Some comedies thrive on leanness, every scene, every line, every interaction working to bring the laughs and serve the story. You come away both chuckling and marveling at the grim effort that it must have taken to achieve such merry precision. Noel Coward’s Present Laughter is not such a comedy, and if anything, Cygnet’s crowd-pleasing production expands on in its generous runtime, luxuriating even in a butler’s scene-setting distribution of discarded party hats and half-drunk cocktails about the swanky set. You get the sense that everyone on stage is enjoying themselves immensely, and the audience is kindly invited along for the ride. (Annie Hinton’s housekeeper seems to exist chiefly to tempt the rest of the cast to break.) Mostly, it works, though there are a few second-act lulls that may make you aware of time passing.

Coward’s indulgence is perhaps forgivable, as he was writing both for and about himself: the lead here is a celebrated actor who’s been at it so long that his on- and off-stage personas are difficult to distinguish — not that anybody in his inner circle seems eager to try. (A grand example: his outsized outrage when he is accused of sometimes overacting.) Cygnet co-founder Sean Murray has the bearing and stuffing for the part, which demands both plausible intimations of greatness and explicit displays of goofiness. He wouldn’t be funny if he were simply a clown. (Unlike, say, the psychological firework Roland, just one of the many Fools who attempts to have their way with the Great Man.)

In true screwball fashion, the action begins after the marriage has ended — long after, though the missus is still around for professional purposes. The Great Man is also a Great Lover, and while his ex and others insist they have long since given up on any sort of moral opinion on the matter, there is nevertheless a necessary morality that arises when people form a community — like the one that both supports and is supported by our hero. And when that community is threatened, things get serious — though no less amusing.