JOAN MARCUS A lion in winter: Christopher Plummer enhances his stature in the theater history books with his “Lear.”

NEW YORK — The hottest ticket in town is a 400-year-old play.

On a recent Sunday night, as your faithful theater correspondent made his way across the plaza of Lincoln Center to the Vivian Beaumont Theatre, a man in a trench coat stood in the cold drizzle, his graying hair matted to his forehead, with cash in hand. He hoped that somebody — anybody — was returning an unused ticket.

Why all the hubbub? Because Christopher Plummer, the 76-year-old star of stage and film, is delivering a career-defining performance as Lear, Shakespeare's tragically flawed king from Britain's mythological past. It's as if the stage veteran were seeking redemption for his more unfortunate choices of film and television roles (“Dracula 2000,” “Star Trek VI”).

“King Lear” has been placed on a pedestal by certain scholars who view the tragedy as the pinnacle of Shakespeare's art. Viewing it as a piece of literature, they find self-evident meaning in a play whose central character in his vanity commits an irreparable blunder and then pays the ultimate price. Lear is gradually reduced through the consequences of his own hubris to an abject state of misery and with it gains a degree of self-knowledge that is too little and too late.

The question, of course, is whether Americans in 2004 can recognize in this production the play's universal elements and apply them to their own lives. We do not live in an age of kings, though kingly arrogance can certainly be observed in our recent corporate scandals. Shakespeare gave us a fable full of suffering, brutality, deceit and folly as Lear endures disillusionment, heartbreak and madness on his journey of self-discovery.

Under Jonathan Miller's direction there are times when the poetry soars — and others when it seems little more than a poetic horror show. And in a play that cuts among locations like a film script, the awkward plot mechanics are exposed for all to see. You can almost hear the grinding of gears as the narrative lurches along.

Plummer, a Canadian, took on the monumental part two years ago at the Stratford Festival of Canada, and many of his colleagues from that “Lear” have accompanied him to New York.

All one can say is that, yes, he delivers what was expected — a bravura performance, a singular mix of nuance and explosive theatricality that imposes indelible images and auditory impressions on the viewers' brain.

Yet, Plummer's performance is not part of an integrated whole. He is the sun surrounded by greater and lesser planets. The rest of the cast, skilled actors though they may be, inevitably pale in the shadows just beyond the circle of heat generated by Plummer.

Geraint Wyn Davies renders Edmund a charismatic villain who enjoys his villainy and invests him with a sense of ironic self-awareness. And Barry MacGregor's Fool — Lear's conscience — is shrewdly conceived and executed with style.

On the other hand, Lear's villainous daughters, Goneril (Domini Blythe) and Regan (Lucy Peacock), are presented as such comical connivers that their ultimate fates have little impact. Brent Carver's Edgar is hopelessly bland and remains virtually unchanged, whether sane or mad, while Claire Jullien as the virtuous Cordelia makes a slight impression at best.

These inferior performances are not insignificant problems. When Edmund and Edgar duel we can only regret that the better actor dies. And when Lear weeps over the corpse of his beloved Cordelia, we wonder how so bland a presence as this young woman with indifferent diction could inspire such sorrow.

Ralph Funicello's set is a spare two-level affair, bereft of scenery and most props, as if he's evoking the stage of the Globe. In one way it serves the play well, showcasing the writing rather than elaborate stagecraft; on the other hand, it renders a seamless succession of scenes virtually impossible. The only way to change scenes is for one group of actors to parade off stage as another moves on.

Costume designer Clare Mitchell, no doubt with Miller's approval, has pushed the play forward to the age of Oliver Cromwell, with lots of Puritan collars and men occasionally wielding blunderbusses. The rationale for this choice isn't clear.

Now that I've ticked off my complaints and committed academic blasphemy by daring to question the play's greatness, I have to say that it was still worth the effort. Plummer may be something of a ham, but rarely have audiences seen showboating of this caliber. His performance is so galvanizing that viewers will become restless during a lengthy stretch in the latter part of the play when Lear is offstage. And why not? They paid to see a streaking comet coming to the end of its trajectory. When Plummer is onstage you get fireworks.

Ultimately, to see this “Lear” was to witness a bit of history. After the final fadeout and the curtain call began, the audience rose as one to reward Plummer for his herculean effort. Shouts of “Bravo!” rang through the theater. And as theatergoers filed out, no doubt many found themselves reflecting on mortality and human frailty, which, after all, is the point of any serious play.