Seton Hall University - Galleon Yearbook (South Orange, NJ)

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24 When Seton Hall ' s Theatre-in-the-Round does its annual imitation of the Old Vic, the results are if anything, unpredictable. Twelfth Night, which opened the Theatre ' s twelfth season, was no excep- tion to the rule. It was, howver, a delightful offering, buoyed by Owen McEvoy ' s clever set design and surprisingly thoughtful portrayals by Michael Dris- coll, Audrey Witho, Mary Wilbon and Theatre reg- ulars and newcomers. Mike Driscoll, the graybeard of Seton Hall drama, rose to the occasion in his role as Sir Toby Belch, delivering his best performance in recent memory. John Redmond was his usual creative self, stopping the show as the self-righteous Malvolio. Beautiful Mary Wilbon, making one of her too-rare appear- ances under the lights, was simply stunning as Viola, and John Moran, a Theatre light from the past, was refreshing as her twin, Sebastian. Director McGlone used sophomore Wallace Hutton well as Duke Orsino. Hutton ' s relaxed ambience on stage and clever portrayal were no surprise to Thea- tre-watchers, who had witnessed his talents in last seasons To Be Young , Gifted and Black. Anne Marie Hughes added to her ever lengthening string of successes as Countess Olivia. She proved her position as one of the better actresses to have worked in a Seton Hall production. The play, was stolen by buxom Audrey Witko whose enthusiasm on stage is inimitable. As Faluan ' a servant to Countess Oliva, she busted and shrieked about the stage like a cream puff into which Aunt Pittypat (from Gone With the Wind) and Totie Fields, a merged. She left the audience weak from laughter. Twelfth Night was a significant play for McGlone and his players: a fresh, brisk, lighthearted romp be- tore they settled into the season ' s heavier dramatic offerings. They would be hard put to match this comedy gem in the months to come.

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TWELFTH NIGHT by Ed O ' Toole 23

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by Wally Hutton Marc Levy HERBIE MANN We must be still moving Into another intensity For a further union, a deeper communion. T. S. Eliot I am sitting alone in the nearly empty main lounge. Two of the mu- sicians carry on with the minor tunings and warm-ups. The drummer, Steve Gadd, consorts with the metal and membrane cosmos of which he is the center. Pat Rebillot, the organist and pianist, speaks to him in a high nasal voice. Haunting, fleeting melodies drift by . . . Test . . . Test . . . the anonymous mystical voice answers. A menagerie of brass instruments sits comfortably at stage left — gongs, bells, chimes. I think they are convers- ing secretly. There is a man on stage snapping his fingers and without warning, music explodes upon the audience. The mu- sicians seem more than human. The celebration opens before as we awak- en to Sun Rise Highs. Camera flashes illumine the moment. During the tune, In Memory of Liz Reid , ran dom smiles pass between the Family of Mann. It is a subtly intimate marriage between David Newman ' s sax and Herbie Mann ' s flute. Amidst the verbal silence, the group moves, and yet it is not that they are only moving and playing the music, but they have become the music. They are a heptagonal prism expressing a form within a spectrum, complementing space with sound. 25