A Man and His Mutt

“Sylvia” is a love story about midlife crisis. Its title character is a talking dog. For anybody who loves both animals and the theater, “Sylvia” will be a day at the park; enjoying it takes as much effort as watching a kitten with a shoelace. A.R. Gurney’s 1995 sweet, screwball comedy opened Tuesday night at the Coronet Theatre.

Greg (Charles Kimbrough) picks up the scruffy mutt on the way home from work. His children have left home, his job as a currencies trader is increasingly “abstract” and the world has lost its fizz. His 22-year-old marriage just can’t salve his wounds. But when he looks into the fur-rimmed eyes of an unconditionally adoring creature, Greg finds what’s missing in his life.

Greg and Sylvia speak to each other in plain English. Instead of barking, Sylvia shouts, “Hey! Hey! Hey-hey!” She expresses the most charming thoughts to Greg, such as, “I love you” and “You’re God.” Greg’s wife, Kate (Mary Beth Peil), is less than delighted.

In writing this romance between a man and a mutt, Gurney created a honey of a part for the actress who plays Sylvia, not literally on all fours but figuratively, with quivering canine energy. The part brings out charms heretofore unseen in the limber, uninhibited and apparently makeup-free Stephanie Zimbalist.

Standing, leash in hand, she wriggles her butt in excitement. When Greg scratches her ears, she taps her foot orgasmically. Her nose inches uncontrollably toward the private parts of strangers. She flings foul-mouthed curses at cats under cars and mimes, “Call me!’ to a cute Dalmatian. She bares her teeth uncertainly when Kate demands she get off the couch.

For the most part, Zimbalist keeps excess cuteness at bay. She combines her adoration with the kind of wisdom we like to imagine our pets possess. Her lithe body stands at alert, tremulous to receive any sign of approval for Greg. What wife could possibly compete?

Gurney takes the play’s romantic triangle seriously, even in his goofiest scenes. In one of the finest Gurney has ever written, Greg bids farewell to a business-trip-bound Kate at the airport while Sylvia waits at home, comfortable on the forbidden sofa. Separately, each one sings a private, heartfelt verse of Cole Porter’s “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye.” Simple and yet theatrically risky, the scene hits an irresistible and unusual note of comic rue.

John Tillinger, who directed the show off-Broadway, has assembled a fine cast (with Kimbrough and Derek Smith in roles they originated), who together create the dizzy spell of the play. The play is light while keeping in sight the real need that lies beneath crazy love.

Kimbrough uses his famous stiffness well here; his rigid body indicates his deeper discomfort with the world at large. But the idiot grin that takes over his face when he watches Sylvia is pure love, a love against all reason and rhyme. When he describes her “limpid eyes,” we see his heart jump alive. He has found “pulls we don’t even know about . . . ancient instincts”--amazing things unearthed by something as simple and humble as a homeless dog.

In a series of three increasingly hysterical roles, Smith comes out from under the mask he wore at La Jolla last year when he played the neurotic King in Julie Taymor’s “Green Bird.” He comes way out.

This is a performer who seems ready to steal the mantle from Nathan Lane and Derek Jacobi all at once. His appetite for laughs is as insatiable as Sylvia’s for kibble, and he knows how to get them. Like Jackie Gleason, his physicality is both delicate and robust. He begins as a big-lug dog owner who reads self-help books, appears next as a snobby Manhattan lady, who checks her teeth in a compact while feigning interest in Kate’s ungodly problems.

His piece de resistance is a smug New Age therapist of indeterminate gender named Leslie, who doesn’t hide his or her distaste for Greg and his problems. Tillinger allows Smith to go over the top exactly one time for each of his roles, as if he can’t resist showing off a really great piece of gaudy jewelry. In any case, look out for this actor.

In the almost thankless role of Kate, Peil makes the most of her one daffy scene. Getting drunk with a friend she doesn’t fully trust, she can’t stop herself from ragging on Sylvia every chance she gets until she reaches full unhingement.

Lawrence Miller designs the bland Manhattan apartment to look like a set for a talk show. Behind it are Central Park and a Manhattan skyline from a New Yorker magazine cover. It’s the setting for just another story in the Naked City. Just another shaggy dog tale. But it sure makes “Cats” look like a dog.

* “Sylvia,” Coronet Theatre, 366 N. La Cienega Blvd., Tuesdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 7 p.m.; Saturdays, 2 p.m.; Sundays, 3 p.m. Ends April 6. $25-$42.50. (310) 657-7377, (213) 365-3500. Running time: 2 hours, 10 minutes.

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“Sylvia,”

Stephanie Zimbalist: Sylvia

Charles Kimbrough: Greg

Mary Beth Peil: Kate

Derek Smith: Tom/Phyllis/Leslie

A Ted Weiant and Joan Stein production. By A. R. Gurney. Directed by John Tillinger. Sets Lawrence Miller. Costumes Jane Greenwood. Lights Michael Gilliam. Sound Jon Gottlieb. Production stage manager Wendy Baker.