There are few places so lonely as the middle of a crowd of laughing theatergoers when absolutely nothing funny is happening onstage. That is where I found myself at the Biltmore, posh and gilt and dripping with Manhattan Theater Club’s hard-earned cash, which currently plays host to such a show, Elaine May’s “After the Night and the Music.” Each one act in this trio of pieces tries to wheeze along on a single idea, rather like the weaker skits at the end of Saturday Night Live. A lesbian learns to dance! A gay man dries his hair! And we all take hands and take the giant step back together.

The first piece, “Curtain Raiser,” actually does its job. It’s a peppy little appetizer for the bad meal to follow, but its strength lies in its dancing, not its conversation. At a dance-hall, a butch, bewigged J. Smith-Cameron nurses a drink, waiting for her lover. Deirdre Madigan, flighty and a little mean, has ditched her for male partners — she claims it’s out of the desire to fit in, but it has much more to do with her girlfriend’s two left feet. The combed-over nebbish Eddie Korbich, also partnerless, offers to teach the gawky lesbian to dance — and they’re off! Not into Fred and Ginger territory, but certainly into light and charming moves choreographed by Randy Skinner.

“Curtain Raiser” relies on J. Smith-Cameron’s comic eye rolls and Eddie Korbich’s easy sweetness, so naturally both assets are quickly jettisoned. In “Giving Up Smoking,” the interminable second piece, Ms. Smith-Cameron plays a maudlin widow and Mr. Korbich disappears completely. Instead, we get Jere Burns doing his walking-gay-stereotype and Jeannie Berlin failing to act at all.

Joanne (Ms. Berlin) waits by her phone, desperate for a message from Mel (Brian Kerwin), who also waits by the phone. Joanne’s best friend, Sherman (Mr. Burns), is also bizarrely cellphone-deprived, and alternates between calling Joanne and waiting for his own phone to ring. Each whimpers about their loneliness, advocating a “wait it out”philosophy toward despair. None of them can make a real connection (get it?), except for Sherman’s mother (Ms. Smith-Cameron), who reminisces about her dead husband.

Finally, the longest of the shorts, “Swing Time” visits a topic that was last racy under Gerald Ford. Mitzi (J. Smith-Cameron again) and Darryl (Mr. Burns) rush about their apartment getting ready for a friendly dinner, and, if all goes well, a wife-swap.Though their longtime pals Gail (Ms. Berlin) and Ron (Mr. Kerwin) make it down to their underwear, an unfortunate phone call throws a wrench into the swinging works. Here, at least, we get to see Mr. Burns and Ms. Smith-Cameron doing a nice, prickly couple — they do strike a few sparks off one another. But this script is out of a 1970s woodbin, and it’s far too soggy to light.

Ms. May, churning out these watered-down Neil Simon bits, is a far, far cry from her “Nichols and May” days. She’s even a far cry from her “Heaven Can Wait” days — which, Academy Award nomination or no, had two funny moments. And what could have possibly persuaded MTC’s Lynne Meadow that Ms. May needed the Biltmore stage? She may be newish to Broadway programming, but despite their serious faults, at least “Drowning Crow” and “The Violet Hour” came with interesting pedigrees. Was it Elaine May’s theatrical record, which includes “Taller than a Dwarf”? Surely not. Or her misunderstood work on “Ishtar”?

It passes understanding that money and effort went into producing these three one-acts, each one as wobbly as a baby foal. Almost as difficult to fathom: Ms. May continues her long-running trend of writing for her daughter, Jeannie Berlin. Whining in a blank-eyed fog of self-absorption, Ms. Berlin clearly doesn’t hear a word her fellow actors are saying. Ms. May, who cannot seem to lift her pen without delving into neurosis and sex, writes lines for her daughter in both pieces, focusing on her “fantastic body.” This description is squirm-worthy, and hearing it twice doesn’t make it true.

Director Daniel Sullivan and designer John Lee Beatty both act with their customary professionalism. Certainly, all the interiors look as they should, and they both have a little fun with moving platforms in “Giving Up Smoking.” Neither of them, though, will be remembered for the work here, and for that they will probably be grateful.

Some effort should be put into discovering why a goodly portion of the audience I was in applauded stuff that would be rejected from a middle-tier sitcom. One thing Ms. May’s long, bumpy career in the movies has not knocked out of her: the rhythm of a joke. The humor may have long ago leached away, but the shave-and-a-haircut sound of a funny line does still remain. For theatergoers marinated in television, those rhythms cue laugh tracks, and now, even in a live experience, they respond with laughter themselves. Finally, a new use for our depreciating dollars: paying to be on a laugh track. Ha.

Until July 3 (261 W. 47th Street, 212-239-6200).