Horse and Carriage, West Yorkshire Playhouse, Leeds

Paris when it fizzles

To judge by this farce, Feydeau and laughter go together like a horse and carriage – and you know how often you see carriage horses these days. Of course, judging Feydeau by this farce (a minor piece of 1895, originally called Le mariage de Barillon) is what his admirers would say one should not do. But, as someone who has sat through several of these things planning next week's dinners, it seems representative enough, even though the situation – one can hardly call it a plot – lacks the usual complications.

In Act I the middle-aged Barillon, despite the interruptions of a passionate young rival, marries 18-year-old Virginie. But a drunken clerk's error means that he has legally wed her mother. In Act II Barillon learns the bad news, his unwanted and overexcited bride tries to claim her connubial rights, and her previous husband, lost at sea, turns up with the same idea.

Madame, however, would not dream of such a thing with a man who is officially not her husband. In the final act, three weeks later, an annulment is granted, bringing relief to the four principals (they live in the same house) and the return of Virginie's young man, who wins her hand. Virginie seems to prefer this arrangement, as far as one can tell – her character, although strong on gaping and blinking, is short on self-assertion.

This tiny comic idea is stretched to two and a half hours by repetition ("That is a telegram for you." "That is a telegram for me?"), postponement (lots of sitting down and getting up again) and distraction. "Tell us your story," says Barillon to his new wife's old husband. "Omit nothing." He does. Deborah Norton's lethargic production is further extended by passages in which everyone runs, jumps, takes a swing at someone else, or shouts: "Don't shout!"

Stalking about, shoulders hunched, Griff Rhys Jones as Barillon seems grim but never serious. At home with Virginie after the ceremony, not yet knowing about the mistake, he shows his ardour by nibbling the back of her jacket. My memory is not what it used to be, but I don't think I've ever come across this kind of foreplay. Alison Steadman just looks lost, as well she might with an imbecilic part and big-bustled costumes that make her look, in her more active moments, like a buoy in a storm. Not only are Tim Reed's costumes unattractive and peculiar (Virginie's Act I dress has what looks like a partly folded nappy hanging down the back), his set is disconcerting. One of the doors of the Paris drawing room opens on to a high balcony, while those on either side give on to the pavement (where the maid, who enters to announce visitors, presumably stands all day).

You might be wondering when we will get to the jokes. I've been trying to prepare you. The worst one in Graeme Garden's adaptation is: "It's a drinking song." "Oh, songs drink, do they?" An average one: "She was a corker." "She worked in the vineyard?" The best is Barillon's announcement, when his bride/mother-in-law faints: "Unbuckle her corset – and stand well back!" This joke, however, is spoiled by the inaccurate verb. Unfamiliarity with ladies' underwear may be, for the average gentleman, a misfortune; for a farceur, it's a calamity.

To 1 Dec (0113-213 7700)