IF GEORGES FEYDEAU were alive today, he would probably be writing television sitcoms. The twisted logic and naive misunderstandings that compromise Please Don't Walk Around in the Nude are characteristic of much of what passes for prime-time entertainment these days. All of which is not to belittle Feydeau's genius; the underlying themes he treats are somewhat loftier than what one encounters on the average episode of "Three's Company." And, of course, Feydeau did it first.

In Please Don't Walk Around in the Nude, we are touched by Feydeau's comic madness from the outset. Ventroux (Phil Kirby), a French politician, is trying to explain to his wife, Clarisse (Nancy Cotton), that it is indecent for their son to see her wearing only her slip. She doesn't understand what is wrong with this or, for that matter, with her being seen in her nightgown by household servants, peeping-tom neighbors, and even Hochepaix, the mayor of a nearby town. The play's central conflict is caused when Clarisse's ingenuous and disputable logic meets up with Ventroux's "appearances are everything" outlook.

Kirby's Ventroux is a convincingly stuffy and image-conscious politician. His overly refined accent and stiff posture mark him as a man set in his ways; he clearly has more difficulty dealing with his wife than he does with mere matters of government. His attempts to explain things to her are constantly foiled by her illogical reasoning. Unable to make her understand by any rational means. Ventroux rants and raves at her, finally throwing her out of the room in frustration.

Cotton adds just a tinge of malice, however, to this otherwise innocent Clarisse. Although some of her constant gesturing seems forced, her carefree attitude is an effective counterpart to Ventroux's stuffiness. She is seemingly oblivious to the insanity of her logic. Criticized by her husband for "pawing" the thighs of a man while examining the material of his trousers, she explains. "Well, what did you expect me to do? I couldn't very well ask him to take his trousers off--a man I'd only just met." She is similarly naive about walking around in front of Hochepaix, a political enemy of her husband, is her nightgown and repeating all the terrible things her husband said about him before he arrived.

Tim Bent overplays Hochepaix, greatly underestimating the audience's ability to understand far from subtle shades of meaning. It is enough to be told that Hochepaix waged a campaign against Ventroux in which he called Ventroux names such as "traitor," "rotten egg," "stool pigeon," and "decaying garbage." Bent's winking and gesturing to the audience whenever he says something sarcastic is a bit extraneous.

WHILE MUCH OF THE HUMOR in Feydeau's work comes from the bizarre nature of the characters and situations, the force of the puns seems to have been lost in this translation by Robert Chapman, professor of English Literature. Hochepaix, for instance, tries to explain the pronunciation of the last syllable of his name in this witty exchange: "Pay. Not Pee. P-A-I-X." To which Ventroux replies, smugly. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Pay, not Pee. Unintentional error, of course." Similarly, Clarisse doesn't understand why Ventroux is upset that Hochepaix called him a "pretty pair of sights." Ventroux informs her that the term was "party parasite." Jokes like these may have worked better in French; they do not stack up to the rest of the dialogue.

Ultimately, a short farce like Please Don't Walk Around in the Nude depends on the timing and overall pacing of the show, and in this respect director John Gersten has succeeded. Ventroux's gradually increasing horror towards his wife's indecencies is well-executed, although a bit hasty towards the end. Please Don't Walk Around in the Nude breezes through its fifty-minute playing time and makes, as one playgoer put it. "A great way to start the evening."