Theatre in Review: Twelfth Night (Belasco Theatre)

	Samuel Barnett and Liam Brennan. Photo: Joan Marcus

It has become common shorthand to refer to the current shows at the Belasco as the "Mark Rylance Shakespeares." As brilliant as he is, however, this does a disservice to the overall excellence of the company performing in Richard III and Twelfth Night, a fact that is especially clear when viewing the latter production. For sheer lucidity, intelligibility, and comic skill, this troupe is hard to beat.

Yes, of course, Rylance scores again, this time as Olivia, the lady who mourns her brother's death with such theatrical panache that she simply can't bear to get over it. It's not just the actor's skill at playing a woman, it's the way he imbues this very specific, wildly over-fastidious female with so many hilarious character details. Dressed in a floor-length black gown -- only one of Jenny Tiramani's stunning creations -- the actor minces across the stage, taking tiny steps that oddly remind one of a figure exiting a cuckoo clock. When making an exit, he starts by heading toward stage right, then, with an enormous sweep of his skirt, executes a U-turn and heads to stage left. If you've ever wondered what it's like to watch a battleship turn around in mid-ocean, head to the Belasco without delay.

Decorum is all to this fair lady. Every time one of the rowdies in her court threatens to act out, there's a flash of panic in Olivia's eyes, followed by a series of frantic hand gestures designed to calm the crowd. At the same time, she is endlessly cunning in demanding the attentions of Cesario, the young man sent by Orsino, Olivia's would-be lover, to press his case. Olivia frantically comes up with new reasons why, despite her insistence that she has no interest in Orsino, Cesario should make return visits. And when feeling thwarted, she is more than capable of hurling a basket, in a most unladylike fit of pique. Rylance's Olivia is a true tragedy queen, fond of acting out her delicate feelings for the appreciation of all, and not to be crossed under any circumstances. It would be a delectable comic performance under any circumstances, but when seen in repertory with Rylance's highly original take on Richard III, it becomes one for the books.

But it is important to remember that Rylance is surrounded by a company of peers. Cesario, of course, is really Viola, the shipwrecked gentlewoman who has assumed male disguise; as played by Samuel Barnett, Viola is the engine of the plot, trying to keep Olivia on a string while pining after Orsino. "Fortune forbid my outside hath not charms," she says, realizing with horror that Olivia is falling for her. Forced to shuttle between the man she loves and the woman who loves her, Barnett's Olivia is a beguiling mix of panic, evasion, diplomacy, and frustrated passion. In one of the production's key scenes, she listens to music with Orsino (a fine Liam Brennan), and their mutual attraction becomes apparent. Orsino, who finds himself oddly drawn to another man, struggles to find an acceptable way of expressing his feelings, settling on throwing an arm roughly across Viola's shoulders. Later, a masculine embrace between the two goes on a little too long, and they hover on the edge of a kiss. These thoughtful bits of character work makes the play's ending -- in which couples are quickly paired off -- seem much less arbitrary than usual. Of course, the fact that everyone, in and out of sexual disguise, is played by men, adds another, almost head-spinning, level of complexity to the proceedings.

Then there is Colin Hurley's Sir Toby Belch, a boozy, red-cheeked ruin who provokes laughter simply by trying, and failing, to put on his boots or by making a too-careful entrance, as if the stage were a precipice from which he might fall. From time to time, he emerges from a seemingly permanent state of inebriation to woo Maria, Olivia's attendant. The latter is beautifully played by Paul Chahidi, whether blushing under Toby's attentions or practically hyperventilating with glee at the success of her prank against the hated house steward, Malvolio. If Toby is in an alcoholic fog, his companion, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, is simply in a fog, especially as played by Angus Wright. The lanky, long-haired actor wanders about in a state of constant stupefaction, convinced of his devastating charm and misconstruing the tiniest verbal exchange. "I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world," he says, pausing, baffled, as if to wonder where this sentence is going. He provides one of the production's most treasurable moments, when, hiding to spy on Malvolio, his head emerges from the box tree he shares with Toby and Fabian, another conspirator (Jethro Skinner). And his "duel" with Viola -- featuring two totally unwilling warriors, each of them only interested in protecting life and limb -- is one of the evening's highlights.

Arguably, the production's most original characterization is the Malvolio of Stephen Fry. He is all too often played as a malicious, self-serving prig or an outright villain, but Fry eschews caricature to create an admittedly overly proper and self-regarding character who is more foolish than evil. This pays big dividends in the letter scene, in which Malvolio discovers a missive, penned by Maria and designed to make him think Olivia is secretly in love with him. The actor glows with satisfaction mixed with astonishment as he imagines taking his rightful place in Maria's court. (As the letter notes, "Some have greatness thrust upon them;" Fry is more than ready to accept such a burden.) And the following scene, in which Malvolio appears in hideous fashionable garb, grinning like a madman (as he believes Olivia wants), earns every available laugh without stooping to comic shtick. Interestingly, the problematic finale, in which Malvolio furiously bolts from Olivia's court, is treated with real charity; for once, when a servant is sent to fetch him back, it seems possible that he will return.

I could go on and on, especially about the Feste, the clown, of Peter Hamilton Dyer, whose vocals of "O Mistress Mine" add a countervailing note of melancholy that deepens the comedy. What's most remarkable about this company, from Shakespeare's Globe in London, is the ease with which everyone plays together and their communal light touch with comedy. Tim Carroll's nimble direction results in a seemingly effortless farce that, to my mind, recalls another great British achievement in humor, namely the Ealing Comedies of the 1950s.

As is the case with Richard III, it all unfolds on a set, by Tiramani, of an authentic-looking Elizabethan interior beautifully lit by Stan Pressner, and accompanied by delightful period-style music, performed on vintage instruments, by Claire van Kampen. And it all ends in a festive dance by the entire company. Forget the Yuletide entertainments infesting the city this month; if you want to be merry, this is the show for you.--David Barbour