At least “Rabbit Hole” has good taste in source material. David Lindsay-Abaire’s musty domestic drama starts out by channeling “You Can Count on Me” and ends with a page or two from “Dinner With Friends,” with a decent-size chunk of ersatz “In the Bedroom” in the middle. Unfortunately, these lengthy “tributes” result in a wearisome, seen-it-all-before final product.

This combination of sources is highly unusual for Mr. Lindsay-Abaire, precisely because it’s so … usual. In the past, many accusations have been leveled at the Manhattan Theatre Club habitue’s often undisciplined but undeniably original voice (heard in “Fuddy Meers” and the underrated “Kimberly Akimbo,” among others) has earned its share of criticisms. Mr. Lindsay-Abaire can be precious, excessively whimsical, or overly indulgent of showboating performers, but he’s never been boring. And “Rabbit Hole” is boring, an inexplicable lurch into the telegraphed confrontations and tidy resolutions of innumerable other plays, movies, and, above all, made-for-TV weepies.

Eight months after losing her 4-year-old son in a car accident, Becca Corbett (Cynthia Nixon) has barely begun to assess, let alone mend, the emotional damage. She’s given up on the support group meetings, is about to donate little Danny’s clothes to Goodwill, and is talking with her husband Howie (John Slattery) about selling their Westchester home. (Set designer John Lee Beatty’s interiors are exquisitely well appointed, almost distractingly so.) Her brittle, implacable coping style isn’t helped by the news that her ne’er-do-well sister, Izzy (Mary Catherine Garrison), is pregnant or her tell-it-like-it-is mother Nat’s (Tyne Daly) constant exhortations to “get comfort.”And for all his soothing, rumpled charm, Howie also has a few chinks in his emotional armor.

The resentments build steadily, exacerbated by the arrival of a letter from Jason (John Gallagher Jr., the only actor who seems totally comfortable with Mr. Lindsay-Abaire’s newfound solemnity), the 18-year-old who hit Danny and now wants to dedicate a soon-to-be-published science-fiction story to him. (The story concerns a young man who discovers “rabbit holes” to alternate, presumably less tragic, realities.) The presence of empathic, confused young Jason forces Becca to confront some of her own feelings, both internally and with Howie. If this sounds at all familiar, you’ve likely channel-surfed past the Lifetime network at some point in your life.

The entire first act is spent in anticipation of some sort of Lindsay-Abairian device that will disrupt the plodding development and explode the narrative, loping tone and explode the narrative. Will Jason’s fanciful story become a plot point? Might Izzy’s tempestuous past, complete with a shady boyfriend, somehow juice the plot? Are we really just going to limp toward misty-eyed closure? Where’s the twist? In order: No, no, yes, and nowhere to be found.

Perhaps in an effort to mask the play’s shopworn trappings, with its metaphorically unsubtle short story and its rough-around-the-edges-butbursting-with-good-solid-commonsense mom, director Daniel Sullivan keeps the actors busy with a lot of tasks. In the opening scene, he has Becca fold Danny’s laundry efficiently, angrily, sanctimoniously, defensively, and in various other “actable” ways. Food plays a similar role through “Rabbit Hole,” as the actors wield their lemon squares and beer bottles like character-defining totems.

The lion’s share of these props are handed to Ms. Nixon, in part to play up her fretful, distracted personality and in part to draw attention away from lines of dialogue like “You’re not in a better place than I am, you’re just in a different place.” Ms. Nixon, who usually had the best material on “Sex and the City,” finds herself in the opposite situation here.And while her refusal to sugarcoat the guarded, intransigent Becca is commendable, it also does little to generate interest in her or her predicament. Mr. Slattery has more success, positioning his loose voice against Ms. Nixon’s pinched cadences, especially after Howie’s own neuroses poke through and confound the audience’s sympathies. (This is most evident in a brief, squirm-inducing scene between him and Jason.)

Ms. Garrison is less convincing as the fidgety, untrustworthy kid sister, although, to be fair, her part is by far the most fuzzily written. Luckily, the flawless Ms. Daly rescues several of the family scenes. Nat, who herself lost a son, prattles on with an audiencefriendly mix of obliviousness, sass, and passive aggression. An early soliloquy about the “Kennedy curse” bubbles along with plenty of amusing lines and an unsparing subtext.

And in one of the few instances where Mr. Lindsay-Abaire’s material delves beyond the genre’s generalities, Nat gives a devastating account of how grief changes without ever going away. “You forget it every once in awhile, but then you reach in for whatever reason and there it is. ‘Oh right. That.’ Which can be awful. But not all the time.” Here and throughout, Ms. Daly offers a virtual primer in how to graciously share the stage and still walk away with the scene.

The Kenneth Lonergan film “You Can Count on Me” also focused on the way two siblings, one responsible and one flaky, handle death within the family.The movie jumps to mind in part because of an interview that Laura Linney gave about Mr. Lonergan to the New York Times to promote the film:

It was such a relief that he allowed us to act, rather than explain, everything that was going on. A lot of times in film, you end up going to the director and saying, ‘You know, do I really need to say, “I’m upset?” Couldn’t I just act that?’

Nearly every scene in “Rabbit Hole” is stuffed with exactly this sort of explaining. Mr. Sullivan’s talented cast lays the emotional groundwork well before they’re forced to wail lines like “You have to stop erasing him!” and “I’m sorry. But things aren’t ‘nice’ anymore,” and “How much more do we have to lose?”

Starting with Nat’s superb monologue, the speechifying does begin to die down, and the final scene between husband and wife takes on some of the charged simplicity that Mr. Lindsay-Abaire has been striving toward. Love apparently means never having to say, “I’m sorry. But things aren’t ‘nice’ anymore.” From the audience’s perspective, this lesson is learned about two hours (including intermission) too late.

Until March 19 (261 W. 47th Street, between Broadway and Eighth Avenue, 212-239-6200).