[In the following review of Mark Wing-Davey's 2003 Delacorte Theater staging of Henry V in New York's Central Park, Sommers lauds Liev Schreiber's portrayal of Henry V as a “ceaseless pleasure to observe” but finds the production overall to be overly elaborate.]

Director Mark Wing-Davey's outdoor staging of Henry V suggests a classic car in perfect running condition that's been marred by a hideous paint job.

Fortunately, that splendid actor Liev Schreiber is firmly at the wheel as Henry. Thanks to his true and exciting performance, the over-elaborate production, which opened last night at the Delacorte Theater in Central Park, sticks to the course that Shakespeare mapped out. As a reminder: Henry V is the continuation of the Prince Hal saga from the Henry IV play series. Formerly a playboy, Henry improbably shapes up when he inherits the throne. To solidify his power base, Henry makes war on France and with a small army miraculously achieves victory.

A British director who has done well by challenging works like The Lights and The Skriker, Wing-Davey tries a contemporary spin on Shakespeare.

Schreiber's Henry makes his initial entrance wearing a George W. Bush Jr.-like blue suit. The “once more into the breach” siege scene turns into a photo op. When Henry visits his soldiers before the battle of Agincourt, a documentary crew follows. In the aftermath of peace, a chubby actor playing the queen of France is dressed as Barbara Bush.

Get the drift? Sure, parallels can be drawn, although the director depicts the French as foolish fops rather than as Iraqis. Whatever one's opinion of the Bush dynasty, however, Shakespeare's drama—still potent—more or less views Henry as a noble guy and Schreiber portrays him that way.

With his watchful air, glittering black eyes and rat-like features, Schreiber looks more like a villain than a hero (remember his terrific Iago a few years back?), so for a while one suspects that his Henry may be a manipulative power monger.

Sticking to Shakespeare, Schreiber keeps the king a valiant yet very human individual, weak-kneed with fear on the eve of Agincourt, tearfully rising to the occasion of the St. Crispin's Day speech and fervent in his thanks to God for his unexpected victory. Once Henry's war is won, Schreiber takes a subtly humorous angle when he sets about wooing a French princess.

Schreiber's sincere, well-spoken performance is a ceaseless pleasure to observe and he anchors the drama completely.

That's good news for viewers, because otherwise Wing-Davey's sprawling staging is cluttered with directorial bric-a-brac, including: A hundred gilt bamboo chairs moving every which way. Rainstorms. Huge iconic images. A pool sequence. A nude shower scene for the princess. Actors saddled as horses. A head-scratcher prologue involving Queen Elizabeth I. Oh, and Bronson Pinchot offers a counterfeit look-at-me-I'm-a-comedian turn as the hotshot soldier Pistol, complete with thick outer-borough accents.

Aside from Schreiber, most of the acting company merely gets lost amid the hubbub. Fortunately, the copper-bottomed play survives such a busy, distracting approach, which rather looks like Wing-Davey's silent scream that he desperately wants to direct a musical someday. Hey, maybe he can use all of those chairs for “Grand Hotel.”