SOURCE: "Lindsay's Night," in The New Yorker, Vol. LVI, No. 45, December 29, 1980, p. 55.

Twelfth Night, which opened last week at the Circle Repertory, under the direction of the dramatist David Mamet, is deliberately informal and moves briskly from beginning to end. Every moment is clear—which takes some doing—and the preposterous story, called by Wolcott Gibbs "as irritating as a raspberry seed in a back tooth," becomes acceptable (or is easily ignored), in spite of the pun-cluttered dialogue, which impressed Mr. G. as "a torment to all but the exceptionally devout." Devout or not, I've always found the play a moonstruck and enchanting blend of friskiness and beauty, with credibility the last thing on its mind. There is no skimping (God knows) on the friskiness in this production, but what remains in the memory is the beauty and gravity and humor and mischief of Lindsay Crouse's Viola, who...