On a Tuesday night when an ice storm was predicted and a presidential slugfest was certain, where better to be than at the Benedum, wafted into clouds of musical comedy silliness with "The Drowsy Chaperone"?

Maybe that doesn't make any sense, but neither does "Drowsy," which is half its charm. The other half is the contrasting tartness of the running commentary of the deftly named Man in Chair, who is exactly that.

AUDIENCE ADVISORY: "Drowsy" is just like "The Lion King." That is, the first five minutes is the best part of the show. Don't be late.

The difference is that in "Lion King," the wonder of that initial gathering of animals at Pride Rock is never fully matched by what follows. But in "Drowsy," the initial commentary by Man in Chair, as we all sit hopefully in the dark, sets up his infatuated comic commentary throughout.

Man in Chair, you see, is a solitary soul in a drab bed-sit in, oh, Queens or maybe South Oakland, who lives his richest imaginative life in his lovingly maintained collection of cast albums. (I suppose you think that makes him gay, and we do have our carefully fed suspicions, including the fact that he says he's not, a possible giveaway.)

On this evening, he's dying to share the album of a forgotten deliciously fictitious 1920s musical, "The Drowsy Chaperone." But not before that monologue in the dark, that sweet time of theatrical anticipation, when he bonds with us by admitting, "I hate theater." He means he loves it so much he hates its failure, along with most modern musicals ("please let it be short ... and keep the actors out of the audience"), and prays for the return of Cole Porter ("Elton John, stop this charade!").

He calls the initial scratching of his record (remember records?) a time machine, and presto, as it plays, the long-ago cast materializes in his apartment -- so alive in his head, it comes to life for us, too. But we have the added advantage of Man's accompanying notes, as he stops the action to note political incorrectness or fill us in on the actors' scandals.

The show itself is a conventional frothy tale of a society wedding between a Broadway star and a handsome young man-about-town (on whom Man seems to have his own designs, no matter what he says), with a big producer, two punning comic gangsters, a ditzy chorine, an addled grande dame, an aviatrix ("what we now call a lesbian," Man notes) and others all conspiring to gum up the works.

It's a loving parody of many a period show, like "Dames at Sea," say, or "Little Mary Sunshine." By itself, it may not be as good as either of those, but Man in Chair makes it special, proving a likable, knowing guide. At the end, when the imaginary cast embraces him in his solitary depression, we embrace him, too.

The cast of 17 performs some juicy comic production numbers along the way, the better to fill out the Benedum's expanse. "Show Off" is a brilliant display of false modesty for the bride and "As We Stumble Along" a triumphant, much-encored faux anthem for the title character, who is actually more interesting for the forgotten star who is supposed to play her.

The show whizzes by in a continuous 90 minutes, allowing Man a good comic bit about taking an intermission when we don't and including a huge production number that slips in from another show entirely. The score by Lisa Lambert and Greg Morrison and book by Robert Martin and Don McKellar are all clever, as you'd expect from their roots in sketch comedy.

Georgia Engel, a CLO favorite, reprises her Broadway role as the addled rich hostess, and Robert Dorfman does a very good Edward Everett Horton as her butler. Andrea Chamberlain doesn't have the wattage of Sutton Foster, but she brings gymnastic determination to the bride's antics. The groom, named Robert Martin in honor of the writer who originally played Man in Chair, is the tap-skillful Mark Ledbetter.

The droll Nancy Opel is a fine Chaperone, James Moye is properly accent-ludicrous as the Latin lover, and who knew Mike Ditka did musicals? Actually, it's Cliff Bemis who plays the producer.

But all hail Jonathan Crombie, whose Man, melancholy included, is indeed the man of the hour (and a half).