Ever since the first Greek actor hitched up his chiton and stepped onstage, theater has been built out of arguments. At first the actor pitted himself against the chorus, then against an increasing array of other actors. Lord knows, it’s easier to engage in dialogue with another guy present, so playwrights just started piling them in – two actors soon became three, and so down the slippery slope that Alexandra Gersten-Vassilaros found herself at the bottom of in 2003, when she co-wrote “Omnium Gatherum,” a seven-way argument masquerading as a dinner party.

In that work, as in her current play “The Argument,” Ms. Gersten-Vassilaros tosses structural concerns to the winds. But if Aristotle would have turned green at her dramaturgical architecture, he would also have relished her love of a good fight. In fact, the argument at the center of “The Argument” ought to be the play. Clocking in at the ever-popular 90 minutes, Ms. Gersten-Vassilaros’s play wastes time she doesn’t have on preliminaries.

David Mamet, a guy who knows a thing or two about verbal knife fights, admonishes writers to “get in late and get out early.” When selecting your dramatic material, choosiness is all. Go for the juicy, angry, revelatory, important stuff, skip the setup if you can, and fill us in as you go. Look at “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” George and Martha enter swinging, bob and weave for three hours, and probably have another knock-down doozy after we leave the theater. Even Homer skipped the first 10 years of the Trojan War.

In “The Argument,” by contrast, nearly half the play wallows in pre-argument details. We have to meet our central couple, listen to their excruciating first-date conversation, and then dodge bludgeoning character exposition before our playwright will let them start fighting. Ms. Gersten-Vassilaros’s first scene hasn’t got any dialogue at all. Philip (Jay O. Sanders) and Sophie (Melissa Leo) just have a long, fumbling smooch from the door to the bed via a couple of intermediary bits of furniture.

When they wake, they introduce themselves in unlikely prose. Ignoring the possibility of leaving anything to subtext, both characters come right out with their neediness and willingness to fall in love. In the following scene, 10 months later, Sophie actually shouts “We’re really committed to each other now!” as they enthuse over a new fridge.

Finally, though, the couple hits its stumbling block. A small, fetus-sized stumbling block. Since they are drawn rather broadly as a left-wing artist type (Sophie) and a buttoned-up businessman golfer, we’re well primed for their disagreement on the future of her pregnancy. The surprise lies in their ferocity. After its bad beginning, the play suddenly gets its tailwind, discovering humor and insight for its final scenes. The scrapping couple blast through a pathetic relationship counselor (John Rothman), shouting over his meek pleas for understanding. When the fight over Sophie’s belly eventually turns physical it also finally becomes dramatic.

The marvelous Jay O. Sanders performs fairly in both love and war. He establishes a rock against which Ms. Leo can fling herself, steady and reliable during both bad text and good. Ms. Leo, on the other hand, has a wildly uneven evening; she seems particularly ill-equipped for the giggling or for her clunky, “quirky” monologues. She only seems comfortable once she gets angry. Her “romantic” lines sound like – lines. But once her ire is up, her energy focuses to a killing point. It comes as some surprise that she doesn’t just hurl the fridge at her frustrating boyfriend.

Speaking of ill-matched pairs, designer Neil Patel and director Maria Mileaf don’t seem right for each other. Here, as in their collaboration on “Going to St. Ives,” a set that should be sumptuous looks like a motel room efficiency. Mr. Patel also single-handedly (or several stage-handedly) lengthens the show by a quarter of an hour. Perhaps it’s lucky for sound designer Obadiah Eaves, as his music would have little to do without the interminable set changes.

Some of the blame must also go to the script, which occasionally tries to be a screenplay. Scenes can be three sentences long, followed by a location and costume shift. Certainly the first two-thirds of the play might benefit from a camera’s eye.

Until June 19 (108 East 15th Street, between Union Square East and Irving Place, 212-352-3101).