STRATFORD, CONN.--At last Shakespeare's Richard II seems to be coming into its own. In recent years it has increasingly become a favorite subject for critics, a cherished assignment in college drama courses, and no longer the rarity in performance that it used to be.

This is all to the good, because the play, though coming early in Shakespeare's career (probably 1595), is a masterpiece. It is only fair to add, however, that it owes an obviously large debt to Marlowe's magnificent Edward II, which was written two or three years earlier and which Richard II resembles in theme, structure, and numerous details. Looking in the other direction, one can say that, without the experience of fashioning here his first great tragic protagonist, Shakespeare would not have been able to create Hamlet, a closely related personality.

Despite the attention that Richard II has recently elicited, it is nonetheless true--and regrettable--that the work still lags in popularity far behind the vastly inferior Richard III (slightly earlier) and Romeo and Juliet (of about the same time).

The playwright, who had written one historical tetralogy (the three Henry VI plays and Richard III), was here embarking on another, which would continue with 1 and 2 Henry IV and Henry V. Although it lacks the artistic unity of, say, Wagner's Ring tetralogy, it does among other things constitute a corporate course in the true art of monarchical government. In Richard II Shakespeare shows us a properly titled divine-right king who lacks the qualities of leadership. In the pair of Henry IV plays we see a gifted leader plagued by his lack of legitimate title. Finally, in Henry V Shakespeare gives us his paragon, a king in which title and talent are triumphantly twinned.

In his first installment, Shakespeare sticks closely to business. There are in Richard II no scenes of comic relief such as adorn the three succeeding installments. Here the dramatist concentrates on four main phases: Richard's regnal recklessness: his cousin Bolingbroke's victorious invasion to retrieve his rightful property; Richard's voluntary abdication; and Bolingbroke's assured assumption of the throne as Henry IV.

In terms of character, however, Shakespeare's interest--and ours--centers on Richard himself, who emerges as a portrait of fantastic subtlety and complexity. Richard is bright, sensitive, and articulate; he is also prodigal, self-indulgent, and histrionic. The actual coronation of the historical Richard was unprecedented in pomp and splendor and set the pace for the king's 22-year reign. As Shakespeare limns him, Richard is, further, an ideal case study of what modern psychiatry knows as a manic-depressive.

The role lends itself, then, to vertiginous virtuosity and variety of interpretation--as exemplified in recent decades by the performances of John Gielgud, Maurice Evans, Michael Redgrave, Paul Scofield, Alec Guinness, John Neville, and David Warner.

Add to these names now that of Donald Madden, to whom the American Shakespeare Festival has entrusted the part in its opening production of the season. Like half of the troupe this year, Madden is a newcomer to the Festival; and his debut performance here is utterly fascinating every moment he is on stage--and this despite my feeling that he has been essentially misguided by director Michael Kahn in much of the play.

No-one can fault the stunning effect of Madden's first entrance. In the throne room the courtiers have gathered, all garbed in Ray Diffen's dark colors. Into this assembly descends the King via a steep stage-right staircase. He has long blond hair, a blond beard, and is dressed entirely in blinding white, with silver R's embroidered on his cape. To top it off, inside the gold crown on his head he holds a white kitten.

Once on the throne, while the "wrath-kindled" Bolingbroke and Mowbray hurl their serious charges and countercharges, Richard, slouching with one leg over the throne arm, sensuously and languidly caresses the kitten in his lap. Though the two opposing dukes have most of the lines in this scene. Madden visually tells us more about Richard than could a hundred lines.

At the dukes appointed trial-by-combat, Richard appears high on Ed Wittstein's imposing baldaquinesque two-story structure, trimmed with heavily bordered stained-glass panels reminiscent of Raoul Dufy. The King is now clad in gold with white boots, and there are seven colorful flagbearers in position. It is a fine touch in this highly ritualistic play that the King and the Lord Marshal (penetratingly projected by Robert Lumish) actually sing some of their lines here as though running through a formulaic and time-honored chant. An onstage sidedrummer accompanies the King's staircase descent and ascent.

All of this is grandly theatrical. Likewise, in Richard's last scene with old John of Gaunt, the King, instead of moving a few steps straight to his uncle, indulges himself in the histrionic flourish of making an end-run around three or four other people to reach the same spot--always the king-as-actor. When Gaunt dies, the others mournfully kneel and some cross themselves. But Richard, without the slightest twinge of remorse, effects a lightning change of mood, and obscenely comments, "So much for that. Now for our Irish wars." Announcing his confiscation of all Gaunt's property, rightfully belonging to Boling-broke, he toys with a dagger, whangs it into a chair, and can hardly wait to push off for Ireland. This acting is hair-raising in its impact.

It is when the King returns to England that the director and Madden have gone astray. I said above that the role admits of great latitude in performance. One thing, though, is sure: Richard suffers, but he always revels in his suffering. He is a masochist. He feels, he intentionally embroiders on his feelings, and he can at the same time even objectively observe himself from outside. He is always conscious of his audience--even when the audience is just himself. He undergoes emotions, but can control and channel them as he sees fit. Shakespeare has made Richard the purveyor of artificial and ear-tickling poetry, full of wonderful imagery. In fact, Richard's speeches tend to be arias and ariosos. Never was Shakespeare more intent on creating verbal music (and indeed it is no accident that, except for King John, Richard II is his only play without a single line of prose).

But Kahn and Madden have agreed to minimize or obliterate the control, the masochism, the supermusicality. Instead Madden plays it "straight," purely on the experiential level; what he feels he voices without modification. This approach is indicated most clearly by the fact that, at moments of tension and anxiety, Richard's speech is afflicted by a slight stammering over sibilants and gutturals. There are even traces of the Maurice Evans tremolo, and at one point Madden pushes his voice to a gargly fortissimo. Later he even seems to suffer a chest spasm or an asthma attack.

The Deposition Scene, which is the high point of the play (and was censored for political reasons until 1608), ought to be the supreme example of Richard's artistic management, the culmiation of a life-long series of shows. It is he who arranged it, he who has staged it, and he who stars in it. But Madden, now garbed in gray, tells Bolingbroke, "Here, cousin, seize the crown," and beckons with a finger. On yielding up the crown and sceptre, Richard's hands tremble and his voice stutters. In short, Richard the Actor has failed; and this is unacceptable. Still, Madden does strike straight to the heart in his outcry, "Mine eyes are full of tears; I cannot see."

In his death scene in an almost totally dark dungeon, Madden's Richard does manage to contrive a controlled theatrical exit by assuming a Cruci-fixion posture against the bars of his confines as he breathes his last.