René Descartes' famous 1637 dictum, "Cogito, ergo sum" — "I think, therefore I am" — towers over Cal Shakes/San Jose Rep's co-production of The Triumph of Love. Etched in gold atop an imposing wrought iron gate at the back of the stage, the saying forms the very backbone of Western philosophy. While Descartes' axiom is usually considered an effort to prove existence, it is also a statement about the supremacy of reason over emotion. But like many aspects of adaptor/director Lillian Groag's delightfully bonkers take on Pierre Carlet de Chamblain de Marivaux's comedy of misplaced flirtations, Descartes' words are to be treated with utmost irony.

The Triumph of Love might take place in the garden of a puritanical philosopher, but rational thought is nowhere to be found among the bountiful apple orchards and pristinely clipped topiary of Kate Edmunds' neoclassical garden set design. Even the trimmed hedgerows betray a mischievous side — a half-eaten apple and odd bits of weed stick out from the otherwise hermetically sealed neatness of the landscape. From the plot to the performances, Marivaux and his modern-day interpreters at the Bruns Amphitheater create a universe where madness and misrule hold sway, where passions dictate principles, and clowns win the day.

When Louis XV's Italian theater company first performed The Triumph of Love at the French court in 1732, the denouement alone was enough to throw audiences into a frenzy. The story follows the fortunes of the Spartan Princess Léonide as she attempts, through underhanded means, to win the affections of the banished Prince Agis, a philosophy student as handsome as he is hateful of women and cynical about Cupid's power. In order to get close to Agis, Léonide disguises herself as a young man by the name of Phocion. Together with her similarly camouflaged attendant, Corine, the two present themselves at the home of the philosopher Hermocrates, Agis' mentor and guardian, with the aim of wooing the young scholar away. Unfortunately, the women's disguises lack credibility and Hermocrates and his servants are quick to spot the curves underneath the manly frock coats. The exposure forces Léonide to take desperate measures. Facing banishment from the object of her desire, she finds a way to reel in both Hermocrates and his spinsterly sister, Léontine, with her feminine/masculine wiles.

Eighteenth-century sensibilities reacted strongly against the spaghetti-junction contrivances of Marivaux's plot. Theatergoers couldn't believe that a princess would demean her royal station by tricking such dignified elders as the philosopher and his sister in so dissolute a fashion. "This intrigue would have better suited a simple bourgeoise than a Spartan princess," the April 1732 edition of the Mercure de France scolded. "The Triumph of Love does not rank among the best of Mr. Marivaux's plays," Le Journal Littéraire concurred. The initial production was canceled after only six performances.

While the plot doesn't have the same maddening effect on audiences today, Groag and her collaborators still manage to convey the irrational spirit of the dramatist's world. At the center of Groag's carnival-esque vision are Marivaux's commedia dell'arte-inspired clowns. Back in the Italian Renaissance, characters like Hermocrates' bumpkin gardener Dimas and his pesky-as-a-mosquito manservant Arlecchino were known as zanni. I can think of no better word than "zany" to describe Ron Campbell and Danny Scheie's hilarious double act in those two respective roles. They do more than clothe the comedy in a straitjacket. They pack it off to the loony bin and eat the key.

Scheie and Campbell are not only consummate comic performers. They are commedia dell'arte zanni in modern form. Seventeenth-century theatrical comedians were clowns for life — they were pretty much typecast in those roles from play to play. Whether embodying Lancelot Gobbo in The Merchant of Venice or Sir Novelty Fashion in Restoration Comedy, Scheie pushes his comedic muse to the limit. His take on Arlecchino is no exception. Twirling erratically about the stage in green with the biggest codpiece you've ever seen, Scheie looks like a libidinous leprechaun. Seemingly incapable of keeping his feet on the ground or his mouth shut, it's hard at times to tell whether the character is training to be in the corps de ballet or is having trouble keeping an invisible puppy from making love to his ankles. Either way, he appears to have taken complete leave of his senses. It's no wonder that the other characters in Groag and Frederick Kluck's vivacious adaptation either try to avoid or disown him. "Who is that?" is the sort of question that hangs around Arlecchino like grass stains on the gardener's knees. "We have no idea who that little man is," is one typical response.