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David Hou

Christopher Plummer as Prospero and Julyana Soelistyo as Ariel in "The Tempest," playing at Stratford through Sept. 12.

In addition, the three Shakespeares are staged with different visual versions of modified Elizabethan. "The Tempest" is the closest to what one imagines of Shakespeare's own practice, albeit with signature differences such as a miniature, electric blue Ariel. "The Winter's Tale" is chastened Elizabethan, its robes in Sicilia perhaps an allusion to something classical, but its rural festivities in Bohemia as colorful and exotic as Shakespeare could have wished.

"The Taming of the Shrew" is pure showbiz, which is appropriate for a show all about showbiz. In the frame story, the actors are dressed as mid-20th century actors, expressing their own workaday (or flamboyant) selves. But the "Shrew" they present is all extravagance, Shakespeare by Shubert with more than a soupcon of "Alice in Wonderland" as designed by Peter Max for the Ice Capades.

Which leaves "As You Like It" to express the eternal desire to take Shakespeare to a different place. Here, it's the mind of the 20th-century surrealist, Magritte. A jaunty, pop surrealism provides imaginative decor, superb in its simplest contrast between court and country, as when a bowler-hatted Jaques emerges quizzically from a forest pool (a painted stage floor), but sometimes a bit heavy-handed, as when exiled courtiers break out into country revels.

These four don't provide a complete survey of possible Shakespeare stage design, of course. And it works out that I didn't get to see the traditional, picture frame Arden Theatre at all, reserved this year for non-Shakespeare wares. The only Shakespeare I missed was "The Two Gentlemen of Verona" at the postage stamp Studio Theatre, usually reserved for more modern shows.

Director Marti Maraden's vision is as severe as the rigorous thrust stage, more like a bowling alley than a standard thrust, with the audience banked steeply on three sides. But "Winter's Tale" would have to be severe, with its strict, no-nonsense two-part structure: Bitter tragedy of jealous rage to start, all frosty winter, followed by the redemptive springtime of rural festivity, in which the lost are found, psychotic rage is forgiven and the dead come back to life.

That rage is so sudden it justifies itself by its own extremity ("if I believe such an awful thing, it must be true"). I've never seen the parallels so striking: As divided here, each half starts with a suspicious, vengeful king. But the second half has Perdita, a charming teenage goddess of spring, the new generation forgiving the old.

The ultimate test is whether we allow such forgiveness after the violence of part one. The warmth of part two is so enveloping that for once I didn't mind the self-important clown, Autolycus. "It is required that you do awake your faith," we are told. We do.

Mr. Plummer aside, isn't this the attraction that would draw you most strongly to Stratford, the conjunction of the Bard and the great composer-lyricist in his late blooming? Surely "Kiss Me, Kate" is one of the five great American musical comedies, a perfect blend of witty and sweet.

But director John Doyle undercuts that wit by allowing the actors too much exaggeration, as though playing to an audience unused to the theater, not the canny Stratford crowd. Too often Mr. Porter's verbal wit is submerged in farce. As a result, Shakespeare gets his laughs more often than Mr. Porter, especially given the explosion-in-a-paint-factory of David Farley's costumes.

But the musical's structure takes over as Mr. Porter's frame story of feuding actors gradually merges with Shakespeare's feuding lovers. And some of the great numbers are great indeed: "Always True to You in My Fashion" is a delight of showstopping dance and sexy flirtation, and my favorite Shakespeare spin-off of all time, "Brush Up Your Shakespeare," gets canny treatment.

There's even a sweet diminuendo finale, a melancholy end-of-run feeling any actor will recognize.

Given all the flashy effects of set, costume and aesthetic interpretation, the wonder is that the play comes through with its usual strength. The surrealist decor tells us this is the 1930s, so we expect the Nazi-like bad guys, with lots of red, black and imperial double eagles. They give way to 1930s modern, with plastic loungers at poolside. A big clock spins and the seasons advance. The winter of usurpation gives way to the spring and summer of the Forest of Arden, where love has leisure to flower.

That green apple beloved of Max Ernst becomes a motif, along with bowler and furled umbrella. But director Des McAnuff (festival artistic director) sees the seriousness of the play in its double victory over dictatorship and time (which can never be fully vanquished). Here, the good old Adam actually dies -- we see his grave -- suggesting every Eden must end. This Eden is no fantasy. There's sex (after one grapple, Phoebe pulls out a cigarette). I'm less impressed with all the foresters with stag heads and such, which seems to be overkill.

But the 1930s provides a fitting metaphor of hopeful futurity at war with the dark. Brent Carver's Jaques, Andrea Runge's Rosalind and Paul Nolan's Orlando never lose control of the play, no matter how flashy the visual design, and its four concluding marriages still suggest not fantasy but the real range of human possibility.

Mr. Plummer is certainly this year's great star draw, and deservedly so, based on the preview I saw of "The Tempest." His take on Prospero, who can easily become the vehicle for misterioso thundering, is as simple and underplayed as only a master actor would dare. And that blue Ariel of Julyana Soelistyo adds a flash of the magic to supplement Prospero's strength.

But I saw "The Tempest" early in previews, so it would break the critic's bond to review it in full, even though it has now been open for several weeks. Suffice it to say that Mr. Plummer alone would be reason for a return visit, let alone a first one.

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