The Comedy of Errors, with its roots in Plautus and Goldoni, is not about much — unless you want to ponder the nature and fragility of identity while watching Airaldi charge like a donkey or Coen take an ice-cream cone in the face. (And I defy the staunchest existentialist to do so while Coen is describing in transfixed terror the mammoth kitchen wench who has tried to ensnare him in her greasy embrace.) But the production is as stylish as it is silly, starting off with a soigné frolic featuring dancing, dinner jackets, and an haute lass who takes to the boardwalk with an accompanying greyhound, the two apparently locked in a sleekness contest. The lady and the dog make regular appearances as part of a syncopated screwball pageant that separates Shakespeare's acts and features, among other flourishes, boogieing bootleggers, nuns on bikes, and a Latin beat. This Comedy of Errors may be the Bard at the point of Shakespeare in Love's Romeo andEthel, the Pirate's Daughter. But taking it in on a balmy eve is no mistake.
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