MARSHALL, Mich.–For cranky theatre-goers who think they’ve seen enough Neil Simon, Laughter on the 23rd Floor at Great Escape Stage Company will be a nice surprise. And it’s likely those who haven’t yet tired of Neil Simon will be at least as equally delighted with this lively, smart, funny show that gets it right the great majority of the time.

One might think the way writers work may be infinitely more interesting to writers (who write about it) than general audiences, but evidence proves otherwise. Reality show The Writers’ Room from Sundance Television has an audience, and Laughter on the 23rd Floor, which precedes it by a couple decades, also provides real drama and humor to capture our attention.

It debuted on Broadway in 1993, was produced as a television film in 2001 starring Nathan Lane, and a stage revival opened in Philadelphia in 2011, also starring Lane.

Like Simon’s most celebrated works, Laughter on the 23rd Floor is nostalgic, sentimental, and a little bit political, capturing elements of its time. Set in the golden age of television, this Roman á clef centers on a few key days in the lives of the writing team working on “The Max Prince Show,” a fictionalized sketch comedy and variety show that more than resembles Sid Caesar’s “Your Show of Shows,” the popular 1950s on which Neil Simon got his start, working alongside comic greats such as Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner.

The humor is both high brow and low brow with literary references (“I love it when you talk like Gertrude Stein,” Brian says to Kenny in response to “Nobody hates Max like Max hates Max.”) as well as bathroom humor (there’s urination in an office plant and farting one’s way out of trouble). There’s a little something for everyone.

Conflict arises when the network begins pulling back, little by little. Against the frightening backdrop of McCarthyism, the group of white ethnic comedy writers fear for their jobs if not more. The higher ups worry the comedy is too sophisticated for Middle America, and cut the show from 90 to 60 minutes. Then, they demand one of the writers get the axe. Things don’t look good for the future.

There may be nowhere more “Middle America” than Marshall, Michigan, and there’s beautiful irony in how well this show plays here now, more than 20 years after the show was first produced, nearly 65 years later than its setting.

Director Randy Lake keeps the action moving and draws great energy and the right tone from this talented cast. As scenic designer, his budget-conscious set is attractive, functional, and peppered with authentic mid-century modern furniture. There’s rarely a lull in this two and a half hour show and the myriad one liners resonate.

The cast of 9 juggles accents that range from Irish to Russian to Brooklyn as well as hilarious situational stakes. Some accents are better than others, and a few anachronistic costume and hair choices cause minor distraction, but most notable is how this cast works together as an ensemble to create a wildly funny and convincing rapport and enormous personalities that try to “outcrazy” each other in the boiling pot of the writers room.

Timothy Lake is larger than life as an on-edge Max who inspires equal parts admiration and fear in the writing team. He does, indeed, seem to be losing his mind, harassing his writers with midnight phone calls and punching holes in walls during work hours—all of it fueled by scotch and tranquilizers. He embodies the way one of the characters describes Max: “Max didn’t tell jokes. He was just funny.” Lake’s bug eyes and bulbous belly provide a sight gag that would work even if he wore pants (which he doesn’t, for the entirety of Act I). His performance is all-out, and it utterly hits the mark.

Morris Arvoy matches Lake’s full commitment and energy in Ira, the show’s next most wild character. He nails the Yiddish-influenced Brooklyn accent and Mel Brooks inspired hypochondria. He’s the most valuable asset in the writers room and on stage, also the most infuriating. Arvoy captures all of this wonderfully, and is a terrific physical comedian.

Richard Philpot’s philandering Milt and Nate Cox’s sell-out Irish-American Brian also play their roles exquisitely, fully expressing their respective quirks, sass, and quick banter with excellent timing. John Sherwood’s Russian Val gets the character more than the accent, and Kim Forde’s Carol, the token woman of the group who longs to be known as a writer rather than a “woman writer,” fits the bill for the most part, though the role is written for a younger woman and her rectangular bed pillow pregnancy is laughable in a way the script didn’t intend.

But by and large this show works beautifully. It’s clear there’s a little bit of magic working here. It’s the right script for this company and its audiences, and the alchemy between actors is palpable. When one of the writers declares, “Maybe we’ll never have this much fun again in our entire lives,” it rings utterly true.

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