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Seeing Twelfth Night at the Barbican during the festive season feels like leaning into a familiar ritual, but this Royal Shakespeare Company revival makes a strong case for the play as something far more alive than a Christmas classic brought back for tradition’s sake. Under the direction of Prasanna Puwanarajah, Shakespeare’s comedy emerges as a buoyant, generous, funny exploration of love, loss and performance itself.
At its heart, Twelfth Night is a story about loss tipping into longing. Viola survives a shipwreck and, believing her twin brother dead, disguises herself as a man to navigate a foreign court. What follows is a tangle of misdirected love: Orsino loves Olivia, Olivia falls for Viola-in-disguise, and Viola herself quietly loves Orsino. It is a plot built on yearning and misunderstanding, but also on people remaking themselves in the wake of grief.
Presiding over the chaos is Michael Grady-Hall’s Feste, a clown in the richest sense of the word. From costume to physicality to sheer kinetic energy, his Feste embodies joyful disruption. He moves effortlessly between performer and commentator, frequently breaking the fourth wall, drawing the audience into his mischief, and even continuing his playful engagement during the interval. His clowning is not decorative but essential: he punctures illusions, exposes hypocrisy, and keeps the evening alive.
Samuel West’s Malvolio is superb, delivering a performance that charts a precise descent from rigid propriety into something far more exposed and unsettling. His transformation is funny, yes, but also edged with vulnerability. The infamous yellow stockings scene carries an unexpected charge, a hint of kinkiness that aligns neatly with the production’s wider interest in gender play and fluid identity. West’s final moments, stripped of comedy, land with genuine melancholy. Alongside him, Joplin Sibtain’s Sir Toby provides the perfect counterbalance: indulgent, unruly, and gloriously unfiltered. Together, they form a vivid study in excess and restraint, chaos and control.
Freema Agyeman’s Olivia is funny, sharp, and unapologetically bold. Her mourning feels less like a wound and more like a mask, something she wears until desire, edging toward lust, cracks it open. Agyeman plays Olivia as a woman who enjoys her own appetite, emotional and physical, and the result is deliciously sassy and unpredictable. Her scenes fizz with energy, reminding us that grief and pleasure are not opposites, but uneasy neighbours.
Music plays a crucial role in shaping the production’s identity. Matt Maltese’s original compositions are threaded throughout, and the specially built organ at the heart of the stage becomes both instrument and symbol. It is an indulgent choice, but a successful one: the organ underscores the play’s emotional swings, capable of solemnity, mischief, and outright silliness. Music here is not just decoration, it is part of the storytelling.
Visually, James Cotterill’s set and costumes, paired with the lighting design by Zoe Spurr and Bethany Gupwell, create a rich, playful environment that supports the production’s tonal shifts with ease. Everything feels considered, cohesive, and alive.
This Twelfth Night reminds us why the play endures: not because it is comforting, but because it is elastic enough to hold joy and cruelty, laughter and loneliness, all at once. It is festive theatre with depth, sparkle, and heart.