We've come to expect daring from Declan Donnellan and Cheek by Jowl, but flagrant law-breaking is another thing entirely. The first sharp intake of breath, in a night of gasps and little yelps, from the audience at this magical, all-male Russian Twelfth Night, came as Alexei Dadonov's Olivia - more a lady than any woman could be - lit up and seemed to extract an almost obscene amount of pleasure from her cigarette. Smoking in a public place is not only frowned upon now in Dublin, it is illegal. Being Russian, and the orphaned sister of a dead brother, is no excuse.
But as with so much else in this beautiful production, in which so many of the disregarded delights of this old hammy warhorse are disinterred and shown to be gems, we were being toyed with. The fags were herbal, and, as the little notes in the foyer at the interval revealed, passed Department of Health guidelines.
Darkness and light, the dualities of good and evil, and the possibilities of transvestism are all explored with hummingbird wit and precision by Donnellan, designer Nick Ormerod and their astonishing Russian cast, who first shimmy on stage as one of the most joyful bossa-nova bands you're ever likely to hear.
From the beginning, the scenes that are so often overlooked in the headlong rush to the slapstick of mistaken identity and the yellow socks are the ones that sting. We have domestic violence amid the comic carousing, Sir Toby Belch punching the uncomplaining maid Maria in the gob only to ply her moments later with healing vodka in a scene that no doubt plays out nightly in the Moscow suburbs. Malvolio, even at his most power-hungry, is given a degree of empathy by Dmitry Shcherbina that is almost heartbreaking. It is this very restraint that makes it the funniest of Twelfth Nights. Never have two-and-a-half hours in a theatre seat made for a midget passed so swiftly.
· Until Saturday. Box office: 00353 1 6778899.
.jpg?w=600)
