In “Second Act Trouble,” Steven Suskin’s upcoming book of war stories about troubled Broadway musicals, one author recounts Neil Simon’s particular gifts as a “play doctor.” “Nobody cuts a show better than I do,” said Mr. Simon, known to nearly all as “Doc,” back in 1973.

If Mr. Simon is still looking to do a little hacking, he might turn his attentions to the Cort Theatre, where he would find a would-be romantic comedy in desperate need of some cuts. But this time the doctor may need to recuse himself: The patient in question is Mr. Simon’s own 1963 smash, “Barefoot in the Park.”

Not that he’d necessarily recognize it from this bloated,virtually charm-free revival,which is rendered occasionally watchable by the efforts of costars Jill Clayburgh and Tony Roberts. In the hands of director Scott Elliott, Mr. Simon’s paean to carefree, devil-may-care romance has become an endurance test for the audience as well as for its two attractive young stars, Patrick Wilson and Amanda Peet.

After six blissful days at the Plaza, the honeymoon is decidedly over for Paul and Corie Bratter (Mr. Wilson and Ms. Peet). If their energy isn’t totally sapped by climbing the steps to their sixthfloor Manhattan walk-up, they expend it on fending off both Corie’s meddling mother (Ms. Clayburgh) and Victor Velasco (Mr. Roberts), the aging roue who lives upstairs, not to mention navigating the day-to-day concerns of married life.

These concerns are particularly galling for the effervescent, excitable Corie. She quickly realizes that Paul, who tucks his dress shirts into his underwear, might not be willing or even able to supply the constant adventure and spontaneity she craves. He won’t even walk barefoot through Washington Square Park in 17-degree weather, the stick in the mud. Can our heroes survive the seven-day itch?

In order for this question to carry any weight, the froth and fizz of young love must be so palpable that the audience’s noses tingle even during their feuds. Mr. Elliott, who has made a specialty of unearthing the banked anger and hilarity in Mike Leigh’s plays, takes a teeth-gnashing, gritty approach here that is completely unsupported by the script. It’s as if he’d decided to take Nick and Honey, the hostile young straight-arrow/flibbertigibbet couple from “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” (which debuted a year earlier), and drop them into a 1960s Neil Simon comedy.

What was Mr. Elliott hoping to achieve? A gimlet-eyed commentary on the “starter marriages” and quickie divorces of today’s society? Then why the long slapstick sequences in which Corie listens to 1960s pop records, splashes martinis on her dress, and – I’m not kidding – hangs wallpaper? Not even a seasoned stage performer could pull off some of these extended bits; Ms. Peet, an engaging film actress with some of Brooke Shields’s coltish physical prowess, doesn’t come close. (She does, however, convey a highly plausible mother-daughter tension between herself and Ms. Clayburgh.) Mr.Wilson’s set pieces are equal ly effortful, although he shows an aptitude for light romantic comedy on the few chances he gets to show it.

Back in 1963, Mr. Simon had yet to break his habit of having one character enumerate the personality traits of another character: “There isn’t the least bit of adventure in you. Do you know what you are? You’re a watcher.”(Guess who is berating who?) The recent revival of “The Odd Couple” wheezed and labored under the weight of high expectations and some less-than-committed acting, but at least Mr. Simon kept the philosophizing to a minimum.”Barefoot in the Park” frequently shows, then tells, then shows some more.

Luckily, Mr. Roberts and especially Ms. Clayburgh are on hand to make these old chestnuts sound like they were written yesterday. Mr. Roberts underplays Victor’s rakish charm – this is a guy who may have lost a half-step off his game but still knows he has plenty left. And Ms. Clayburgh finds the tartness behind even her most docile lines. Her initial look at the apartment is a primer in passive aggression, and much of the central dinner party’s zip comes from the sight of her firmly maintaining her propriety as she gets drunker and drunker. (Isaac Mizrahi, whose 1960s costumes give the production a mild boost throughout, fares best with her breezily elegant party dresses.) The apartment tends to look a lot smaller whenever these two leave it.

Even a director with a firmer grasp of Mr. Simon’s comic rhythms would have a tough time selling some of this material nowadays. The strangest moment in the entire evening comes near the end, when mother helps Corie patch things up with this advice: “It’s very simple. You’ve just got to give up a little bit of you for him. … Take care of him. And make him feel important. And if you can do that, you’ll have a happy and wonderful marriage.”

This speech would be problematic today, regardless of who’s giving it. But if this revival is remembered for anything – and for the sake of Mr. Wilson’s and Ms. Peet’s still-promising careers, I hope it isn’t – it will be the sight of Jill Clayburgh, the star of “Starting Over” and “An Unmarried Woman,” one of the 20th century’s most identifiable icons of women’s liberation, giving it.

You’ve come a long way, baby.

Open run (138 W. 48th Street, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, 212-239-6200).