Twelfth Night (by William Shakespeare) opened the Old Vic's Broadway engagement* delightfully. For all its beauties and graces, Twelfth Night is seldom so obliging. Too often in the theater the Illyrian glamour, the lovely songs, the immortal lines, the great bard himself, dissolve and leave but the plot behind. Now girl-in-boy's clothing palls, now which-twin-is-which proves wearying, now Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek help explain why "carouse" can be one of the most shuddersome euphemisms in the reviewer's lingo.
This Old Vic Twelfth Night could hardly be brighter. To expect the plot...
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