[In the following review, Klein asserts the essential failure of director Bonnie J. Monte's comic staging of Antony and Cleopatra at the 2000 New Jersey Shakespeare Festival, noting its lack of drive and passion.]

In April this year, when Shakespeare turned 436, words of reflection and awe poured forth.

In consideration of the New Jersey Shakespeare Festival's current staging of Antony and Cleopatra here, it is useful to mull the comment by Adrian Noble about “the challenge of bringing his words to life.”

After seeing Bonnie J. Monte's staging of what may be Shakespeare's most unplayable play, one cannot help wondering about the sheer monumentality of the task. In a program note, Ms. Monte explains her calling to have a go at this daunting work. But seeing is not believing. One comes away still wondering—not what was she thinking, but what was she doing?

Even though Antony and Cleopatra is categorized as a tragedy, it really isn't. It is neither a history nor a comedy, and that covers the three varieties of Shakespeare, though like his own Cleopatra, he had infinite ones. Of course, one could argue the historical possibility and when it doesn't work, the play, as in unforeseen moments here, teters precariously on the comical. Let us not mention an unmentionable slobbering slave.

A panoramic “leaping giant,” in the critic Kenneth Tynan's words, the play is unclassifiable, but astonishingly seamless. Ms. Monte's production slogs on, though her take on the middle-aged lovers of the title as the two greatest celebrities of their time is rife with resonance for our time.

Cleopatra is “a lass unparallel'd” who is “cunning past man's thought.” Tamara Tunie's thoroughly modern, trendy allure as a character who could rightfully be called Cleo is at odds with Ms. Monte's essentially classical interpretation, no matter the spare, steely production design, its slanted pillars and satiny, leathery costumes.

That the classically pure line of the shimmering gowns Ms. Tunie models so stunningly in the first act contrast startlingly with her second act dominatrix look may be telling us something. So may the light metal aura of a generic production and beat-beat-beat of the tom-toms in Richard Dionne's jungle-like sound design.

And Robert Cuccioli's Mark Antony appears to be just another one of Cleo's guys, this one as subject to a snit and a tantrum as she is. The sense of bravura that has informed Mr. Cuccioli's musical theater displays, Jekyll and Hyde mostly, is strangely subdued. Conceptually, that is as it should be. Antony gets top billing, but his purpose is to support the quintessential star. Still, Antony—all right, call him Tony—must impart the once-upon-a-time glory of a real has-been, “the noble ruin of her magic.” No way is that happening here.

Even if the performances fail—though these are more solo turns than dramatic interpretations—the sizzle of great lovers heats the play. Whatever they feel, be it real love, sheer lust, just plain narcissistic wallowing or last-ditch opportunism, is valid; there are no rules for what such titanically theatrical figures symbolize. But it is imperative to sense an established passion that precedes their entrances. From then, it's their last “gaudy night.” Even before Ms. Tunie and Mr. Cuccioli kiss, and well before each one of them dies, the omen is clear. This show is over before it's over.