By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
The Illyria of Kulick's Twelfth Night, designed by Walt Spangler, is a sprawling, ocean-blue platform, ramped, curving, and hilly, that suggests an enormous amusement park ride. At its far left is a towering blue chute down which the characters slide when in the grip of passion, shipwreck, or alcohol. Aside from suggesting an omnipresent blueness of sky and sea, the set doesn't convey anything that would help any audience member locate Twelfth Nightneither narratively, intellectually, or spirituallybut it has at least the merit of not resembling anything else. Kulick gets additional levels for his playing space by littering it with travelers' trunks, one of which, "trapped" with a false bottom, is used for Sir Andrew's entrance and Malvolio's imprisonment, and with clumps of rosebushes for the clowns to hide behind when they gull Malvolio.
None of this is particularly harmful. Shakespeare didn't write for a stage that gave literal pictures of places, and Illyria, a meaninglessly exotic name to the bulk of his audience, could as easily be a baggage-littered rose garden in Playland as anyplace else. On the other hand, what kept Shakespeare's theater grounded and stable was that its fixed elements functioned according to a fixed set of conventions from play to play; his texts were points on a theatrical continuum, not individual "properties" isolated in their own weirdness. Making Twelfth Night seem outré and noisy is hardly the worst or the newest crime in the history of Shakespeare staging, but in taking away the play's normalness, it also takes away some of its deeper individuality. Self-consciously outré objects tend to blur into one another, like people who wear funny hats; ignoring the hats and getting to know the people is more likely to produce lasting relationships.
And that is, to some degree, the moral of Twelfth Night. Viola, mourning the brother she thinks drowned, disguises herself as a boy and enters Duke Orsino's service to be near Olivia, also mourning a dead brother. But all appearances turn out to be false: Viola's brother is not dead; Olivia's mourning is merely a way to ward off Orsino's unwanted attentions while she sorts out her emotional confusion. Orsino's passion is simply a man's desire for what he can't have. When they get to know each other, Viola falls in love with Orsino and Oliviain a female version of Orsino's impulsewith her. To even out the odd numbers (and genders), Shakespeare splits Viola in half by bringing on her brother Sebastian. And to remind his audience that love extends beyond the usual church-sanctioned combinations, he invents a heroic, self-sacrificing figure, Sebastian's rescuer Antonio, whose love is of the unmarriageable kind, except in Vermont.
Because Shakespeare's audience had a short (though not MTV-short) attention span, he always worked with two parallel plots, one high and one low. This was standard Elizabethan practice; his brilliance lay in his ability to link the two thematically and crisscross them dramaturgically. The confusion in Olivia's heart is paralleled by the confusion in her house. As in the main plot, the issue is between two men who don't really love Olivia: Malvolio, who only loves himself, wants her because, like Orsino, he can't have her, while Sir Andrew, as foolish as "Caesario" is unreal, can hardly be called a man at all. Standing in for Olivia herself in this plot, with understandable inadequacy, are the two other people who will marry in the course of the action, Sir Toby and Maria. And where Orsino has two courtiers, Valentine and Curio, Olivia has a professional fool (as distinguished from the 24-7 amateur kind represented by Sir Andrew), Feste, and a sort of associate trickster to Sir Toby, Fabian. The symmetry of the structure, though not easy to make out against the chaos and ragtag of the production, is fairly dazzling.
Shakespeare's art is never rigid. Symmetry is always set off in two ways, by human individuality and by poetry. The three elements together, you might say, make up the music of the Shakespearean stagea concept extremely important to Twelfth Night, which opens with the act of listening to music and closes with a song. (Another key significator is the affirmation, in the opening speech, that you can't duplicate the effect of a musical performance by repeating it: Once it's done, it's over. " 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.") You can tell almost everything about a director's musical sense by his handling of Twelfth Night's opening speech. If I didn't know better in reality, on the basis of the current production I'd have to infer that Brian Kulick is tone-deaf. Contemporary directors are always in a hurry to start a play, as Shakespeare's audience may well have been; that's precisely why he opened this one with what amounts to a listening session. Orsino isn't going anywhere: A hereditary aristocrat whom others serve, all he has to do is send another love note to Olivia and rack up another rejection. He has plenty of time to brood over the sound of tunes with a dying fall.