Geraldine Hughes, Matthew Broderick, and Max Baker Photo by Carol Rosegg

The living room belongs to Leigh Carver (Max Baker), a British stage director of uncertain talent eagerly entertaining the American film superstar who has agreed to star in his next play, guaranteeing a successful West End run and probable crossing of the pond to Broadway. That's Jay Conway (Matthew Broderick), leading man of many blockbusters and the occasional direct-to-video. They're awaiting the arrival of the playwright, Ruth Davenport (Geraldine Hughes), who has written something involving British-Irish conflicts, though we don't find out all that much about it. It's a first meeting among star, author, and director, and it's a cascade of you're-wonderful and I-love-your-work and such. Until it turns vindictive, and that doesn't take long.

For Jay, for all his fame and success, is a truly odd duck. Clearly a man of privilege, accustomed to getting his way, he knows his way around Hollywood. But his conversational skills are downright strange. He says politically correct things about women and gays and races, but we never doubt his assumed superiority for being a straight white cis male. Out of nowhere: "You ever use the n-word?" And, "I swear like Liza Minnelli with a 12-inch cock in her ass." And, "I've never sought external validation," when clearly that's all he has ever sought. He also has large patches of ignorance, they both do: He doesn't know where Ulster is and is convinced Alison Bechdel is a man, while Leigh mistakes James Baldwin for one of the Baldwin brothers. Their talking past one another is amusing, and director Ciarán O'Reilly has fine-tuned their timing, in addition to finding logical reasons for guys sitting on a sofa to get up and move around that attractive set.

Matthew Broderick, and I don't say this often, isn't bad. His patented singsongy delivery, a bit more varied than usual, is right for Jay, and his way of staggering and galumphing around the set suggests a Tom Cruisey leading man who's performed maybe one stunt too many. Baker finds nice shades of diplomacy and melancholy in Leigh, who's growing increasingly desperate to keep tempers down as Ruth arrives and the verbal fisticuffs over gender and politics proliferate.

Hughes outclasses them both, creating a multifaceted, interesting character from the moment she stomps onstage. Ruth is frazzled, having just said goodbye to her mother in the hospital after both were in a car crash, a Chekhovian gun-on-the-mantelpiece plot point if ever there was one (and yes, it's going where you think). But she's not too distracted to fight, ever more fiercely, for her play. There are disagreements galore, and as the discourse heats up, Ulster American stops being a drawing room comedy and turns into something closer to Quentin Tarantino. He's even mentioned, several times, as if priming us for a finale that required Rick Sordelet's fight direction.

It's a tough stunt to pull off, and Ireland may not have entirely succeeded. Details are lacking: What is Ruth's play about? Is Jay married? What does Leigh do when he isn't playing peacemaker? There are running gags–Jay's demand that his character wear an eyepatch, his repeated search for "the truth, the truth, the TRUTH," everyone's loathing of critics ("Only thing I ever want to read from a critic is a suicide note," offers Jay), but their payoff diminishes with repetition.

And, really, what's Ireland writing about, if anything? Theatrical egos, mistaken self-images (Ruth, from Ulster, insists she's British), the ability of big celebrities to say outrageous things and get away with it. Much of the plot turns on Jay's early revelation to Leigh about a gruesome rape fantasy he's had, a rather ugly note on which to hang so much of what follows. The tone wavers, and ultimately we're dealing with three very unlikable protagonists who probably get what they deserve. Which isn't as satisfying as it ought to be.

For all that, the dialogue's brisk and often funny (Leigh to Ruth, about Jay: "He's not an adult, he's an actor"), the characters' frequent lying to one another feels real, and O'Reilly, assisted by Orla Long's costume design and Michael Gottlieb's lighting, serves it up expertly. Broderick delivers a great intentionally awful Irish accent rehearsing lines, and I smiled through much of Ulster American. But then that finale comes crashing down, and the whole enterprise somewhat sours.