Dive into the enchanting yet haunting depths of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, where festive cheer collides with raw human turmoil—it's a production that lingers in your mind long after the final curtain. But here's where it gets controversial: this RSC reinterpretation at the Barbican flips the script on Shakespeare's tragicomedy, turning holiday merriment into a intoxicating blend of joy and sorrow that might just challenge your traditional views on classic theater. And this is the part most people miss—it's not just a play; it's a mirror reflecting the messy underbelly of emotions unleashed by a few too many drinks during the festive season.
Directed by Prasanna Puwanarajah, this version masterfully weaves a sense of melancholy into the holiday spirit, with twinkling greenery adorning the stage amidst scenes of boisterous revelry. Yet, beneath the carousing, we encounter cruelty, heartache, longing, and the full spectrum of chaotic feelings that emerge after indulging in a bit of holiday cheer. For beginners to Shakespeare, tragicomedy means a genre blending tragedy and comedy—think a story that's equal parts laughter and tears, often ending on a bittersweet note. Puwanarajah's approach infuses the performance with a deliberate intensity that's utterly captivating, drawing you into a world where every emotion feels amplified.
What truly sets this production apart is its bold, fresh interpretations of the characters, emphasizing the quirkier, more unconventional elements of Shakespeare's text instead of glossing over them. Take Viola, for instance, who survives a shipwreck in a foreign land by disguising herself as a man. Actress Gwyneth Keyworth plays her with a nuanced subtlety that goes beyond mere survival—Viola discovers a liberating fit in men's attire, aligning with her straightforward, no-nonsense nature and allowing her to explore hidden desires. She attempts to court the melancholic Countess Olivia on behalf of her employer, the flamboyant Orsino (portrayed by Daniel Monks in luxurious velvet), but complications arise. Freema Agyeman brings a magnetic, authoritative presence to Olivia, a noblewoman determined not to become anyone's puppet, using her graceful movements to express her own yearnings—for those new to the play, this highlights themes of identity and autonomy in a patriarchal society.
The comedic elements shine with originality too. Michael Grady-Hall stands out as Feste, the jester who acts like the evening's unofficial emcee: tossing balls into the crowd, ramping up excitement before the Barbican's iconic electric doors seal shut post-intermission, and delivering haunting serenades from composer Matt Maltese that evoke late-night reflections on love and loss. Demetri Goritsas brings a loose, energetic flair to Sir Andrew Aguecheek, evoking an American entertainer, while Joplin Sibtain's portrayal of Sir Toby Belch is strikingly grim—he's not merely a jovial drunk but a shattered, stumbling figure ravaged by alcoholism. Samuel West's Malvolio takes an even darker turn; his hilariously absurd appearance in bondage-style yellow stockings, reminiscent of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, morphs into something monstrous and vindictive, born from the excesses of the previous night's festivities.
Adding to the spectacle is a massive, fully functional organ that serves as both soundtrack and visual centerpiece—it's thrilling to see the cast of inebriated revelers scramble among its polished pipes, causing playful chaos. James Cotterill's set design integrates seamlessly into the Barbican's expansive, modernist copper-hued theater, feeling like a permanent fixture until it's suddenly replaced by a mud-stained bed of yellow primroses or a stark emptiness that rushes in like a sudden winter gale.
Much like the mischievous Feste, director Puwanarajah juggles the play's humorous aspects, shifting laughs to improvised lines and visual tricks while treating the conventional comedy with newfound seriousness. This can create a slower, more deliberate pace in certain scenes, but the result is profoundly rewarding: a climax that peels back the facade of Shakespeare's tidy resolution to reveal the underlying turmoil of human emotions. Picture sipping a last glass of wine by a cozy fire— this is a show meant to be savored, lingering in its impact.
It's at the Barbican through January 17th, and you can find more details on their website.
But wait, is this bold embrace of the play's queer undertones and darker interpretations a brilliant update or a risky departure from Shakespeare's intent? Does amplifying the melancholy risk overshadowing the joy, or does it make the story more relatable today? What do you think—does reimagining classics like this enhance them, or should we stick closer to the original? Share your thoughts in the comments; I'd love to hear if this sparks agreement or debate!
