The Sneeze

Anton Chekhov famously referred to his stage works as comedies, a characterization that may puzzle anyone who has ever sat through an uncut "Uncle Vanya." (I always assumed he was being ironic.) But with "The Sneeze," Michael Frayn's adaptation of eight early Chekhov stories, the master genuinely has little on his mind but tickling our funny bones while commenting lightly on the moneyed class versus the servant class, man versus woman, and the comforts and tribulations of theatergoing. Vaudeville-tinged Chekhovian sketches, dramatized by the author of "Noises Off," the greatest stage farce of our age—aren't you intrigued? But while "The Sneeze" has its moments, too much of it feels trite. Worse, it isn't very funny.

The show opens engagingly with "Drama," the interior monologue of a noted writer (Chris Mixon) suffering through a reading of a casual acquaintance's (Rachel Botchan) terrible, endless play. Consisting of satirical swipes at Russian literary clichés as observed by a not-yet-30 Chekhov, it's pleasant and briskly played. But there's a precipitous drop with "The Alien Corn," in which a landowner (Bradford Cover) hurls insults about the French at his children's Gallic ex-tutor (Dominic Cuskern)—and that's about it. Why is Chekhov proffering unfiltered xenophobia, and whose side is he on? Nor is there much to "The Sneeze," a pantomime in which a senior government official (Cover) has his viewing of "Swan Lake" ruined by the lackey (Mixon) sitting behind him. Sneezes, spit, snot—it plays like a lesser Sid Caesar sketch.

Indeed, much of the nearly three-hour evening has the air of 1950s and '60s TV comedy, including a vulgar preoccupation with bodily functions. "The Bear" shows a grieving widow (Lee Stark) harassed and eventually wooed by a landowner (Cover) to whom she owes money; it's unconvincing and overplayed, with director J.R. Sullivan encouraging eye-rolling and blustering from both actors.

The highlight is probably "The Evils of Tobacco," a lecture on same by a schoolmistress's sad-sack husband, with detours into his regrets of a life wasted. Mixon twitches exquisitely, and his ruminations are comedic, wistful, and, yes, Chekhovian. But the rest of the evening is long-winded: After the minor "The Inspector-General," "Swan Song" is the rambling lament of an old actor (Robert Hock) in a drafty old theater, and "The Proposal" is a misogynistic, overextended look at courtship among the gentry. While well-played by Botchan and Mixon, it is—there's no other description—a situation comedy, with thin characters yelling at each other and forced slapstick.

Barbara A. Bell's costumes are a lovely eyeful, and the actors work hard. But the potentially incendiary mingling of Chekhov and Frayn seldom catches fire. While one might expect the author of "Democracy" and "Copenhagen" to dish up some verbal elegance, the best Frayn can manage is "My whole body feels like the bottom of a parrot cage." And the anything-for-a-laugh jokiness grates. Certainly, Chekhov helped father modern drama; it's disconcerting to learn that he also sired the sitcom.

Presented by the Pearl Theatre Company at New York City Center Stage II, 131 W. 55th St., NYC. Sept. 26–Oct. 31. Tue., Thu.–Sat., 7:30 p.m.; Wed., Sat., and Sun., 2:30 p.m. (Additional performance Thu., Sept. 30, 2:30 p.m.) (212) 581-1212 or www.nycitycenter.org.