the madman and the fool

"I confess," wrote William Archer in 1884, "that Malvolio has always been to me one of the most puzzling of Shakespeare's creations." (Varorium 399) The ambiguity with which the Bard handles, or mishandles, as it is often suggested, Malvolio has frequently been a point of confusion and dispute for critical readers. The trouble seems to be one of dramatic convention. Twelfth Night is classified as a comedy, which, in most cases, indicates that all ends well, with misplaced characters returned to their appropriate station, deeds rewarded and misdeeds repaid, and, most importantly, a marriage.
Indisputably, the play delivers most of what we expect: Cesario turns back into Viola, who needs traipse about in her brother's garbs no more. She is reunited with Sebastian who ceases pretending at a class below his Birth. Malvolio, in turn, is disabused of his aspirations to a higher degree. The play ends with not one but three marriages; those between Olivia and Sebastian, Viola and Orsino, and Maria and Sir Toby. Thus we are inclined to believe the punishment exacted upon Malvolio is, at least to the author's mind, just. If it is not so, then the show we have just witnessed is not a comedy.
Also at issue is the narrative function of Sir Toby. He begins the play as half a classic comic duo. He is carefree and jolly and clever in his jests, and every time he appears on the stage, it is as a relief from the melodramatic natures of Olivia and Orsino. If he is well performed, he is a remarkably endearing character.
Malvolio is immediately established as the antagonist to all the merriment associated with his Lady's drunken cousin. Every time there is laughter or song, Malvolio appears in an attempt to stop it. The audience knows immediately not to like the stodgy butler, for he seeks to prevent all of the play's entertainment. He even advises Olivia to send away the fool.
With these two characters fitting so neatly into our reductive notions of "good guy" and "bad guy," we are inclined to stick with our first impression. But the characters' roles are reversed; the oppressed becomes the oppressor, and the abuser is abused. Even more problematic is the nature of Toby's revenge, which seems not at all suited to the crime. The good guy has proven the more villainous. Were the knight a more major character, his change of heart would be easier to accept as a dramatic twist, but rarely does a member of the supporting cast act thus as a protagonist. Apparently, Malvolio is not the only one who fails to know his place.
These narrative anomalies have long been the source of much critical debate. In 1845, British scholar Joseph Hunter published a book entitled New Illustrations of Shakespeare in which the dutiful servant is read as the author's means of taking out his aggressions toward the Puritans, "and of exposing to public odium what appeared to him the dark features of the Puritan character." He describes the many ways in which Malvolio resembles such a zealot, from his unfaltering gravity to his distaste for frivolity right down to the "Quaker-like plainness" of his dress. The textual basis for this last piece of evidence is, at best, unclear, but Hunter felt the killjoy's position as the antagonist was meant to be perceived "the moment he entered." Through Malvolio, Shakespeare was exercising a personal vendetta against the Puritans, who so detested and disapproved of his art. "In Malvolio's general character," writes Hunter, "the intention was to make the Puritan odious; in the stratagem of which he is the victim to make him ridiculous." (Varorium 397)
Half a century later, the whirlygig of Twelfth Night's plot led J. W. Hales to an appreciably different conclusion. The severity of Malvolio's punishment at the hands of Sir Toby, in which Hunter finds no trace of irony or hypocrisy, represents the over-harsh treatment to which the Puritans were subjected. "Thus Shakespeare took no part in the Puritan-baiting that became a favourite dramatic pastime," writes Hales. "And this forbearance is to be accounted for not only by the general fairness and comprehensive sympathy of his nature,--by his splendid incapacity to believe ill of a large section of his fellow-creatures and his fellow Englishmen,--by his innate repugnance to mere abuse and vilification, but also by the fact, that at Stratford he was brought into such close and intimate contact and acquaintance with so many specimens... of the Puritan breed." Again, a certain amount of editorial license is presumable. Hales goes on to hope that the "fanatical temper" of Shakespeare's contemporaries, as well as readers since, managed to be influenced by the poet's premature enlightenment. (Varorium 401)
Archer, who is perhaps not so quick as Hunter and Hales to bend the text to his will, quickly tosses both these positions aside. "The theory... which makes of [Malvolio] a satirical type of the Puritan as Shakespeare conceived him, will not hold ground for a moment." Sir Toby chastises Sir Andrew for threatening to beat the servant when Maria calls him a Puritan. Furthermore, he identifies this comment as the only textual evidence for claims of Malvolio's allegorical nature. He does not deny the material pleasures of this world, and makes not a pretense toward doing so; in fact they are his primary concern. "No one who reads the play without a preconceived theory can find in Malvolio the slightest trace of a zealot." (Varorium, 400)
Therein lies the trouble. No one reads the play without a preconceived theory. It is doubtful whether anyone reads anything without bias, but it is without a doubt a luxury for which a Shakesperian text cannot hope. Schoolchildren are familiar with plots, characters, and even quotations from Shakespeare's verse long before they ever read any of it. We come to the text with the theories we have inherited. Either Shakespeare was the finest playwright in the classical tradition, and would not dare to leave a narrative structure unconcluded, or he was the first modern dramatist, and therefore broke every imaginable convention, ridding the world of stale, lifeless drama. Either he was a staunch defender of the theatre and the arts, and thus despised the Puritans who sought to eliminate them, or he is history's finest example of a humanist, and could never be accused of racial or religious bigotry. The matter is further complicated by Shakespeare's failure to leave any self-defense. There are no stage directions, nor character notes, nor any other provision for the maintenance of the author's "vision."
Lest we think our enlightened times have provided a satisfactory means of cleaning up the Malvolio mess, I call into question two much more recent critical approaches to Twelfth Night. The first is Kenneth Branagh's production in 1988 for the Renaissance Theatre Company, a primarily faithful and literal staging of the play (so much so that it is actually set at christmastime). The second is Trevor Nunn's 1996 film, which takes a good deal of textual and thematic liberties.
Both of these films are marked by an attempt to literalize the subtext of the fool. In neither does he wear the jester's cap and bells, pointed collar, and stockings, as early criticism indicates was traditional. (This is indeed how Feste appears in the earliest film version of Twelfth Night, a twelve-minute silent film made in 1910 by American director Charles Kent.) However, there is little similarity in the character derived by each of the two directors, particularly with respect to their dramatic relationship to Malvolio, who is the victim of the fool's final foolery.
Concerning the fool there is historically much less dispute than that surrounding Malvolio. Scholars seem to agree that he is the play's thinly veiled source of wisdom and commentary. He baits the other characters into verbal contests and outwits them, and somehow turns this into a source of income. As Viola observes, "He is wise enough to play the fool." (Riverside, 458) What does seem to trouble critics is how, with his superior intellect, knowledgeable repartee, and various talents, he came to be the fool. Writes C. W. Hutson, "Feste's versatility and his reminiscences of scholastic training make one suspect that he must have been educated for the Church and have ruined his prospects by some wild prank." (Varorium, 405)
While somewhat irrelevant, it seems a similar suspicion guided Branagh's interpretation of this jester. He seems to have been picked off a street corner on the way to the theatre, donning tattered clothes and fingerless gloves, and forever swinging a bottle of wine. He further problematizes the play's status as a comedy because he is a decidedly tragic figure. He gazes into the audience with a pathetically dismal stare, unless he becomes drunk, at which point his general dissatisfaction breeds belligerence rather than sorrow. At the end of the second act, he passes out and must be carried off the stage by Fabian. He sings slow, dolorous melodies which continue on without him between scenes, lending to the whole production an unusually solitary mood.
Branagh's Malvolio (Richard Briers) is portrayed in a far more traditional manner. He is stiff and serious and grave, he stands straight and speaks clearly and conducts himself with pride. To Hunter, Malvolio's "tragic flaw" is the "self-love" of which Olivia declares him sick. Hales suggests that the character's misfortune is the result of his environment's flaws, which is, of course, exacerbated by the aforementioned conceit. Branagh seems to side with Hunter in this debate. As Maria says, her fellow servant believes himself "so cramm'd... with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him...." (Riverside, 452) It is against this "vice" that Maria concocts her scheme, and it is that scheme that brings about Malvolio's imprisonment.
Nunn's Malvolio, played by the versatile British actor Nigel Hawthorne, is a much more sympathetic character. He remains stiff and certainly no fun, but he demonstrates a genuine concern for his lady and her house. When she accuses him of self-love and rebukes him for deriding Feste, Malvolio appears genuinely baffled. He has advised what he believes to be in Olivia's best interest. Branagh's Malvolio indicates no concern for anything other than himself and his station.
Significantly, the two Malvolios speak against very different fools. When Branaugh's Malvolio claims to have seen Feste "put down the other day with an ordinary fool who has no more brain than a stone," (Riverside, 447) he appears to be kicking a man when he's down. He is advising the wealthy countess to turn away a beggar.
But Nunn's Feste does not beg. The textual instances of his doing so have all been removed. His speech about Cressida, designed to double Viola's donation to him, has been replaced by a tall, strong, foreboding man (Ben Kingsley) leaning against a wall, silently extending his hand before he will make himself useful. The scene in which Feste petitions for Orsino's "bounty" is removed entirely.
Not only does Kingsley's Feste fail to beg, but neither does he bow, or dance, or take orders. He yells when he is angry, and glares when he is unimpressed. The Dramatis Personae identifies him as a servant of Olivia's, but none other of her servants are greeted with an embrace. In fact, there is little left about him to identify him as a fool at all, except that the other characters refer to him as such.
One of Nunn’s most liberal revisions is a scene in which Orsino and Viola approach each other as if to kiss while listening to the fool’s song. This addition serves to do more than merely establish their romantic tension; it reverses the implicit power dynamic of the play. The fool’s askance glances reveal that he is very much aware of his music’s effect, and he ends the song just before his audience members’ lips meet. He is clearly manipulating the pair for his own enjoyment. The clown is in control, and his patrons play the fool.
Significantly, the Duke and his Cesario have come to the fool’s house, dashing through the pouring rain, seeking his talents. While the script makes brief mention of this dwelling, it sets no scene there. By doing so, Nunn has given the fool territory, a realm over which he is master. The Duke is a visitor in his dominion, requesting a service. This arrangement is appreciably more empowering for the clown than was that which it replaced.
Branagh's production leaves the number in its original setting, Orsino's home. The Duke sends for Feste, who seems when he enters to have been interrupted from the drowning of his sorrows. If Nunn has somewhat disregarded Shakespeare's text in his enacting of the scene, Branagh has attended it a bit too closely. The fool's claim that he takes pleasure in singing is interpreted as a refusal of payment. Orsino protests, but Feste leaves without recompense. (Admittedly, this seemingly over-literal reading enjoys a good deal of critical support.)
This Feste refuses pay again, after pretending to be Sir Topas. He does not wish to be a part of the prank at all, but he is ordered by Maria to don a beard and visit the prisoner. Nunn's fool never refuses payment, and is always the master of his own actions. Not only does he take money for his part in the charade, but he does so in an extra-textual silent exchange. He shows no particular generosity to anyone, and performs no deed without reward.
Thus when Malvolio speaks harshly of him, he speaks of one who is at least his equal in self-importance and pride. He is not demonstrating his superiority over one of society's victims, as his stage counterpart seems to do. After all, they are both technically in Olivia's service, but Maria tells us the fool has been long absent. Malvolio does not understand why Feste is nevertheless looked upon so fondly by his lady. Malvolio has been present and loyal and in his service (at least to his own mind) beyond reproach. Why slay the fatted calf for the prodigal fool?
Another important point of departure is the two productions' handling of Malvolio's smile. Both his incarnations require a great deal of preparation, and must coax their lips into a curl. Once the smile is achieved, however, Hawthorne wears it comfortably. "I will smile!" he declares jubilantly, dancing about the garden like a schoolboy. His movements quicken and become less deliberate, and his voice rises in pitch. By the time he approaches Olivia in his infamous cross-garter'd yellow stockings, he is positively giddy. He does not notice his lady's aversion to his actions because he is drunk on his delight.
Brier's Malvolio undergoes no such physical transformation. He never loses his self-control, and his smile never ceases to be forced. When he resolves that he will smile, it is begrudgingly. Certainly his demeanor changes, but there is no indication that the news of his lady's love means anything more to him than a promotion. In fact, he is more self-absorbed and condescending than before.
Perhaps this is why when Sir Toby recommends binding the servant and leaving him in a dark room, nobody protests. One can see how the pranksters might get thus carried away, for it does not seem so cruel a joke to play on a Malvolio who gives no evidence of emotion. Maria and Fabian laugh merrily at the notion until Sir Andrew enters, providing another venue for their jests.
With some minor editorial changes, Nunn alters this scene drastically. "Come," proposes Toby, "we'll have him in a dark room and bound." Maria, who is still laughing from the group's last exchange with Malvolio, pulls herself quickly together, and gives Toby a look of confusion. "Why, that shall make him mad, indeed," she protests. (Nunn) Shakespeare had these words spoken by Fabian, and two lines earlier. In Branagh's more faithful version, Fabian is not expressing reservation, but anticipation.
Even more than Branagh, Nunn refuses to be confined by the play’s traditional genre classifications. While several scenes would meet a modern definition of comedy, this exchange between Maria and Toby is but one of the many opportunities for humor he willingly forgoes in favor of thoughtful, disquieting drama. For example, there is little of comic value in the Fool's taunting of Malvolio, although the dialogue is clever and full of foolery. To the same effect, Nunn renders Orsino’s flowery, angst-ridden treatises on love absolutely laughable. In doing so, he shifts the primary subject of the play from romance to class and station. The film portrays love and courtship as a farce; what it considers seriously is the relationship between servants and masters.
The line is a blurry one, because of all the friendly intermingling that takes place between the two sides. The fool is embraced by Olivia upon his arrival, and he dances and jokes and causes a ruckus with Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. Maria plays her practical jokes on Malvolio alongside Toby and Andrew, and they all run and fool and laugh together.
And yet the line is drawn. Nunn establishes its boundaries by having Maria defend Malvolio. We are repeatedly reminded that Maria is still of the servant class. When the fool sits in the kitchen, singing for the drunken nights, Maria joins him with a harmony. The soldiers do not. They are being entertained, and they will not diminish themselves to the role of their performers. Similarly, when all the fooling at Malvolio’s expense is done, Toby coldly orders Maria to his bedchamber without allowance for refusal. Though he has praised her and even prostrated himself to her, he ultimately still thinks of her as an inferior and a servant.
Toby, Andrew, and Fabian seem to think that servants are only valuable as a means of amusement. They speak well of the fool’s singing and foolery. They curse and deride Maria until she makes them laugh, at which point she begins to enjoy their esteem. They have no need whatsoever for Malvolio, and so make entertainment of him. They turn him into something they can use.
Curiously, Maria and the fool conspire together with the knights toward Malvolio’s misfortune. It is clear that either participates for a different reason, although Branagh and Nunn have rather conflicting opinions of just what those reasons are. The former presents a Maria who is as offended by Malvolio's "Puritanism" as her co-conspirators. Branagh concludes that Malvolio really is as bad as his detractors say. He is arrogant, superficial, and cruel.
Nunn's Malvolio is clearly a more ambiguous entity. Maria thinks her fellow attendant is something of a spoilsport, but holds no real animosity against him. She recognizes that he is basically well meaning. Her compliance is probably motivated by her affection for Sir Toby. She does not realize that no matter how highly he regards her, she will continue to be his niece’s servant.
The fool is distinguished from the other servants when he accepts payment for playing Sir Topas. He is not trying, like Maria to win favor with his masters, or to climb the social ladder like Malvolio. He works for himself. However, his ferocity in his unmasked dealings with the prisoner suggests that he has reasons beyond the monetary.
Archer, Hunter, and Hale all cite Olivia's critique of her servant as the basis of their own, and concur that he is indeed sick of self-love. Branagh's production supports the claim, as does Kent's silent one, in which Malvolio is never imprisoned and storms off nonetheless. Nunn is alone in his apparent recognition that Olivia has not proven herself the best judge of character, and is not necessarily to be taken at her word. According to the film, Maria has gotten it exactly wrong.
In the final scene, the fool gives a convoluted speech that seems to argue that Malvolio has brought this punishment upon himself. Indeed this is the case, whether or not it was a just dessert. Malvolio’s cow-towing, his dependence upon the esteem of his superiors, and his foolish belief in the repeated statement about achieving greatness are what made him vulnerable to the misfortune that befell him. Despite the various character's opinions, Malvolio's true flaw is actually his lack of pride, dignity, and self-concern.
During the closing number, we look down at Malvolio as he departs Olivia’s estate with his belongings over his shoulder and a posture and demeanor closely resembling that of the fool, who is singing the words “by striving could I never thrive.” (Nunn) By his own ambition was Malvolio rendered the real fool. His masters are not interested in his loyal service. While he was looking out for Olivia's interests, he should, like the fool, have been looking out for his own. The clown has taught Malvolio self-respect the difference between service and servitude. The latter is now, like the former, his own master.
Antonio, too, would profit from such a lesson, for his drama runs parallel to that of Malvolio. Antonio also devotes himself to an ungrateful master. He endangers himself to serve Sebastian, and this is his undoing. Both He and Malvolio end up prisoners for the love of their masters.
Branagh's Antonio is set free amongst the madness of the play's conclusion. Branagh's Toby does not order Maria to his bed. The director is trying to make the play fit its advertised form. Poetic justice is reserved for those who have done wrong. In Nunn's revision, it is the loyal and selfless who end up the worse for wear.
Ironically, each production has an ending that is more suited to the other's overall tone. Branagh's Feste performs his final song with an anachronism complementary to his dress. The accompaniment is so thick with atmosphere that it more closely resembles soup than a song, and the listener can be sure there is nothing light about the lyrical levity. One by one, the company clears the stage until, at the end of the number, Feste stands alone peering between the wrought-iron bars of Olivia's gate like a starving child waiting for a photojournalist. Everyone has been married off or otherwise taken care of, except for Feste, whose world is unchanged. The fool loses.
In Nunn's film, the song's tempo is accelerated, and the key is major. The melody is imbued with an appropriate Irish flavor, making it a more reasonable approximation of a seventeenth century performance. However, the fool’s words are accompanied by a non-diagetic orchestra, complete with soaring violins and rolling tympanis. The fool may have to play for everyone else, but the world (at least the world of the film) plays for the fool. When he reaches the last line of his song, the fool turns to the camera in a filmic adaptation of the theatrical device. He repeats himself and pauses and then, as if adding the final touch to a play that has been incomplete these last four centuries, says what Shakespeare could not afford to. “Ha.” Every character has been tricked, deceived, or cheated by the narrative, except for Feste, whose world is unchanged. The fool wins.
Yet even though Nunn has reversed Branagh's power dynamic, and developed a fool who is the master rather than the victim, both men have come to the same conclusion about Shakespeare's text: the fool is what's important. He does not have the most lines, or get the girl, or undergo any change as a result of the play's action, and yet he is the focus of both productions. They use the conventions of their respective mediums to establish Feste's predominance.
Like Nunn, Branaugh employs non-diagetic music to indicate that Feste is somehow favored by his environment (by which I mean a stage). All the other characters seem to think they are in a comedy, laughing and jesting and engaging themselves in frivolity. But at the end of each scene, the tone changes as the transitional music plays. It is sad and quiet and slow, and Feste is sad and quiet slow. It is not he, but all the others, who strike us as foolish. Significantly, Feste sings along with music that does not exist within the world of the play. Often it continues on without him, giving the impression that the fool is in tune with some truth greater than that accessible to those around him.
When a film begins and ends with the same character, he is as a rule either the protagonist or the narrator. The opening and closing figure of Nunn's Twelfth Night is some combination of the two. The film does not have one protagonist, and only the first scene is narrated, and yet we do seem to be getting the story from the fool’s point of view. It is he with whom we are intended to ally ourselves. The first thing we hear is the play's last song, which is no longer a minstrel’s folk melody, but a slow, dolorously delivered tune that seeks to emphasize Shakespeare’s melancholic lyrics. Immediately, it is made clear that Feste is not the comic relief. Malvolio’s exit at the end of Nunn's version is so unsettling that the extravagant party that follows feels sour, and the credits begin to roll on what seems to be a terribly unsatisfying ending. We do not care about the foolish Dukes and Dutchesses and Knights. Neither does Nunn. He has given us a false ending. It has become a common trick in Hollywood to save some tidbit for after the credits, to be enjoyed only by those who stay to appreciate the work that has gone into the film. Demonstrating a similar kind of elitism to that of his Feste, Nunn thus reserves the real conclusion. After the players and company have all been given their due, we are returned to the true subject of the film, the madman and the fool.
In either production, the traditional roll of the clown, to be laughed at, is rejected. And while the two directors produce different interpretations of every detail and intricacy, their choices seem driven by the same motivating factor: something is wrong with this play. It's supposed to be a comedy. The good guys are supposed to win. The bad guys are supposed to lose. We don't even know which guys are which.
Branagh attempts to sort these things out for us. Malvolio is nasty, so he's a bad guy. His persecutors are therefore justified in their actions; they can be good guys. Feste doesn't want to play Sir topas, and he eventually delivers Malvolio's letter, so he must be a good guy, too. The fool's troubling final exit complicates matters, but Branagh's production remains a comedy with a twist.
Nunn takes a different approach. While he deletes or alters a good deal more, he does not try to eliminate the show's ambiguities and paradoxes with his omissions, or to minimize them with his untraditional character direction. The original play's inconsistencies are the subject of Nunn's revision.
And yet his changes are not without foundation in Shakespeare’s original script. At the play’s close, the stage is cleared of all its cast with the exception of the fool, who remains to address a song to the audience. He seems to be recounting some kind of dismal autobiography, until the song’s last two lines, when the subject suddenly becomes plural. “But that’s all one,” he sings, “our play is done, And we’ll strive to please you every day.” (Riverside 474) Shakespeare has ordered the demolition of the fourth wall, and in doing so has identified himself and his players with the character of the fool, who is now speaking on their behalf. It is not surprising, then, that his speech is laced throughout with a sharp wit and a concealed wisdom, as when he reveals the hypocrisy of Olivia’s mourning. The devious implication is that the “clowns,” in the broad, Ingmar Bergman sense, are the intellectual betters of those they serve.
Bergman also did a fool-exalting reading of Shakespeare in 1955 with his film Smiles of a Summer Night, a reworking of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It is a story of proud aristocrats who try to maintain their false dignity in situations that reveal them as fools. As in many of Bergman's films, the clowns (an epithet willingly adopted by two servants of the aristocrats) are the only characters who neither take themselves seriously nor expect to be taken seriously. Since life is inherently ridiculous, this is the only honest, respectable attitude to assume.
Nunn takes this inversion further, rendering his clown the only character who can be taken seriously. The subtle claims of superiority are stripped of their innocuity by a jester who cannot be ordered, and refuses to bow. As Orsino and Viola run from his little house, the fool shouts bitterly words of praise, making overt the speech’s subtextual resentment. The statement “I would have men of such constancy put to sea” is no longer veiled.
In this play, constancy is no virtue. H. Ulrici writes that the play "contemplates life as a merry Twelfth Night, in which everyone has, in fact, only to play his allotted part." (Varorium, 403) Those who cannot do so reap disappointment. Malvolio is not a bad servant, but merely a misplaced character, dropped into the wrong play. As Charles Lamb points out, "he is opposed to the proper levities of the piece." His role is not suited to his setting or situation, and Malvolio clings to his standards too stubbornly to change his role. For this reason, he cannot get what he wants.
Sir Toby enjoys a relatively happy existence for the first half of the play. However, when circumstances change, and it is no longer time for merriment, he is still a drunken old fool. He ends up put to bed with a bleeding head.
Neither Orsino nor Olivia will give up his unrequited love. They stand by it stubbornly, and fight for what they desire. But they should listen to their friendly neighborhood fool, for one cannot thrive by striving. While both find relatively happy endings, neither achieves his intended ambition.
But not every character leaves the farce disappointed. Viola, who changes identity when it is auspicious for her to do so, and plays her part masterfully, gets the Duke she pines for. Upon her arrival in Illyria, she realizes what Malvolio cannot: there is no place for a Viola there. Olivia will not accept her into service, and the Duke will not accept her into his heart, which is already occupied. Thus she becomes Cesario, and does not return unto her original costume until she creates a dramatic space for Viola to occupy. Similarly, Maria plays the game, and is rewarded with Sir Toby.
The fool is made the focal point of both Branagh and Nunn's productions because he exemplifies this kind of versatility. He can be Topas, or he can be Feste. He can sing songs of love or long life. He does not strive, or rail against harsh circumstance; he simply becomes what that circumstance requires. As Viola can see, "He must observe their mood on whom he jests,/The quality of persons, and the time,/And like the haggard, check at every feather/That comes before his eye." (Riverside 458) In other words, he plays to the crowd.
Twelfth Night is a play that has proven its own thesis. Why, after four centuries, does it continue to be debated and revised? Time and again, we hear Shakespeare's longevity attributed to the same qualities: his unfaltering ability to perceive the nature of mankind, and to reveal universal truths, which we as readers then may extract from his scriptures. But what sense does such a comment make when at no point in history have readers been able to agree on what the author meant? Is the truth revealed by Twelfth Night that Puritans are no good, or that they're pretty much okay after all, or does it perhaps have nothing to do with Puritans at all? Is it best to play the fool, or is that simply the lot of those less fortunate? What good is Shakespeare's truth if it is not accessible to us?
Like Feste, Twelfth Night has thrived by being malleable, by becoming what various interests have wished it to be. Like Feste, Shakespeare was a performer, and earned his living by becoming what was wished of him. He was acutely aware of his audience, and knew how to please his clientele. Thus his protagonists are royalty and noblemen, and his villains are bastards and over-ambitious commoners. But, like Malvolio, Shakespeare was still a servant of the aristocracy. When witnessing Sir Toby’s mistreatment of Sir Andrew, or the veritable torture inflicted upon Malvolio for mere sport, one is likely to be stricken by the uncomfortable feeling of torn allegiance. The bad guys don't seem that bad, and the good guys don't seem that good. This authorial ambivalence so dominates Twelfth Night that it not only allows but drives the peculiar extra-textual interpretations of Branagh and Nunn.
.Nunn's thematic alterations seem major, but they evidence the same awareness of audience as does the original play. The entertainment industry now caters to the very people who were then the butt of its comedy. A large-budget film needs to be hugely popular in order to make back what was spent on it, and the vast majority of movies fails to do so. The motion picture industry must cater to the masses, hence Nunn's working class hero.
Branagh's fool commands less respect, and his idle aristocracy is not nearly so harshly treated. Coincidentally, theatre tickets cost about six times what movie tickets do. Furthermore, it was made in 1988, the year the United States elected George Bush, Sr. to the presidency. Sally Struthers appeared on our television screens every fifteen minutes to enlist the help of the fortunate in providing nutrition to the less fortunate. When Fabian carries the unconscious Feste from the stage, we see1980's American ideology of liberals and conservatives alike enacted upon the stage: society's failures are a burden that, for better or worse, falls upon the shoulders of the more successful members of that society.
Nineteenth century scholars, who were primarily concerned with contextualizing Shakespeare historically and uncovering his sources could perceive in the play the struggle between the Puritans and the hostile society in which practiced their unpopular faith. In retrospect, these claims seem irrelevant, and more related to the interpreter than his subject. However, the same could be said of Nunn's adaptation. Had it not so well become its time and place, it would accurately be called a bastardization. I maintain that it is interpretation and not integrity that is Shakespeare's legacy. The lack of stage directions or character descriptions or clear morals does not merely invite the reader's interpretation, it demands it. Everyone gets to play. Whether we need a humanist champion, or a class warrior, or a scientist of human nature, we have it in Shakespeare. We can make of him what we will.