SOURCE: "Stratford Razzmatazz," in The Observer, April 27, 1958, p. 8.

In the world of the cinema, the pundits are fond of telling us, a technical advance has usually been accompanied by a backslide in imagination and intelligence. I hope it won't turn out to be true of the theatre as well.

Last Tuesday's Twelfth Night (Stratford on Avon: director, Peter Hall) was a perfect example of how a Shakespeare play can be ripped apart by the twin steel claws of naturalism and gimmickry. The basic assumption of the modern Shakespearean theatre ("We've got to put on this dull stuff, which most people—ourselves included—find only half-intelligible; so let's see how we can import some fun into it") was evident from the first moment.

It isn't the actors' fault; that should be said at once. They all played quite brilliantly, and the packed audience seemed as delighted by their virtuosity...