TWELFTH NIGHT

St Paul’s Church Covent Garden

★★

“The physicality is wonderful, yet there is a creative laziness that obstructs the romanticism, and the magic”

There are worse places to be, during this current heat wave, than sitting on a garden bench under the trees in the gardens of St Paul’s Church, tucked away behind the cafes and shops of Covent Garden. Known affectionately as the Actor’s Church, there are memorials to stage and screen legends, including Charlie Chaplin, Vivien Leigh and Boris Karloff. The home of candlelight concerts and theatrical performances, its Portico façade is also the backdrop for the renowned street performances that attract crowds from around the globe. The churchyard can only be reached via the recessed, inconspicuous gates on the other side. A van selling cool drinks is parked close to the steps, while theatre goers slowly find their seats. The sun has dipped behind the skyline, but the day’s heat still rests on the grass, and the church bells strike seven, heralding Nonsense Theatre’s take on Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night”.

Their entrance is a touch subdued, diffident even, in contrast to their promotional pitch which promises a mix of Monty Python, Robin Hood, Pirates of the Caribbean, the Princess Bride and a Knight’s Tale. Not just a blend of influences but, in their own words, the ‘lovechild’ of this orgy of absurdity. A grand claim. There is a fine line between nonsense and lack of meaning, however, and this company err towards the latter. Too many references evoke a lack of thought rather than any cohesive decision making. They are on a mini tour of country gardens, halls and castle grounds, but the luxury of the peaceful, English countryside hasn’t prepared them for the bustle of the metropolis. With no amplification, they struggle to be heard above the buskers in the piazza and the street sounds. With only a couple of exceptions, the eight-strong cast appear to find no need to adapt to the acoustics, nor – as it happens – to make particular use of the surroundings on offer. The show has the air of a group of friends pitching up in somebody’s garden to throw ideas around.

Niamh Handley-Vaughan directs (she also plays Maria) but there are all the hallmarks of a collaborative effort. Albeit one with little time, or budget, to consolidate the melting pot of ingredients. Too many cooks is a phrase that comes to mind. We are shipwrecked on the ancient and dream-like kingdom of Illyria, where the natives sing Irish sea shanties as well as modern pop songs. Olivia (Jericho Taylor) is dressed like Guinevere but elsewhere there is little to suggest medievalism – unless you count the clacking of coconut shells to conjure a horse’s gait. Malvolio is Malvolia (Chloe Orrock, who doubles as Antonio… renamed Antonia) but, although the gender is also switched, Tobi (sic) Belch (Kitty Mason) is still a ‘sir’. Blind casting is stretched to the limit when it comes to the twins; Viola and Sebastian. A brave decision to subvert the notion of physical resemblance, which could enhance the comedy of errors wrought by mistaken identity, yet it fails to buoy up our suspension of disbelief.

Despite the occasional gender-flips, the subtleties of Shakespeare’s homoeroticism fall flat. But then again, so do many of his lines. The bizarre soundtrack barely reaches the front row of the benched seating, played by various cast members like teenagers tentatively strumming in their bedroom. Projection appears to be an alien concept to this troupe. Although Orrock’s Malvolia stands out, injecting some much-needed midsummer madness into the evening. But even so, the comedy is a touch contrived.

It’s a long night. By interval the church clock is striking nine. The shadows are stretching across the lawn as dusk dims nature’s lights. This could become a magical moment, but aside from the church’s own festoons, the company plough on without rhyme, reason or lighting design. There is plenty of energy, and also plenty of audience members who reward the performers’ enthusiasm with genuine affection. The physicality is wonderful, yet there is a creative laziness that obstructs the romanticism, and the magic. And, yes, it could be shortened. We should be left wanting more by being offered less. But ultimately, we were left hoping that the curtain call precedes the ten o’clock chiming of the church bells. It does, but only just.

TWELFTH NIGHT

St Paul’s Church Covent Garden

Reviewed on 9th July 2026

by Jonathan Evans

TWELFTH NIGHT

★★★

“the intelligence of Francis’ script shines through”

Graham Greene’s “Our Man In Havana”, published in 1958, is set in a time just before the Cuban Revolution that overthrew the dictatorship of Fulgencio Batista. Greene had recently been deported from Cuba for having been a member of the Communist party as a student. For his novel, he drew on his own experiences as a counter-intelligence officer for MI6, resulting in a biting satire of the Cold War intelligence agencies. Hardly fertile ground for humour, but Greene managed to create a light-hearted, farcical insight into the world of espionage without compromising his attention to detail and literary imagination.

Clive Francis’ stage adaptation of the novel shows the same attention to detail, with very little of the book’s narrative overlooked, and pretty much all the characters present and correct. The fact that over thirty roles are played by a cast of four is a feat in itself. Or rather, three actors: Jack Ashton, who plays the central protagonist, Wormold, has the luxury of focusing on his one role while, all around him, the other three are rushing around adopting multiple personalities at breakneck speed. It is a work-out just watching and trying to keep up. Familiarity with Greene’s story will definitely help, but it is not essential.

Wormold is a British vacuum cleaner salesman, seemingly stranded in Havana, and in a dead-end job. It is the city where he fell in love, and he seems to be grasping onto it. A bit of a lost cause, he spends his days drinking and worrying about his daughter’s penchant for spending money he hasn’t got. He suddenly finds himself being offered a job as a spy, but is is even less adept at espionage than he is at selling vacuum cleaners. Nevertheless, he somehow manages to spot a way of selling false information and concocting fantasies that keep HQ satisfied, while lining his own pockets. It was – allegedly – a regular practice (Wormold was based on a real-life spy nicknamed ‘Garbo’).

There is almost too much to take in; a challenge that director Philip Wilson faces by pushing the piece rapidly through its paces. Half performance and half narration, the audience are kept up to speed. Greene’s inherent dark comedy suffers, however, and we are treated with slapstick instead of subtle humour. Meanwhile, the individual characters have too little stage time to progress beyond caricature or cameo. The obvious exception is Wormold, whom Ashton successfully steers from bumbling incredulity to a mounting disbelief and horror (almost) that his fake reports are starting to come true, and he needs to start fighting for the safety of friends and loved ones.

Jodie Steele is a striking presence as love interest, Beatrice, with her cut-glass RP accent and taut mannerisms, but is remarkably less convincing as Wormold’s over-indulged daughter, Milly, who at eighteen is going on nine. Bob Barrett relishes his many roles that include the dubious Dr. Hasselbacher and the enigmatic Hawthorne who instigates Wormold’s absurd career change. Leon Ockenden completes the line up with an excess of personalities, including military strongman Segura and, bizarrely, a young Queen Elizabeth.

Julie Godfrey’s set is a warm backdrop that is almost too pristine, lacking the crumbling decadence the piece requires. Transitions, executed by the cast themselves, lead us through various locations from the bars to the brothels to seedy street corners; although the authenticity is often compromised by the action. Car rides are predictable with their well-worn swaying movements and dismembered steering wheels. Strippers and waiters populate scenes, as do stuffed animals and wayward accents, but we are longing to get back to the heart of the matter.

We do get glimpses, and when that happens the intelligence of Francis’ script shines through. As does the sheer energy of the performances. But it somehow misses the point. This is not Graham Greene’s vision of his story by any means (we wonder what he might make of it all) but, like the unwitting hero of the play, we are kept on our toes throughout.

Tag Archives: Jonathan Evans

TWELFTH NIGHT

★★

St Paul’s Church Covent Garden

TWELFTH NIGHT

St Paul’s Church Covent Garden

★★

“The physicality is wonderful, yet there is a creative laziness that obstructs the romanticism, and the magic”