Theatre in Review: All's Well That Ends Well (Shakespeare in the Park)

So many times, when writing about productions of Shakespeare, we fault the director, saying, in effect, that he or she isn't worthy of our greatest playwright. In the case of the current revival of All's Well That Ends Well, however, I think Shakespeare -- wherever he may be on the astral plain -- owes Daniel Sullivan a debt of gratitude. It's because Sullivan has taken one of the Bard's most notorious "problem" plays and made it seem like a psychologically coherent, and even touching, piece of work.

Plays like All's Well (and Measure for Measure, which begins press previews at the Delacorte this week) are only really "problems" if you insist that Shakespeare penned nothing but masterpieces. If you accept the fact that even he turned out the odd potboiler now and then, it all comes clear. I've always thought that All's Well -- which may not have been staged in Shakespeare's lifetime -- must have been conceived as a vehicle for some particularly fetching boy actor, for it is alone among the author's works in being so thoroughly dominated by the female lead. In fact, you could call it Shakespeare's Lifetime Television Movie, thanks to its depiction of one woman's single-minded pursuit of a young man of-- to say the least -- questionable character.

In fact, what's so striking about All's Well is Shakespeare's utter lack of interest in fleshing out the fraught relationship between Helena, the ultra-determined gentlewoman, and Bertram, the weak-willed Count of Rousillon. They have apparently known each other for years - Bertram's mother, the Countess of Rousillon, became Helena's guardian following her father's death - but the text offers no guidance about their relationship before the play begins. It's never made clear what Helena sees in Bertram; his revulsion is, in contrast, much more understandable, since he is given over to her in marriage by the King of France as a gift for services rendered. (Using the techniques of her late father, a physician, Helena has cured the king of an apparently fatal disease.) Then again, Bertram's way of dealing with this situation is to flee his new wife, running off to war in Italy, where he tries to seduce an innocent young girl. Helena follows him, finally winning him over after subjecting him to a rather tasteless and shocking bedroom deception. Any way you look at it, it's not a pretty story.

Which is why it's all the more remarkable that Sullivan, working with an exceptionally able cast, manages to impose such emotional clarity on the play. It begins with Helena's first appearance at a soirée given by the Countess. While fashionably dressed couples take part in an elegant dance, Helena, dressed in black, sits, quietly sobbing. Ostensibly mourning her father, she is, in fact, reeling from frustration at her inability to get any response from Bertram - as we see when she makes a warm gesture toward him that is all-too-politely received. These are moments of delicate high comedy, establishing Helena as both worthy of our sympathy and maybe just a little bit unbalanced. There are further moments of comic perception in Bertram's entirely nonplussed reaction to being drafted as Helena's spouse, and, when he parts from her, in a kiss that turns surprisingly passionate, suggesting that, in matters of the heart, he may not entirely know his own mind. Sullivan even proves assured in his handling of the play's epic recognition scene, staging it so that Bertram moves through a series of epiphanies, climaxing in an awed regard for Helena's devotion, which bodes well for their future together.

Sullivan is something of a master when it comes to casting, and his choices here prove exceptionally apt. Annie Parisse, severely dressed and coiffed, seizes Helena's exceptional intelligence -- if not her introspection, which seems to hardly exist -- creating a woman who, despite her awareness of the disadvantages at which society has placed her, nevertheless moves toward her goal with quiet determination. If André Holland's Bertram doesn't quite seem worth the effort, the fault is the author's, and at least Holland cuts a handsome figure and speaks the verse with ease and fluency.

In addition, strong support is provided by a number of familiar faces. John Cullum is both the unmistakable voice of moral authority and a fine comic presence as the King of France. When we first meet him, he is clearly wasting away; after Helena treats him, we see him zipping around the stage in a wheelchair with a couple of nurses on his lap. Dakin Matthews is a canny observer of the play's sexual politics as Lefew, an elderly lord. (Dismissing Bertram as a suitor for his daughter, he says, tartly, "I will get me a son-in-law at a fair. I'll none of him.") Tonya Pinkins, looking regal in gray hair, makes an authoritative Countess of Roussillon, who is deeply worried about the fates of her son and her ward. And Reg Rogers is a fine example of vice in action as Parolles, "the gallant militarist," in reality a braggart army camp follower whose forked tongue causes him to become the object of abuse in a plot that makes the conspiracy against Malvolio look like a schoolyard prank.

Given the play's many locations, Scott Pask's setting, a two-level Italianate gallery, is a sensible, flexible concept, and it is lit with superb fluency -- and very little color -- by Peter Kaczorowski. Jane Greenwood's lovely costumes suggest a kind of continental edition of Downton Abbey; as usual, the work is impeccably detailed and flattering to the actors. And, as they have done for years, Acme Sound Partners provide nearly ideal reinforcement for both the actors' voices, and, in this case, Tom Kitt's pleasingly melancholy score.

There's no use pretending that, the day after seeing All's Well That Ends Well you won't start poking holes in the plot and its many questionable turns of event. But my guess is that, while you're watching it, you'll be thoroughly caught up in this eccentric tale of the pursuit of love and war, which Sullivan has made into the education of a cad and the triumph of a woman of virtue. A problem play? Not really. Not here.--David Barbour