When was the last time so much physical prowess and comic savvy were brought to bear on material as undeserving as “Boeing-Boeing,” a dismal 1960s sex farce receiving a dynamite revival?

Actually, come to think of it, it was just five months ago, with Mark Twain’s “Is He Dead?” Just as director Michael Blakemore and a terrific cast led by Norbert Leo Butz managed to pull off that creaky cross-dressing affair (with a lot of help from David Ives, who heavily adapted Twain’s original script), Matthew Warchus and his rubber-limbed sextet of actors have somehow wrenched Marc Camoletti’s musty effort out from its own 747-size languors.

And once again, the salvage operation is led by a superb comic performance. This time it’s Mark Rylance, taking a decided step away from his renowned Shakespearean diet (he ran London’s Globe Theatre for a decade) and creating a staggeringly funny portrait of lust-deranged masculinity. Whenever he graces the stage as Robert Lambert, a Wisconsin milquetoast who learns to embrace his inner playboy, the days of legendary stage comedians like Zero Mostel and Ray Bolger — who themselves propped up some pretty unworthy material in their day — don’t seem so far away. Broadway has been blessed with an inordinate number of tours de force by male funnymen this season: In addition to Mr. Butz, there’s Nathan Lane in “November” and Charles Edwards in “The 39 Steps.” But while all four of these performers outshine their material, Mr. Rylance shines the brightest — and not just because of the relative dimness of his surroundings.

Robert is in Paris en route to visiting his uncle in … oh, what does it matter? The point is that he touches down in the mod apartment of his old school chum Bernard (Bradley Whitford), an architect who maintains a revolving door of fiancées. With the begrudging help of his maid, Berthe (Christine Baranski), Bernard has arranged that three stewardesses — “air hostesses,” he calls them, each one va-va-voomier than the next — zip through at staggered intervals. There’s Gloria (Kathryn Hahn), a pragmatic American who likes to practice her kissing technique on rich men; Gabriella (Gina Gershon), a tempestuous Italian with a jealous streak, and Gretchen (Mary McCormack), a statuesque German with, shall we say, assertive habits.

All of them fly different schedules on different airlines, so overlap is never an issue — until, suddenly and catastrophically, it is. In case the six doors in Bernard’s apartment (designed with consummate mod-ness by Rob Howell, who’s also responsible for the note-perfect costumes) and the ludicrous accents weren’t enough of a tip-off, we’re in the realm of farce, with its baser instincts spawning an ever-escalating set of comic woes.

Mr. Warchus takes his time cultivating the inevitable collisions; the first act comes and goes (after 90 minutes!) without more than two air hostesses on the premises at any one point. With its sluggish buildup and its all-too-convenient changes of heart, “Boeing-Boeing” has a sogginess that tests the patience of even farce aficionados. (For the record, Camoletti had not one but two enormous international successes within the genre, with his subsequent “Don’t Dress for Dinner” running for seven years in London’s West End.)

In general, the cast fares best during the wordless moments — the double takes, slow burns, and compromising positions that supply farce with its language-hopping backbone. The usually dependable Ms. Baranski trips up repeatedly on her impenetrable French accent but handles Berthe’s silent passages neatly, with a deceptively casual face-off between her and Robert serving as a giddy respite amid the slamming doors and flying bodies. Mr. Whitford, by comparison, starts out uncomfortably broad and has nowhere to go as the tension builds.

All three stewardesses, though hemmed in to varying degrees by the stock nature of their characters, wriggle and pout gamely: Ms. McCormack is the funniest, Ms. Gershon the tastiest, and Ms. Hahn the most fearless. And all three of those adjectives could apply to Mr. Rylance, who, unlike his male co-star, understands how to contrast this chaos with complete stillness. The sight of Robert gaping at these women, his face clouding over with a blend of terror, confusion, agitation, and envy, serves as a perfect launching pad for the ensuing madness. Whether he’s adopting a grotesque approximation of machismo, splaying himself over the furniture with seemingly no thought of his own safety, or being tossed to the ground by Gretchen, he carries the action to the point where a throwaway line like “Oh, there’s Africa” can become comic magic.

Or perhaps “alchemy” would be the better term, given the dross from which Mr. Rylance and at least a few of his co-stars spin these laughs. But gold is gold, and if slogging through the likes of “Boeing-Boeing” is what it takes to mine it, so be it. Isn’t making the best out of untenable circumstances what farce is all about?

Open run (220 W. 48th St., between Broadway and Eighth Avenue, 212-239-6200).