PARAPHRASING BIG WILLIE: Some Shakespearean productions are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them.
Not that the Bard ever makes it easy. No see-Spot-run theater out of his quill. And Nevada Conservatory Theatre scores points for taking a full-bore run at Twelfth Night, the master's comedy of twisty plotting and twistier dialogue that questions the nature of identity. Granted, subtlety is not a constant of Shakespeare's rib-ticklers, but there's a common malady—the Shakespearean flu, if you like—that afflicts some productions of these classic plays. A fever, apparently born of intimidation by the daunting material, grips a cast that feels compelled to swagger, preen and overplay their roles to approach the lordly level of Sir S. Even accounting for Elizabethan-era grandiosity, it's the difference between "Performing Shakespeare" and interpreting a play. Between characters striking poses and those that simply ... are.
Shakespeare deserves the latter but sometimes falls victim to the former.
The narrative swerves of Twelfth Night are too extensive to fully enumerate here, but the thrust is thus: In the kingdom of Illyria, nobleman Orsino (Stephen Crandall) pines for Lady Olivia (Meredith Wolfe), who is mourning her brother and will entertain no proposals. Meanwhile, a shipwreck survivor, blue-blooded Viola (Lisa Easley), assumes that her twin brother, Sebastian (Tee Jay Jones), was lost at sea. Looking for work, she disguises herself as a man named Cesario, and finds employment in the household of Orsino, who takes a liking to the young lass/lad, making Cesario his page. But the incognito Viola/Cesario falls for Orsino, who still yearns for Olivia and has Cesario/Viola deliver messages of love to Olivia—who then swoons over Cesario/Viola. Let the loopy, gender-bending capers commence, enhanced by a coterie of supporting characters pulling an assortment of high jinks, and sent into overdrive when Cesario/Viola's presumed-dead twin reappears, further complicating the sexual confusion.
No particular performances are at fault—a few even stand out—but director James Edmondson sets such an operatic atmosphere that the piece plays like one long, antic aria, his actors hammering home the hilarity with such hyperactive, chest-thumping gusto that a gulf opens between cast and audience, keeping us from genuinely connecting with the characters. The emotional bottom falls out, leaving a play that has our respect but a production that rarely earns our affection.
However, when the overcooked performances mesh with Shakespeare's more outrageous comedic conceits, there are fleeting moments of authentic giddiness. The jester's crown goes to Malvolio (Equity actor Michael Tylo), the sourpuss steward of Olivia's household, who's the victim of a practical joke designed to make him think Olivia is in love with him, perpetrated by Olivia's drunkard uncle, Sir Toby Belch (Equity actor Alan Coates), foppish Sir Andrew Ague-Cheek (Steven Fehr), who is also ineptly courting Olivia, and house servant Maria (Zonya Love Johnson). Urged to madcap heights by a forged letter with bogus instructions on how to court Olivia's favor, Tylo's Malvolio milks it for Marx Brothers-style lunacy, strutting like some aristocratic duck in yellow stockings and garters while straining to maintain a dignified air with plummy pretentiousness.
Strangely at odds with the tenor of this production, Easley's Viola/Cesario seems smaller than the role, yet the veteran NCT actress has a sweet stage presence that renders her a likable pixie. The capable Crandall, with his good-humored authority, and the alluring Wolfe stoically hold down the stodgier roles, though even they are infected by the overblown tone. As Feste, the clown of Olivia's house and musical muse of the play, Alex Robert Holmes (also the production's composer/arranger) at least has a license to commit balls-out buffoonery, which he does with conviction, particularly when he demonstrates some daffy dance moves for the ladies in waiting.
As befits a play that's been interpreted in nearly every conceivable way and set in time frames from the 17th to 21st centuries, Edmondson amusingly plays mix-and-match with costume designer Judy Ryerson's inventions (from britches to contemporary suits), as well as with props (a gramophone) and music (early 20th-century jazz). And Mihai Ciupe's two-tiered, broken-archway set back-dropped by a blue-sky-and-ocean vista is striking.
Still, this production of Twelfth Night is stricken with the Shakespearean flu and needs to pop a chill pill.