The concept of a modern-dress Hamlet has lost something of its shock value; for the setting of his current production, John Gielgud claims only the virtue of unobtrusiveness. The point of it, he says, is to have the play "unencumbered by an elaborate reconstruction of any historical period." The cast appears mostly in "rehearsal clothes"--slacks and sweaters, suits, and in one case, a garish red vest.

The set, too, is quite simple and the lighting rudimentary. There is no ghost--Gielgud speaks his lines while a shadow plays on the curtain. This is Hamlet pared to the bone, without "theatricality."

It is an effective production, effective largely because Gielgud never makes fetishes out of his innovations. He puts costumes on his actors when their absence might be confusing--the priest who buries Ophelia is surpliced and Osric carries his elaborate hat. The "play within the play" is performed in costume. Hamlet sports a jersey and trousers, if not a cloak, of "inky black."

The modern costumes can be as distracting as those of any period. Most of the time, however, the setting creates the impression Gielgud wanted to make: that of an unencumbered stage on which the actors are free to put together an unusual series of character portraits. Under Gielgud's direction some of the familiar roles take on new aspects.

* John Callum's Laertes is simply a stupid, shallow young man. Claudius slaps down the rebellion that Laertes leads to the palace and lectures him like a boy, and the depth of Ophelia's passion at her father's death shows up his foolishness. He stabs Hamlet not as a desperate act on the part of an honorable man, but as the venal act of a fool. The textual validity of the interpretation is somewhat questionable; Hamlet, after all, thinks of Laertes as a "very noble youth." Callum, however, makes a consistent and plausible character.

* Linda Marsh's Ophelia undergoes a miraculous transformation midway through the play. During most of the first act she is positively embarrassing, her diction sloppy and her affected gestures worse. But with the "mad scene," her acting undergoes as sharp a transformation as her appearance. She comes onstage with eyes bloodshot, voice quavering and she throws herself upon Horatio, unbuttoning her blouse, pulling up her skirt, then writhing on the stage she gives vent to the sexual impulses her father had ordered her to chain up. It is a powerful job.

* Polonius, as Hume Cronyn sees him, is a buffoon, who turns most of his scenes with Hamlet into slapstick comedy. Cronyn wrings from the part all the humor that is there and a good deal, I think, that is not. He is Polonius from Hamlet's point of view, a "tedious old fool," without a trace of the skilled counselor who had been invaluable to Denmark.

Clement Fowler and William Redfield made me understand for the first time how Hamlet can without any concern order Rosencrantz and Guildenstern killed. They are ingratiating, flattering, effeminate, but vicious; when Hamlet kills Polonius and leaves himself exposed, they turn on him almost snarling as they order him before the king.

Richard Burton's Hamlet is an unusual one. There is little of the melancholic in him; in fact, the keynote of his portrayal is almost unbounded energy. He is at his best when Hamlet is near distraction, especially in the almost impossible scene after the ghost has left him alone on the stage. As Marcellus and Horatio enter they come upon a Hamlet whose "wild and whirling words" are no more disordered than his mind. He rushes violently about the stage, his comrades trailing after him. When the voice from the cellerage cries "Swear," Burton breaks into an exultant cackle--almost a giggle--as he recognizes that supernatural forces are going to help him prevent the witnesses from talking. The familiarities Hamlet shouts toward the ghost seem to fit into the scheme of things.

The same violent mood serves him well later when he emits a shriek of triumph after the play scene, when he offers more-than-filial embraces to his mother, and when he mimics the affected posturing of Rosencrantz in the recorder scene.

There is, however, another side, a quieter, more relaxed side, to Burton's Hamlet. This is the gentlemanly prince, out for a walk with Horatio, who comes across a gravedigger and pauses to discuss the shortness of life; this, too, is the musing, reflective Hamlet who recites the "To be or not to be" soliloquy almost without a change of tone, almost without a gesture. Burton's Hamlet begins his speech in a reverie, and remains in it until Ophelia interrupts him.

There are small things wrong with Burton's performance. He gets off to a rather slow start with the council scene, he rushes his advice to the players, his dueling, considering the number of times he has played the role, is remarkably unprofessional. But this is mere carping at a fascinating performance. As with the rest of this Hamlet, the good far outweighs the bad; and perhaps the best thing about the production is the rediscovery that Burton is a fine, fine actor and not merely whats her name's husband.