It’s natural that a show called “Let’s Love!” should deal with sex. But Ethan Coen’s set of three one-acts takes such a prurient view of human interaction that you may wonder why he didn’t give it another, unprintable title. Though that ickier name would be more appropriate, this collection of stories, which opened on Wednesday night at Atlantic Theater Company, doesn’t rouse much desire either way.
While best known for his Oscar-winning film collaborations with his brother, Joel, this is not Coen’s first foray into playwriting. In 2008, he made his playwriting debut with “Almost an Evening” at the Atlantic, which is now presenting “Let’s Love!” after its original run was delayed when the company’s stagehands went on strike last winter. These three short plays, directed by Neil Pepe, aim for the darkly comic neo-noir of the brothers’ cinematic collaborations, yet fail.
The first, “The Broad at the Bar,” sees a 60-something white woman (Mary McCann) boast about her interracial escapades in an effort to seduce a Black man at a bar (Dion Graham). It’s a funny enough concept — she’s essentially talking to, and making a fool of, herself — and McCann plays boozy to the hilt, but the forcefulness of the writing sinks the froth of the comedy.
That gracelessness also mars “Dark Eyes,” a comedy of bed-hopping manners and the longest of the three works. Susan (Aubrey Plaza) and Faye (Mary Wiseman) are foulmouthed sexpots; Tough (Chris Bauer) and Dan (CJ Wilson) their roving counterparts. Dressed in aviator sunglasses and a tan suit, Bauer’s character recalls the sort of bumbling henchmen of the Coens’ peak, and a loopy murder plot does liven up this entry. The women go big in their frustratingly uncomplicated roles, leaning hard enough into their characters’ grotesqueness — the humor again hinges on the notion that screaming obscenities is funny — to almost count as a feminist reclamation.
Only Dylan Gelula in “Girl” is spared from Coen’s sexed-up preoccupation, though sadly that’s because her role is about as fleshed-out as her character’s name. The focus is on Noah Robbins, as a lovable nerd who fumbles through their first few dates. The big, dragged-out joke here is not sexual (finally!) but still gruesomely anatomical.
Of the cast, it’s Plaza who makes the most of the situation. After making her stage debut two years ago, she’s a growing force who has eased into live performance and supercharges each scene she’s in with distinct energy. She may have that Millennial deadpan down, but it’s lovely to witness her continually expanding her range and ability.
While watching this production, I realized one can only take so much of women spouting clunky insults like “sperm bucket,” rabidly discussing their bedroom prowess and existing solely as sex objects in one play, let alone three in quick succession. It makes it tough not to roll your eyes, especially when a male character earnestly says: “Men hurt. That’s what happens. Women judge. And men hurt.”
What’s truly unusual is for a production by the Atlantic — which has developed acclaimed works like “The Band’s Visit” and “English” — to feel so uninspired and so inelegantly rendered. Scenes that end with a punchline fade awkwardly away when they should be punctuated by a blackout. (Reza Behjat did the lighting.) Actors drift in and out through a needlessly convoluted double turntable set (by Riccardo Hernandez, blandly decorated by Faye Armon-Troncoso), too often as lights are still dimming.
Bookending each piece are short, original songs performed by the singer-songwriter Nellie McKay, whose sweet charm can only go so far and is entirely at odds with Coen’s sleazier tone. She does look great in the top hat and tails (designed by Peggy Schnitzer) she enters the production wearing, even if the rest of the production doesn’t gesture toward old-school showbiz.
The overall effect is somewhere between confusion and indifference, and the lack of connection among the stories only adds to the looseness. The actors give committed performances, ranging from solid to intermittently hilarious but are betrayed by language both juvenile and outdated. When was the last time you heard someone being called a “basket case”?
Let’s Love!
Through Nov. 22 at Linda Gross Theater, Manhattan; atlantictheater.org. Running time: 1 hour 30 minutes.
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