It’s summer, and the wine estate of Villa Vignamaggio is filled with lovely, happy people in jaunty vests and simple white dresses, nibbling on grapes, splayed among the dappled shadows of waxy olive trees, drinking from metal flagons sparkling in the Florentine sun, listening as Shakespeare’s unadulterated wit and poetry dances from the mouth of Beatrice (a vibrant Emma Thompson). Suddenly, a message comes — the Prince (Denzel Washington, in perhaps his best role playing a buoyant hero) and his entourage are returning victorious from some battle. This means bawdy celebration and entertainment for everyone, as the young Hero (Kate Beckinsale) is likely to see her darling shmoopie-pants Claudio (Robert Sean Leonard, former floppy-haired pretty boy most recently of “House.”)

Everyone runs gleefully whooping into the sundry and temperate baths scattered about the estate to scrub and emerge rosy-cheeked and ready for more wine and festivities — and a little bit of vicious, high-brow flirt-fighting between Beatrice (who thinks men are liars and none deserve her) and her well matched nemesis, Benedick (Kenneth Branagh, who also skillfully directs), who thinks women are a low pursuit compared to the mutual fight of noble warriors — and recognizes that Beatrice “speaks poniards, and every word stabs.” The whole scenario may seem untouchably posh — and Hero’s virginity is a good part of the plot — but the whole thing is about the opposite of prim. And my goodness, it’s upliftingly beautiful just to look at, especially the ending scene, a single four-minute shot that floats from the interior of the Villa, looking up into a floating confetti of flowers, into the outer gardens as wedding guests dance and celebrate, and finally into the air.

In fact, Shakespeare’s 400-year-old comedy “Much Ado About Nothing” (1993, rated PG-13) — and its delicious plot in which a plot to destroy Hero’s honor is uncovered by a leering, filthy, golden-hearted Dogberry (Michael Keaton, who has too few scenes) and the two anti-romantics get their lovey dovey comeuppance — would be entirely joyous were it not for the arrival of one scene-sucking couple-splitting low-down villain, Don John, played by the petulant, seemingly motive-less Keanu Reaves, who would seem perpetually on the verge of throwing a tantrum if he didn’t have the fetid energy of a mostly rotted banana. (And it’s Reeves we have to see being morose and oiled down in leather pants! Why couldn’t we have seen Branagh in such a state!) Look, Shakespeare’s words are without peer, but the acting makes that obvious and palatable to a mass audience even when the lines come almost too fast to catch. Even with vibrant and hilarious and cutting language, an audience hearing the words instantly — and not poring over them at leisure — requires actors who emote, and emote well. Not over the top silent film gasping and grimacing, but expressions and body language to clue us in when a line is said sarcastically, or as a double entendre, or as pure fancy or sudden deep sincerity or revelation. Their depth can be imagined in one’s head, but its home is on a stage, or on the screen, to fill up all dimensions.

This is why Shakespeare is the master: Almost every subsequent writer who’s attempted to pen a vibrant sparring match between could-be lovers has succeeded only in producing flat, low-grade bitchiness, about as amusing as watching your parents get in an eggnog-fueled argument before announcing a divorce at Thanksgiving. We get things like “Sex and the City” and “Bridesmaids” and “Away We Go,” which are supposed to show sizzle and friction and sexiness, and instead reek of thoughtless sadness and shallow pain. Shakespeare’s writing can be fancy, but if that were all it had going for it, it would be as lame as the latest filler schlock on the CW. Like Dickens in his novels or Chaplin in his films, there’s an understanding of how people are, in every possible way, that underlies all of it and brings old stories to life in a way that transcends time and silly knee-high boots in the summer and brass buttons and acoustic circular scampering to the sounds of “hey nonny nonny.” In 400 years, tales of the 21st century will look dreadfully dull and old-fashioned, with no person living who can bring them back to life and all our dutifully recorded scrapbooks, social media timelines, blogs and digital photos truly “much ado about nothing,” but I’m certain crowds will still cheer readily and loudly for Shakespeare.

Ashley O’Dell reviews movies that aren’t in the theater anymore. She lives in North Hollywood, near the In-N-Out Burger.