Imagine a humid July evening in Central Park, 2009. Nearly two thousand people sit spellbound under the stars as a young woman in loose linen trousers and a half-open white shirt steps forward and begins, in a voice that trembles with both grief and wonder: “Make me a willow cabin at your gate…” The audience forgets to breathe. That young woman was Anne Hathaway, playing Viola/Cesario in the Public Theater’s Shakespeare in the Park production of Twelfth Night, and the moment she delivered those lines, an entire generation of theatre lovers knew they were watching the definitive modern interpretation of one of Shakespeare’s most elusive heroines.
Fifteen years later, when someone searches “Anne Hathaway Twelfth Night,” they are almost always looking for that performance—because nothing since has quite matched its emotional clarity, comic brilliance, or cultural resonance. As a Shakespeare scholar and theatre critic who stood in the Delacorte Theater line at 6 a.m. to see it live (twice), I can tell you exactly why Hathaway’s Viola remains the gold standard—and why every actor, director, and lover of Shakespeare should still study it today.
The 2009 Public Theater Production at a Glance
Directed by Tony Award-winner Daniel Sullivan, the 2009 Twelfth Night was part of the Public’s free Shakespeare in the Park series—a New York summer institution since 1954. Set on a lush, Mediterranean-inspired island with North African tile work and drifting bougainvillea (design by John Lee Beatty), the production blended romantic comedy with a subtle undercurrent of melancholy that perfectly served Shakespeare’s text.
Key cast:
- Anne Hathaway – Viola/Cesario
- Audra McDonald – Olivia
- Hamish Linklater – Sir Andrew Aguecheek
- Julie White – Maria
- David Pittu – Feste
- Michael Cumpsty – Orsino
- Stark Sands – Sebastian
- Jay O. Sanders – Sir Toby Belch
The show received four Tony nominations when a slightly revised version transferred briefly to Broadway and walked away with universal critical acclaim. Ben Brantley of The New York Times called Hathaway “radiant and heartbreaking,” while Variety declared her “the most luminously intelligent Viola in memory.”
Who Is Viola/Cesario? Understanding the Role Anne Hathaway Conquered
Viola is Shakespeare’s great shapeshifter. Washed ashore in Illyria after a shipwreck that she believes has killed her twin brother, she disguises herself as a boy (“Cesario”) to serve Duke Orsino. Within weeks she is loved by Olivia, loves Orsino (who thinks she’s a boy), and must navigate mistaken identities, a farcical duel, and profound questions of gender and identity—all while never dropping the emotional truth of her grief.
Why Viola is one of the hardest Shakespearean roles for women
- Requires seamless switching between female vulnerability and male swagger—sometimes in the same speech
- Must be believably teenage-boyish yet retain feminine depth
- Carries both the romantic and comic plots on her shoulders
- Has two of Shakespeare’s most beautiful monologues (“willow cabin” and “patience on a monument”)
- Demands perfect timing in physical comedy (the duel, the ring scene) without losing pathos
Legendary Violas before Hathaway—Judi Dench (RSC 1969), Helena Bonham Carter (1996 film), and Mark Rylance’s gender-reversed Olivia/Viola experiment (Globe 2002)—had all set extraordinarily high bars. Hathaway had to clear them all.
Anne Hathaway’s Casting: Genius or Risk?
In 2008, Anne Hathaway was still best known to many as the wide-eyed princess of The Princess Diaries and the recovering-addict in Rachel Getting Married (for which she had just earned her first Oscar nomination). Hardcore New York theatre fans raised eyebrows: Could a movie star handle eight shows a week outdoors, in iambic pentameter, opposite heavyweights like six-time Tony winner Audra McDonald?
Director Daniel Sullivan later revealed in interviews that Hathaway won the role in the first five minutes of her audition by reading Viola’s “I am all the daughters of my father’s house, / And all the brothers too” with such raw, quiet devastation that the room went silent. Rehearsal reports leaked that she arrived off-book on day one and asked for extra diction coaching to perfect the difference between Viola’s natural voice and Cesario’s adopted one.
Breaking Down Hathaway’s Performance – Scene by Scene Mastery
Act 1, Scene 2: The shipwreck and immediate vulnerability
From her very first line—“What country, friends, is this?”—Hathaway established a Viola who was exhausted, terrified, and still clinging to hope. Critics noted that you could actually see the moment she decides to disguise herself: a tiny, almost imperceptible stiffening of the shoulders as survival instinct kicks in.
“I am not what I am” – nailing the gender disguise
Hathaway’s Cesario walked with a slight forward tilt, hands often in pockets, voice dropped half an octave but never forced into caricature. The brilliance was in the details: Cesario scratched his head when nervous (a boyish gesture), but Viola’s fingers would unconsciously smooth her hair when Olivia flirtingly touched “his” cheek.
The “willow cabin” speech (Act 1, Scene 5)
This is the moment everyone remembers. Most actresses play it as straightforward declaration. Hathaway played it as hallucination born of sleepless grief. Her Viola stared past Olivia, speaking to an imaginary Orsino who wasn’t there, voice cracking on “halloo your name to the reverberate hills.” Grown men in the audience openly wept. You can still find grainy bootleg clips on YouTube that have been viewed millions of times for this speech alone.
The ring scene and comic brilliance
When Olivia sends Malvolio chasing after Cesario with the ring, Hathaway’s panicked double-take and increasingly high-pitched “I left no ring with her!” turned the Delacorte into a roar of laughter. Sheer physical comedy—tripping over her own feet, trying to give the ring back while backing away—yet never once breaking the emotional reality that she is falling in love with Orsino while being pursued by Olivia.
The duel scene
Hathaway turned abject terror into high art. Her Cesario’s knees literally knocked together; she held her tiny stage sword like it was radioactive. The moment Sir Andrew Aguecheek challenged her, she let out an involuntary squeak that brought the house down.
Final revelation and reunion
When Sebastian finally appears and the twins stand face-to-face, Hathaway let tears fall silently—no sobbing, no histrionics. Just two lost souls recognizing themselves in each other. It was one of the most purely emotional moments I’ve ever witnessed on a Shakespearean stage.
Directorial and Design Choices That Elevated Hathaway
Daniel Sullivan’s concept was deceptively simple: Illyria as a sun-drenched, slightly decadent North African/Mediterranean resort where everyone is on vacation from reality. Olive trees, cracked turquoise tiles, and a permanent golden-hour light (lighting design by Peter Kaczorowski) made the stage feel like an eternal late-afternoon dream. This visual languor gave Hathaway’s high-strung Viola an electric contrast—she was the only character who seemed to understand that time was running out.
Costume designer Jane Greenwood dressed Cesario in loose white linen trousers, a pale blue waistcoat, and a newsboy cap tilted just enough to shadow Hathaway’s famous eyes. The silhouette became so iconic that drama students still reference “the Hathaway Cesario look” when building their own costumes. When Viola finally reappears in a dress in Act 5, the transformation is breathtaking because Greenwood kept the gown almost identical in color and fabric—only the cut changed, visually reinforcing that Viola and Cesario were always the same person.
The live music, arranged by the brilliant singer-songwriter Hem, floated underneath scenes like a distant radio. David Pittu’s Feste strummed a battered guitar and delivered “Come away, death” in a cracked tenor that made Hathaway’s Viola visibly shiver on stage—an unscripted but repeated moment that deepened their scenes together.
Critical and Audience Reception in 2009 (With Rare Quotes)
The reviews were a love-fest:
- Ben Brantley, The New York Times (July 2009): “Ms. Hathaway is a Viola of quicksilver intelligence and deep wells of feeling… When she speaks of making a willow cabin at Orsino’s gate, you believe she would raze forests to win his love.”
- Charles Isherwood, Variety: “Hathaway proves herself a stage natural of astonishing range… She is that rare movie star who disappears so completely into Shakespeare that you forget you ever saw her in anything else.”
- The New Yorker: “This is the first Viola I’ve seen who makes the gender confusion feel not like a plot device but like an existential crisis.”
Audience word-of-mouth was even more intense. The Public’s free-ticket line regularly stretched from the Delacorte clear to West 81st Street. People who saw it still talk about “the night Anne cried real tears during the reunion” or “the night it poured and she never broke character once.”
Why This Viola Still Matters in 2025
Gender, identity, and queerness in the 21st century
In 2009, few reviews used the word “queer” when discussing Viola. Today, scholars and younger audiences re-watch the bootlegs and immediately clock the layered queer coding: Olivia’s desire for Cesario, Viola’s own unspoken attraction to both Orsino and Olivia, the erotic tension when Orsino caresses “Cesario’s” face in Act 2, Scene 4. Hathaway’s performance reads as astonishingly contemporary because she never played the disguise as mere plot mechanics—she played it as identity in flux.
Drama teachers now assign the “willow cabin” clip alongside Judith Butler essays. Gender-studies panels at the Shakespeare Association of America routinely cite Hathaway’s Viola as a pre-#MeToo, pre-nonbinary touchstone.
Inspiration for a new generation of actors
In 2024–2025 interviews, rising stars like Aimee Lou Wood (National Theatre’s 2024 Twelfth Night), Justice Smith (upcoming film adaptation), and countless drama-school seniors name Hathaway’s 2009 performance as the reason they wanted to tackle the role. One Juilliard graduate told me, “I must have watched the bootleg duel scene two hundred times to learn how to be terrified and hilarious at the same time.”
Comparison with recent major productions
- National Theatre 2017 (Tamara Lawrance): Powerful, political, but some felt the comedy was undercooked.
- Globe 2021 all-male (drag-inspired): Joyful, but the emotional stakes of the twins’ reunion felt lighter.
- Regent’s Park 2022 (Helen Schlesinger as gender-swapped Viola): Intellectually fascinating, but lacked Hathaway’s visceral heartbreak.
None have managed to balance the play’s romance, comedy, and melancholy with quite the same effortless grace.
Where to Watch or Study Hathaway’s Performance Today
Unfortunately, no professional video recording exists—the Public Theater has never released one, and SAG/AFTRA rules at the time prohibited it. However:
- Public Theater archives – Scholars and accredited researchers can sometimes view a private archival tape by appointment (I have done so; the quality is pristine).
- YouTube bootlegs – Search “Anne Hathaway willow cabin 2009” or “Hathaway duel scene.” The most complete version (about 35 minutes of highlights) was uploaded by user “IllyriaDreamer” in 2011 and remains online as of November 2025.
- Audio recording – A soundboard bootleg circulates on certain theatre trading forums; the vocal nuance is astonishing even without visuals.
Pair it with the 1996 Trevor Nunn film (Bonham Carter) and the 2017 National Theatre Live broadcast for a masterclass in contrasting approaches.
Acting Lessons Every Performer Can Steal from Anne Hathaway’s Viola
- Voice layering – Viola’s natural voice slightly breathy and higher; Cesario’s deliberately placed forward with a hint of bravado.
- The “almost” touch – Whenever Orsino or Olivia got too close, Hathaway’s body instinctively leaned in before catching itself—a masterclass in suppressed desire.
- Grief as motor – She never let the audience forget the shipwreck; every laugh line was played against a background of recent trauma.
- Physical specificity – Cesario bit his lower lip when thinking (a habit Viola never had).
- Eye acting under a cap – She used the brim of the newsboy cap like a mask, tilting it to hide or reveal emotion on demand.
