[In the following review, Stearns assesses the production of Twelfth Night directed by Nicholas Hytner, which featured Helen Hunt as Viola. Stearns describes the production as a whole as lavish but not overdone, and comments that Hunt's performance was sincere and strong but failed to fully reveal the subtextual potential of the role.]

In Broadway shorthand, the summer's hot ticket is “the Helen Hunt Twelfth Night.”

That's how much theatergoers are anticipating the Oscar-winning actress' rare stage appearance. But truth be told, Lincoln Center's production (* * * out of four) of Shakespeare's misbegotten-love comedy is so sumptuously produced and provocatively cast that she could phone in her performance and no one would be terribly upset.

After so much Shakespeare that's been either low-budget or high-concept (a nice word for gimmicky), it's refreshing that this staging by Nicholas Hytner (The Madness of King George, Broadway's Carousel) treats Shakespeare's comedy with the kind of lavish but well-considered theatricality he delivered in Miss Saigon. Of course, that approach means a bit of vulgarity and some uneven casting—but love it or hate it, this is a major revival that simply must be seen.

Taking a cue from Shakespeare's freewheeling mixture of time, place and style, the production, which opened Thursday and runs through Aug. 30, conjures the imaginary kingdom of Illyria with a mixture of period flavors: Renaissance Italy dominates, though there are hints of the Middle East in the luxurious rugs and lily-strewn pools.

There are encroachments from the 20th century, too, but somehow they never seem jarringly postmodern. These touches mostly arise from interpretation rather than theatrical conceit: If a character walks on in a bow tie, it's a comment on his personality, not just a visual joke.

Water is a major metaphor in Bob Crowley's picturesque set, which is sort of a wading pool with platforms. Much like the forest in A Midsummer Night's Dream, the water cleanses, refreshes and transforms characters while driving the plot. After Viola survives the shipwreck that separates her from her brother, she emerges from a dream-like haze of ocean spray: It's a breathtaking effect, and it underscores that the event was a life-changing one—the kind of experience that might prompt bold decisions. Like, say, a woman's disguising herself as a man.

If it's all marvelously cinematic, too many performances have a kind of cinematic restraint. Much of the Act I setup is handled dryly. Even the great character actor Philip Bosco is uncharacteristically buttoned up, playing Malvolio's romantic disappointment more for tragedy than comedy. But most of the cast members blossom at some point, particularly Brian Murray as the sodden Toby Belch and David Patrick Kelly as an unusually scruffy, outspoken court jester.

Hunt (Viola) stays surprisingly earthbound. Though her interpretive choices are solid and sincerely executed, she doesn't dig deeply enough into the subtextual possibilities of a character who passes herself off as a man throughout much of the play. As the countess who mistakenly loves her, Kyra Sedgwick (Olivia) goes to such comic extremes that you'd never know she's an aristocrat. With his pantherlike moves, Paul Rudd makes his imposing Duke a man of unstoppable sexual desires, which lets him dominate a play that keeps him offstage for long periods.

In fact, the production seems so dedicated to his physical enshrinement (was there an executive order that his chest never be covered?) that he's a likely candidate for People magazine's “Sexiest Man Alive” moniker. Thank goodness he can also act.