Twelfth Night

Too gorgeous for words? That's how you might be tempted to sum up Trevor Nunn's film adaptation of this lyrical Shakespearean comedy. Every frame seems calculated to deliver some vision of splendor: the brooding coastal cliffs of Cornwall slashed by slate-gray waves; a wood in autumn lit by a setting sun, all golden flame in air and under foot; Helena Bonham Carter's face, lush yet delicate, as if cast from porcelain; Toby Stephens in a bath, steam rising off his sinewy back into golden light; an apple orchard at harvest, ripe red fruit dappling the grass; … on and on it goes. It's all too too. But then, that's part of the point. Illyria, the imaginary land in which this play is set, is a place that's too too; it's a sensual country that encourages excess, going overboard, whether one is mourning a brother, pursuing a lover, playing a prank, or just drinking a lot. And as the characters become more deeply involved with each other -- with Stubbs' Viola in a male disguise, um, engendering a host of romantic complications -- they go to ridiculous extremes to win another's affections. Thus, the film's voluptuous visuals are in sync with the story. And it isn't as if Nunn has stinted on other aspects for the sake of some pretty pictures. The words themselves are gorgeous, and their delivery here inspires sighs on almost every line. The actors take their time with the text, waiting to harvest each choice word at its peak of ripeness. It's how Shakespeare should sound, natural yet fathoms deep with feeling. Where the film occasionally runs aground is in Nunn's fidgety cross-cutting. The director inexplicably chops up scenes by flitting from one angle to another, this face to that. Generally, these jumps add no insight into what's going on; they only suggest that Nunn didn't have much confidence in the way he shot the scene. Some may fault Nunn's interpretation as too melancholic; after all, isn't this a comedy? Well, yes, and those expecting a sunny romp, á là Kenneth Branagh's Much Ado About Nothing, may be disappointed. But the autumn chill suffusing this film is right in line with the play's constant song of death and loss. The rain, as Ben Kingsley's clear-eyed, keen-witted fool Feste says, it raineth every day. Moreover, it pays off in the end. When Viola is reunited with the twin brother she thought dead, the scene is almost unbearably poignant. Even Malvolio, that self-loving prig, is given his due as a man. Nigel Hawthorne makes him laughable but instills in him also a touching dignity. Too gorgeous for words this Twelfth Night? Not when the words are Shakespeare's.