It's odd that a Press so often moved to push the boundaries can occasionally be so contrarily subservient. In defiance of such forelock tugging, today's EDP readers are getting an 'exclusive'. Almost.
Last week, I paid for a ticket to stand and watch Twelfth Night at the Globe.
Trouble is, I'm not supposed to tell you about it, there being an embargo on reviewing the show until it transfers to the West End next month.
Because I'm not an official theatre critic and because �5 tickets are now said to be fetching �50 on Ebay I am going to join the Daily Telegraph's Dominic Cavendish – the only other critic to fork out his fiver and break the embargo – in reporting on Stephen Fry's return to the London stage after fleeing his last play suffering from depression following a scathing review 17 years ago.
Canaries director Fry as the prudish Malvolio who is fooled into believing that Olivia is in love with him, comes hilariously, not to say appropriately for Norwich fans, yellow-stockinged and cross-gartered to her. Of course, being Shakespeare, her is played by a him (Mark Rylance, fresh from Jerusalem). Viola, a him playing a her who pretends to be a him in the person of Cesario falls in love with the Duke Orsino, a Venetian with a Scottish accent. Meanwhile, Viola/Cesario's twin brother Sebastian, a man played by a man who is mistaken for a woman, eventually gets it on with Olivia while the drunken knights Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek (our own Roger Lloyd Pack who we know as Trigger) play on right riotously.
Got it? It's good, very good.
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