Pity the Pompous Prig
God, Malvolio, and the Call to Dance
A person who is offensively punctilious and precise in speech or behaviour; a person who cultivates or affects supposedly correct views on culture, learning, or morals, which offend or bore others; a conceited or self-important and didactic person.
Originally applied chiefly to men.
- Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “prig (n.3), sense II.4.a,” December 2024, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/8655027990)
Originally applied chiefly to men.
- Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “prig (n.3), sense II.4.a,” December 2024, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/8655027990)
God and Malvolio
He is almost inherently unlikable. He believes himself to be superior to those around him, disapproves of fun and merrymaking—making him seem dour and joyless—and enforces rules harshly, acting as a killjoy determined to suppress the revelry of others. He looks down on those of lower status with condescension, assuming them unworthy of his respect. Life, for him, must be ordered and predictable. And yet, his heart can be easily moved by the possibility that someone he loves might actually love him back. I am talking, of course, about Malvolio in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. My hope - our hope - is that he can hear the divine call to revelry, stop judging others so harshly, and learn to dance: to laugh, to play, to make merry, to enjoy the festive side of life.
His rigid demeanor makes him the perfect target for Maria’s cruel prank, in which he is tricked into believing that Olivia loves him. Convinced that he is destined for greatness, he embarrasses himself by dressing and acting foolishly, only to be locked away as mad. In the end, while others find love and laughter, Malvolio is left humiliated and vowing revenge, making him one of Shakespeare’s most tragic comic figures.
Scholars and playgoers alike wonder if he is not treated too cruelly. Perhaps he deserves pity, not mockery—pity because he is so afraid of what process-relational thinkers call zest for life—the spontaneity, joy, and openness to experience that others in Twelfth Night embrace so freely. A spontaneity that includes laughter, pleasure, and revelry. His downfall is not just the result of a mean-spirited trick but also his inability to surrender to the unpredictable, improvisational dance of existence.
Malvolio, like all of us, carries within his heart a lure toward revelry—a lure to embrace laughter, pleasure, and festivity. A lure to let go of the need for a perfectly ordered, self-righteous life and enjoy the beautiful chaos of being human. Yet, his tragedy lies in his resistance to that call, his stubborn refusal to release control and join the dance. And often, if we repress the lure—if we throw it into the unconscious side of our lives—it resurfaces in surprising and sometimes embarrassing ways, as it did with Malvolio. His repressed desire for joy emerges not as natural delight, but as absurd self-delusion, making him the butt of a joke rather than a willing participant in life’s revelry.
For my part, I think Malvolio was treated too cruelly. There’s a meanness in the mockery, a kind of collective delight in his suffering that leaves an uneasy aftertaste. But I understand how the very presence of a pompous killjoy can sour the mood of others, even as his puritanical spirit is a problem for him as well. In a process-relational world, where people can actually "feel the feelings" of others and be affected by those feelings, the mood of the killjoy is not just an isolated state—it spreads, creating a kind of emotional discord. His dour seriousness is not merely observed by others; it is felt, absorbed, and reacted to, just as their joy, their laughter, and their revelry are felt by him. In the world of Twelfth Night, joy is meant to flow freely, and Malvolio—by his own rigid design—stands in opposition to that flow. Perhaps his fate is a warning, not just to those who take themselves too seriously, but to those who would take too much pleasure in their downfall.
The God of open and relational theology—the God whose spirit is a love-energy felt throughout the universe—ought not be imagined as a cosmic killjoy. The love-energy of God has a tender and compassionate side, to be sure, and also an erotic side, a side that is on the side of life and its flourishing. This God is not rigid or puritanical but relational and life-affirming, luring all beings toward richer, deeper, and more vibrant forms of existence. If Malvolio represents the tragedy of resisting the flow of life, then the God of open and relational theology represents the call to embrace it—to join the dance, to laugh, to love, and to participate in the great improvisational unfolding of the cosmos.
In the world’s religions, we find traditions that see dancing, joy, and revelry as part of a holy life. In Hinduism, Krishna’s divine play (lila) includes ecstatic dance and celebration, while in Sufi Islam, the whirling dervishes of the Mevlevi order turn in meditative movement toward union with the divine. In many Indigenous traditions, dance is a sacred act of connection with the land, ancestors, and spirits. The Hasidic tradition within Judaism also celebrates joy as an essential part of holiness. Hasidic Jews dance with fervor, believing that joy itself is a form of divine worship. The teachings of Rabbi Nachman of Breslov emphasize the importance of happiness, even in times of struggle, and the Hasidic tradition sees music and dance as ways of elevating the soul, dissolving the ego, and connecting with God.
Even in Christianity, the image of the heavenly banquet and the joy of communal celebration reflect a deep theological embrace of festivity. The spiritual life, then, is not simply about solemnity and restraint—it is also about rhythm, music, movement, and the exuberant delight of being alive. If God is relational, as open and relational theology suggests, then God, too, participates in this joy, inviting the world not into stiff piety but into a sacred dance of love and freedom
His rigid demeanor makes him the perfect target for Maria’s cruel prank, in which he is tricked into believing that Olivia loves him. Convinced that he is destined for greatness, he embarrasses himself by dressing and acting foolishly, only to be locked away as mad. In the end, while others find love and laughter, Malvolio is left humiliated and vowing revenge, making him one of Shakespeare’s most tragic comic figures.
Scholars and playgoers alike wonder if he is not treated too cruelly. Perhaps he deserves pity, not mockery—pity because he is so afraid of what process-relational thinkers call zest for life—the spontaneity, joy, and openness to experience that others in Twelfth Night embrace so freely. A spontaneity that includes laughter, pleasure, and revelry. His downfall is not just the result of a mean-spirited trick but also his inability to surrender to the unpredictable, improvisational dance of existence.
Malvolio, like all of us, carries within his heart a lure toward revelry—a lure to embrace laughter, pleasure, and festivity. A lure to let go of the need for a perfectly ordered, self-righteous life and enjoy the beautiful chaos of being human. Yet, his tragedy lies in his resistance to that call, his stubborn refusal to release control and join the dance. And often, if we repress the lure—if we throw it into the unconscious side of our lives—it resurfaces in surprising and sometimes embarrassing ways, as it did with Malvolio. His repressed desire for joy emerges not as natural delight, but as absurd self-delusion, making him the butt of a joke rather than a willing participant in life’s revelry.
For my part, I think Malvolio was treated too cruelly. There’s a meanness in the mockery, a kind of collective delight in his suffering that leaves an uneasy aftertaste. But I understand how the very presence of a pompous killjoy can sour the mood of others, even as his puritanical spirit is a problem for him as well. In a process-relational world, where people can actually "feel the feelings" of others and be affected by those feelings, the mood of the killjoy is not just an isolated state—it spreads, creating a kind of emotional discord. His dour seriousness is not merely observed by others; it is felt, absorbed, and reacted to, just as their joy, their laughter, and their revelry are felt by him. In the world of Twelfth Night, joy is meant to flow freely, and Malvolio—by his own rigid design—stands in opposition to that flow. Perhaps his fate is a warning, not just to those who take themselves too seriously, but to those who would take too much pleasure in their downfall.
The God of open and relational theology—the God whose spirit is a love-energy felt throughout the universe—ought not be imagined as a cosmic killjoy. The love-energy of God has a tender and compassionate side, to be sure, and also an erotic side, a side that is on the side of life and its flourishing. This God is not rigid or puritanical but relational and life-affirming, luring all beings toward richer, deeper, and more vibrant forms of existence. If Malvolio represents the tragedy of resisting the flow of life, then the God of open and relational theology represents the call to embrace it—to join the dance, to laugh, to love, and to participate in the great improvisational unfolding of the cosmos.
In the world’s religions, we find traditions that see dancing, joy, and revelry as part of a holy life. In Hinduism, Krishna’s divine play (lila) includes ecstatic dance and celebration, while in Sufi Islam, the whirling dervishes of the Mevlevi order turn in meditative movement toward union with the divine. In many Indigenous traditions, dance is a sacred act of connection with the land, ancestors, and spirits. The Hasidic tradition within Judaism also celebrates joy as an essential part of holiness. Hasidic Jews dance with fervor, believing that joy itself is a form of divine worship. The teachings of Rabbi Nachman of Breslov emphasize the importance of happiness, even in times of struggle, and the Hasidic tradition sees music and dance as ways of elevating the soul, dissolving the ego, and connecting with God.
Even in Christianity, the image of the heavenly banquet and the joy of communal celebration reflect a deep theological embrace of festivity. The spiritual life, then, is not simply about solemnity and restraint—it is also about rhythm, music, movement, and the exuberant delight of being alive. If God is relational, as open and relational theology suggests, then God, too, participates in this joy, inviting the world not into stiff piety but into a sacred dance of love and freedom
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A Scholarly Discussion
of Twelfth Night
Melvyn Bragg and guests discuss one of Shakespeare’s great comedies, which plays in the space between marriage, love and desire. By convention a wedding means a happy ending and here there are three, but neither Orsino nor Viola, Olivia nor Sebastian know much of each other’s true character and even the identities of the twins Viola and Sebastian have only just been revealed to their spouses to be. These twins gain some financial security but it is unclear what precisely the older Orsino and Olivia find enduringly attractive in the adolescent objects of their love. Meanwhile their hopes and illusions are framed by the fury of Malvolio, tricked into trusting his mistress Olivia loved him and who swears an undefined revenge on all those who mocked him.
With
Pascale Aebischer
Professor of Shakespeare and Early Modern Performance Studies at the University of Exeter
Michael Dobson
Professor of Shakespeare Studies and Director of the Shakespeare Institute at the University of Birmingham
And
Emma Smith
Professor of Shakespeare Studies at Hertford College, University of Oxford
Produced by Simon Tillotson, Victoria Brignell and Luke Mulhall
Reading list:
C.L. Barber, Shakespeare’s Festive Comedies: A Study of Dramatic Form and Its Relation to Social Custom (first published 1959; Princeton University Press, 2011)
Simone Chess, ‘Queer Residue: Boy Actors’ Adult Careers in Early Modern England’ (Journal for Early Modern Cultural Studies 19.4, 2020)
Callan Davies, What is a Playhouse? England at Play, 1520-1620 (Routledge, 2023)
Frances E. Dolan, Twelfth Night: Language and Writing (Bloomsbury, 2014)
John Drakakis (ed.), Alternative Shakespeares (Psychology Press, 2002), especially ‘Disrupting Sexual Difference: Meaning and Gender in the Comedies’ by Catherine Belsey
Bart van Es, Shakespeare’s Comedies: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford University Press, 2016)
Sonya Freeman Loftis, Mardy Philippian and Justin P. Shaw (eds.), Inclusive Shakespeares: Identity, Pedagogy, Performance (Palgrave Macmillan, 2023), especially ‘”I am all the daughters of my father’s house, and all the brothers too”: Genderfluid Potentiality in As You Like It and Twelfth Night’ by Eric Brinkman
Ezra Horbury, ‘Transgender Reassessments of the Cross-Dressed Page in Shakespeare, Philaster, and The Honest Man’s Fortune’ (Shakespeare Quarterly 73, 2022)
Jean Howard, ‘Crossdressing, the theatre, and gender struggle in early modern England’ (Shakespeare Quarterly 39, 1988)
Harry McCarthy, Boy Actors in Early Modern England: Skill and Stagecraft in the Theatre (Cambridge University Press, 2022)
Stephen Orgel, Impersonations: The Performance of Gender in Shakespeare's England (Cambridge University Press, 1996)
William Shakespeare (eds. Michael Dobson and Molly Mahood), Twelfth Night (Penguin, 2005)
William Shakespeare (ed. Keir Elam), Twelfth Night (Arden Shakespeare, 2008)
Emma Smith, This is Shakespeare: How to Read the World's Greatest Playwright (Pelican, 2019)
Victoria Sparey, Shakespeare’s Adolescents: Age, Gender and the Body in Shakespearean Performance and Early Modern Culture (Manchester University Press, 2024)
With
Pascale Aebischer
Professor of Shakespeare and Early Modern Performance Studies at the University of Exeter
Michael Dobson
Professor of Shakespeare Studies and Director of the Shakespeare Institute at the University of Birmingham
And
Emma Smith
Professor of Shakespeare Studies at Hertford College, University of Oxford
Produced by Simon Tillotson, Victoria Brignell and Luke Mulhall
Reading list:
C.L. Barber, Shakespeare’s Festive Comedies: A Study of Dramatic Form and Its Relation to Social Custom (first published 1959; Princeton University Press, 2011)
Simone Chess, ‘Queer Residue: Boy Actors’ Adult Careers in Early Modern England’ (Journal for Early Modern Cultural Studies 19.4, 2020)
Callan Davies, What is a Playhouse? England at Play, 1520-1620 (Routledge, 2023)
Frances E. Dolan, Twelfth Night: Language and Writing (Bloomsbury, 2014)
John Drakakis (ed.), Alternative Shakespeares (Psychology Press, 2002), especially ‘Disrupting Sexual Difference: Meaning and Gender in the Comedies’ by Catherine Belsey
Bart van Es, Shakespeare’s Comedies: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford University Press, 2016)
Sonya Freeman Loftis, Mardy Philippian and Justin P. Shaw (eds.), Inclusive Shakespeares: Identity, Pedagogy, Performance (Palgrave Macmillan, 2023), especially ‘”I am all the daughters of my father’s house, and all the brothers too”: Genderfluid Potentiality in As You Like It and Twelfth Night’ by Eric Brinkman
Ezra Horbury, ‘Transgender Reassessments of the Cross-Dressed Page in Shakespeare, Philaster, and The Honest Man’s Fortune’ (Shakespeare Quarterly 73, 2022)
Jean Howard, ‘Crossdressing, the theatre, and gender struggle in early modern England’ (Shakespeare Quarterly 39, 1988)
Harry McCarthy, Boy Actors in Early Modern England: Skill and Stagecraft in the Theatre (Cambridge University Press, 2022)
Stephen Orgel, Impersonations: The Performance of Gender in Shakespeare's England (Cambridge University Press, 1996)
William Shakespeare (eds. Michael Dobson and Molly Mahood), Twelfth Night (Penguin, 2005)
William Shakespeare (ed. Keir Elam), Twelfth Night (Arden Shakespeare, 2008)
Emma Smith, This is Shakespeare: How to Read the World's Greatest Playwright (Pelican, 2019)
Victoria Sparey, Shakespeare’s Adolescents: Age, Gender and the Body in Shakespearean Performance and Early Modern Culture (Manchester University Press, 2024)