SOURCE: "Sad Party," in New Statesman, Vol. 80, No. 2057, August 21, 1970, pp. 218-19.

If we're to believe Simon Gray, who reviewed it for the NS from Stratford last year, John Barton's Twelfth Night was a notably gloomy business, dominated by a Feste so black and brooding he'd make Lear's Fool look like a maypole. The production has now moved south, to the Aldwych, and thawed; though not quite enough, perhaps, or not in the right places. Illyria is not yet the cosy, irresponsible place Shakespeare is generally agreed to have postulated. Indeed, there's no difference in kind between the visiting twins and the natives of the place. Those who would take them to stand for realism and romanticism respectively will not receive much comfort from Barton's production. Everyone exists on or near some middle level of feeling: there are no extremes of gaiety or torment, no highs or horrible lows...