Geva Theatre's "The Ladies Man" has nothing to do with Leon Phelps, the fictitious sex therapist and Courvoisier aficionado portrayed by Tim Meadows on "Saturday Night Live" in the mid-90's. You'd think that in 2009 you wouldn't need to point that out, but every person under the age of 40 that I discussed the play with immediately assumed it concerned the lisping radio host. No, Geva's "Ladies Man" is an English translation of Georges Feydeau's 1889 "Tailleur pour Dames" ("The Ladies' Dressmaker," a better title, even if its meaning is obscure until later in the show). It is a classic French farce, and by Act II it becomes a brilliant example of the strengths of the art form. But that's only if you can make it that far, since Act I is a hell of a slog.

"The Ladies Man" concerns Dr. Hercule Molineaux, an older Parisian physician married to a chipper younger woman. Molineaux suffers from a mental block that has left him unable to, well, play doctor with his beloved wife, but he's too ashamed to admit his problem. When he doesn't come home one evening, his wife flies into hysterics, assuming that he's having an affair or is out at one of Paris's dens of inequity. She's half right, and rather than admit to her the truth, Molineaux claims that he spent the evening tending to a patient knocking on death's door. When that patient ends up bursting through his door, totally healthy save for a raging speech impediment, things quickly spin out of control. Before long the story involves a Prussian soldier, his sexually compulsive wife, a ball-busting mother-in-law, horny servants, a dress shop that's more fun for men than women, a long-lost love, and mistaken identities for just about every member of the cast.

With all that going on - and considering it's a comedy - you'd think that the play would be a frothy romp. You'd be wrong, at least when it comes to the first act. All those subplots and misunderstandings require set-up, and the exposition becomes more tedious than usual, especially due to the playwright's over-reliance on a specific farcical device, the repetition of certain phrases. When the dialogue is snappy, this can pay big dividends. But a line about how Dr. Molineaux will never visit the Moulin Rouge again, or the address of a dress shop, are not funny no matter how many times they're repeated. And they are repeated a lot, along with several other flat lines. It might have worked better in Feydeau's day, but to a modern audience it generally lands with a thud.

Things pick up a bit with the introduction of Molineaux's mother-in-law, a real battleaxe who enters with a throaty wheeze and quickly lives up to her nickname, Medusa. She sets up Molineaux for several delicious barbs, and creates some much-needed spark and momentum. That, coupled with the hilarious mistranslated posturing by Prussian soldier Gustav Aubin, carries the play into Act II.

And man, Act II is gold. The scene shifts from Molineaux's office-apartment to an abandoned dressmaker's shop, where all of the characters collide literally and figuratively. Things quickly devolve into broad physical comedy, bawdy double-entendres, a series of increasingly bizarre misunderstandings, over-the-top reactions, and a madcap chase sequence that features every one of the set's five doors (and a secret turntable) being put to brilliant use. It's a fantastic sequence that's tightly directed and choreographed, expertly acted, and features all of the hallmarks of a great farce.

As Dr. Molineaux, Max Robinson is immediately believable with his rumpled appearance and exasperated delivery. And even though he's responsible for almost all of the problems in his life, the character remains somehow likable. He's especially great when pretending to be Monsieur Moonchan, the Dressmaker Man, flitting about the stage, but still somehow retaining the Dr. Molineaux underneath.

The rest of the cast is also excellent, with standouts including Mark Mineart as the bulging Prussian soldier, who is intimidating and hysterical at the same time; Nance Williamson as Madame Aigreville, whose aristocratic air make her unwittingly filthy comments even more gut-busting; John Guerrasio as clueless patient Bassinet (after seeing his character, Jerry Lewis's popularity in France makes so much more sense); and Michael Keyloun, who plays simpering valet Etienne as a cross between Mr. Bean and Pepe Le Pew. It's curious that Etienne is the only member of the cast to employ a French accent, even though the play is based in Paris. But I won't deny that the delivery frequently made his lines funnier.

Lastly, Bill Clarke's set demands comment, a gorgeous piece that immediately draws you in to the time, place, and atmosphere of the play. From a proscenium arch made of old posters to the crystal chandelier to the chaise lounge to the Eiffel Tower looming in the background, it's unmistakably French, and unmistakably magnificent.

The Ladies Man

Through May 3

Geva Theatre Center, 75 Woodbury Blvd.

$20-$57 | 232-4382 | gevatheatre.org