Elizabeth I and Dudley, in one of those scullery romances bustling with an indifferent understanding of the original. Here the gusty Queen is all moonlit alabaster -- nibbling at food (hah), continually torn by a Robert Dudley-inspired dilemma of passion of the but-I-must-think-of-England variety. The years come and go; Dudley's Amy has her pitch down the stairs (no dwelling on this); the Queen bends her rapier mind to affairs of state (""We must export. . . . Our dried fish is liked abroad,"" ventures Cecil. ""Then export that,"" said his Queen); and sports with Dudley -- but only up-to and never including. Ruff and nonsense.