Near the end of Alan Ayckbourn’s “Private Fears in Public Places,” a lonely loafer flips through the channels on his television. Nothing appeals – not the documentary, not the sport, not the cheesy soap opera.

It’s not a comment on the programs themselves, but the couch potato’s dissatisfaction in only finding bland story-capsules when life demands something more dramatic. The mook settles for porn. Sitting through Mr. Ayckbourn’s well-polished but depressingly television-sized stories, the audience doesn’t have another channel to flip to.

After nearly 70 plays, one might well suspect that Mr. Ayckbourn’s dramatic impetus might be running low. Instead, he seems to be indefatigable: He staunchly denies the siren’s call of film and television and churns out work at his theater in Scarborough at a reliably fast pace. But somehow, his work and the boob tube are examples of convergent evolution. Stories are told in small, easily recognizable tropes. Subtext only runs one, very shallow layer deep. And even though Mr. Ayckbourn’s take on modern connections skews more cynically than his vacuum-tubed counterpart’s, his revelations will be just as easily forgotten once the next program begins.

Six Londoners, each isolated but still trying to connect, ricochet around their uncaring city. Nicola (Melanie Gutteridge) wields the tartest tongue and the poshest accent, while her fiance, Dan (Paul Thornley), looks to be the limpest noodle of the lot. Though he still remembers to wear the right tie, Dan is always propping up the bar at a local hotel and whining to barman Ambrose (Adrian McLoughlin) about his abrupt dismissal from the army. As Dan sloshes his way out of her heart, Nicola looks at apartments with real estate broker Stuart (Paul Kemp), who has a bit of a flirtation going with Charlotte (Alexandra Mathie), the secretary at his office.

All these threads tie together quite neatly, in the way of Robert Altman movies or a decently called square dance. When Stuart’s sister Imogen (Sarah Moyle) finds a date through an online service, it, of course, turns out to be Dan, on a break from Nicola’s hen-pecking. And when barman Ambrose needs a caretaker for his irascible father (played entirely by offstage crashings and shouted curse words), who should arrive at his door but the honey-voiced Charlotte.

Mr. Ayckbourn dearly enjoys creating characters who are “not what they seem,” so Charlotte’s Biblethumping immediately raises our suspicions. What secret perversion does she harbor, and how soon will it infect the others? While she dishes out porn videos to Stuart, we see toughie Nicola break down in sentimental tears and bored, golden Dan perk up in Imogen’s resolutely homely presence. These scenes are amusing, well written, and astoundingly performed. Dan, a braying “Good Soldier” sort really seems capable of overlooking his and Imogen’s incompatibility, delighted to finally find a woman who doesn’t mind his drinking. And dear Stuart, staring into his television screen, makes a little tone poem out of reluctant arousal.

This is, after all, Mr. Ayckbourn’s company, under Mr. Ayckbourn’s direction. The Brits Off Broadway Festival has staged a real coup by bringing them over to the States, and while the play isn’t noteworthy, their arrival is. The ensemble’s comfort and immersion in the material is incomparable, finding every note of pathos and humor in their scenes. Performances seem so well tailored that Mr. Ayckbourn may well have written these characters with his actors in mind, and they are the strength of the piece.

Unfortunately, his do-si-do structure that weaves together the disparate plots insists on the sort of neatness that wildcards like the creepy Ms. Mathie would have done well without. Mr. Ayckbourn takes but toned-up grief as his theme, examining the quietness of little people ignoring yawning desperation. But the tidiness of the play does life’s underlying messiness a great disservice and makes what might be a meaty evening into an easily swallowed pill.

For a real meal, head upstairs to the smaller black box at 59E59 for the Dadaist self-help of “Jackson’s Way,” an award-winning trip down the rabbit hole with Will Adamsdale. Sure, he makes about as much sense as getting psychotherapy from Ionesco – but I left physically exhausted from all the laughing. So go already, it’s worth a shot.

Until July 3 (59 E. 59th Street, between Madison and Park Avenues, 212-279-4200).