shoop and something lighter for twelfth night

I was lucky enough to catch the Public Theatre's production of Twelfth Night in Central Park last week. There are many reasons to recommend it--including Anne Hathaway's lovely turn as Viola. That's not a surprise, though--Hathaway's been doing terrific work for years, and she might just become one of Hollywood's few indispensable personalities (a subject for later). And besides, how can anyone with the same name as Shakespeare's wife not kill in Shakespeare? So, yes, she's great--she even gets away with a totally goofy, non-scripted "Yes!" when she tops Feste at some wordplay--but that wasn't the big surprise for me. The big surprise was that I laughed--heartily, lustily, and often, at Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek.

I've seen Twelfth Night a few times. I've even been in a production--as that classic supernumerary combo, the Sea Captain and the Priest. And, to be sure, I've had to read the play, and write about it, a few more times. And I have never, not once, laughed at Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. I've seen lots of talented people play them, I've read the footnotes so I get the jokes--but nothing. These guys just aren't funny. And Shakespeare devotes pages to their discussions about wacky dances, drinking, and venereal disease, while the story takes a rest. So why are they funny in this production?

It's deceptively simple--Daniel Sullivan, the director, uses what every director needs--more than a concept, more than a Unifying Idea, more than a lot of frou-frou to show how clever and deconstructive he or she is. He uses common sense. If these two clowns are talking about goofy dancing, then they should demonstrate it. Some directors are clever enough to get that much. But to demonstrate it properly, they need musicians and music. So Sullivan provides the music, and the foolish dancing becomes funny, natural, and inevitable. The other part of the equation is a little harder to pin down, because it involves the two actors--in this case, Hamish Linklater and Jay O. Sanders as Sir Andrew and Sir Toby, respectively. Linklater goes for something resembling "random deadpan"--lines like "I am a great lover of beef" come from, and arrive, from nowhere, and somehow Shakespeare becomes funny like those funny moments in Chekhov where characters will come up with something for no good reason, let the other characters think about it, and then let the line drift off into the ether. Sanders is the hale and hearty one, who finds the vulgar in the gentleman, and the gentlemanly in all that's base, gross, and vulgar. They're a great team, and they provide a great time.

It's nice to be reminded why one cherishes theatre. I was lucky enough to be reminded last week. I hope that sort of thing happens to you, too.