Twelfth Night
Oriel Gardens Twelve months ago, theatregoers were denied the delights of
Oriel quad’s annual allotment of classic drama when
Marlowe’s Edward II was shelved at the eleventh hour. But,
after a six-year moratorium on the Bard, director James
Methven’s return to Shakespeare more than makes up for last
year’s cancellation with an energetic, sexy and affecting
take on the tale of Illyrian romance. As Methven modestly notes,
“This production will be exuberant and a celebration of love
and reconciliation”. In the opening scene, we see Orsino (the old master Chip Horne
endearingly marking his departure from University drama)
enraptured by lonely passion for Olivia, dissolving into
transports of orgasmic ecstasy, thereby striking the keynote for
the venture’s commitment to sensuality. On hearing the nifty
barbershop rendition of “Singing in the Rain”, we know
we’re in for something slightly unconventional, a notion
reinforced by the appearance of eunuchs, kilts and a shotgun.
Look out too for the director’s own bearded and bedraggled
performance as the sea-captain. A cast that is, by Oxford standards, stellar, has been given
freedom to explore the individual humours of its characters,
happily resulting in a wholesome variegation of jest, not a
mélange of contradictory comic pursuits. The many recognisable
faces operate brilliantly in isolation, better in ensemble. Organic unity is firmly secured by both Ruth Weyman’s
wittily thought-out costuming and the garden setting in which the
wings, stage, actors and audience are all contained throughout.
This externalisation removes all sense of the latent, and, by
extension, the disturbing, licensing the audience to observe this
play’s gaiety and poignancies without being perpetually wary
of killjoy provisos. There is nothing to fear here. The tone is light, but not Shakespeare-lite: no compromise is
made on the speaking of the verse; the application of modern
directorial techniques maximises the potential in every word and
no utterance is left unilluminated. Nao Hudson (Viola) is diminutive and forthright, but moving
where the poetry demands; Elisabeth Gray’s superlative
Olivia is as monumental in mourning as she is later hilariously
enfeebled by desire. A self-righteous, jittery Malvolio, Gethin
Anthony’s is an astonishing piece of sustained
characterisation, blending puritanical stiffness with a pathetic
vulnerability, while Heman Ojha’s clowning is more Kirov
than Krusty, a nimble, harmonica- playing gymnast as Feste. This is broad comedy par excellence, none broader than the
gargantuan Chris Milsom (Sir Toby Belch), whose guffawing ability
would put that arch-bellower, Brian Blessed, to shame. However, a
revel without a cause it is not, and we are constantly and warmly
reminded of the ambition to expose the humane and sincere in both
lovers and loving. Methven’s Twelfth Nightis simply
dazzling.ARCHIVE: 5th week TT 2004
Some productions are born great
