‘s Malvolio is more sympathetic than usual, seething at his lowly status when he considers himself morally and intellectually superior to his ‘betters’. And – Russell Beale’s real masterstroke – this attitude applies not only to Belch and Aguecheek but also to Olivia, whose skittish demeanour has been kept in check.
Yet, despite this resentment, there’s a real vulnerability about this Malvolio, too. Perusing the faked letter in his bedroom, he brandishes a press cutting to show his desire to marry Olivia is not so far-fetched; it’s a glimpse of him, in his domain, that invests him with a real humanity. And Russell Beale retains a quiet dignity, even after his humiliation, waddling off stage, with the arms of an untied straitjacket dangling at his side, like a wounded seagull shuffling off to expire.
Even better is Helen McCrory‘s Olivia. When Orsino asks how she’ll behave when pierced by “the rich golden shaft”, the answer comes very quickly. She forgives Feste’s absence instantly and proves herself an ardent suitor of Viola/Cesario. This is an Olivia full of sexual longing, winking at Viola/Cesario when she appears for the final scene and growling “most wonderful”, as the twins are finally revealed, in the manner of an Illyrian Marlene Dietrich.
The production’s weakness lies in the interplay between Mark Strong‘s Orsino and Emily Watson‘s Viola (pictured), whose ambiguous relationship feels somewhat contrived. When listening to Feste croon “Come away, death”, Viola’s hand strays into Orsino’s, only to be hastily withdrawn. Strangely, moments later, the two are kissing – though there’s no sexual tension leading up to it. Antonio’s desire for Sebastian is also kept understated, as if Mendes is reluctant to explore all the sexual connotations of the play.
Nonetheless, this is a strong cast. There’s a fine pairing of David Bradley‘s Aguecheek, in appearance Max Wall with the facial expressions of Stan Laurel, and Paul Jesson‘s Belch, a saloon-bar braggart resembling a leftover from the Countryside March. And they’re well supported by Anthony O’Donnell‘s beautifully voiced Feste and Selina Cadell‘s Maria.
