Shakespeare's "Comedy of Errors' in Central Park

If you're going to cut Shakespeare, you'd better use a sharp pair of shears. It helps if you're a consummate craftsman, too.

All theatergoers encounter a butchering of the Bard sooner or later. Some are botch jobs; others are audacious tours de force, like Peter Brook's bold Hamlet (2000), which was cut from four to two hours and ended with the original version's opening line ("Who's there?").

Yet, no matter how clever these edited versions may be, there's always the danger of leaving out the good bits, as the Brits would say.

So more's the reason to admire director Daniel Sullivan's deft dissection of The Comedy of Errors, now providing ebullient entertainment in the Public Theater's production in glorious Central Park. Sullivan knows a slick story when he sees one.

The Comedy of Errors, long considered one of Shakespeare's more clunky, convoluted comedies (as well as his shortest and most farcical), nonetheless boasts a base plot line endowed with stellar sitcom potential"“ namely, two sets of twins suffering from mistaken identity syndrome. Sullivan has capitalized on it, as well as the play's farcical spirit, by cutting extraneous expository material that might detract from the play's essential entertainment value.

Cross-dressing

Shakespeare's original play takes place in ancient Ephesus, where two sets of twins, separated long ago in a shipwreck, find each other again (after many farcical twists and turns too complex to recount). In a few words: The noble-born Antipholus of Ephesus will be reunited with his twin, Antipholus of Syracuse; and their respective servants, Dromio of Ephesus and Dromio of Syracuse, will be reunited, too, after plenty of nonsensical goings-on.

To compound the madcap plot, Sullivan has set the story in the colorful jazz age of the 1930s, where the citizens of Ephesus (now in upstate New York) speak in broad Brooklynese and refer to their foreign visitors as coming from "See-rah-KEW-see."

Sullivan pulls out all the stops that broad farce allows. The stunts include a hilarious puppet show (reenacting the tragic shipwreck that separated the twins), outrageous cross-dressing (a huge actor plays Dromio of Ephesus's wife who mistakenly pursues a bewildered Dromio of Syracuse); food fights, slap sticks, pratfalls, police chases, gun-slinging nuns, you name it.

Final payoff

To top it off, Sullivan has thrown in some spectacular music and dance interludes between the farcical scenes, with eight dazzling dancers providing delightful jitterbugging to a big band beat. The set (a street scene of revolving store fronts) spins, the plot twists, the dancers whirl"“ and the result is 90 minutes of theatrical mayhem of the merriest kind.

Sullivan's ensemble of virtuosic actors features Hamish Linklater and Jesse Tyler Ferguson, each playing both Antipholuses (Antipholi?) and Dromios respectively, as they search for one another in Ephesus. This double casting doubles the fun— until the final scene, where Sullivan pulls another crafty trompe l'oeil. Employing two "stand-ins" with their backs to the audience, Sullivan stages a unification of the two sets of twins that not only provides the play with its final comedic payoff but also its most touching moment.

The Comedy of Errors, whose classical roots trace back to Plautus's Pseudolus, has known other recent incarnations— including the 1938 Rodgers and Hart musical, The Boys from Syracuse, and the 2001 hip-hop musical, The Bomb-itty of Errors. Sullivan's skillful version will shine alongside the others for its sheer exuberance and entertainment value alone.

Helicopters and raccoons

Of course, nothing augments the enjoyment of Shakespeare and the classics more than seeing it live and en plein air. For me, no theater ritual is more rewarding than walking through New York's Central Park in the waning hours of day and taking a seat at the Delacorte Theatre. This three-quarter-in-the-round open-air auditorium faces a thrust stage lined by towering trees that seem to embrace it in their leafy boughs. Above them, the summer sky, and just beyond, the lake, the spires of Belvedere Castle, and the stunning New York skyline.

You arrive at twilight; and when the show starts, you hardly need the stage lights, as the summer sky is still a soft blue at 8 pm. As the show progresses, you watch a sliver of silver moon rising; and gradually, without knowing it, you're engulfed by a dark, sparkling night.

I've seen many stars under those starry skies"“ Natalie Portman entering on a horse (in Chekhov's The Seagull), Anne Hathaway tumbling down a grassy knoll (in Twelfth Night), Meryl Streep dragging her wagon (in Mother Courage) and Al Pacino begging on his knees for justice (in The Merchant of Venice). But ultimately the star that steals the show is Central Park.

Yes, an occasional airplane or helicopter overhead may make an unexpected theatrical entrance. So will the odd raccoon scampering across the stage (disrupting the performance of Hair that I attended, to the surprise of the actors and delight of the audience). And yes, you may get drenched by an unanticipated downpour. But those punctuations only enhance the spontaneity and richness of the theatrical experience.

Go where you will on July Fourth, but you won't find any fireworks brighter than those provided by the classics under the stars.