After Disgraced, a critical self-examination of Islam in the 21st century; The Invisible Hand, which dramatized how Islamic terrorism and our money-obsessed world converge; and Junk, a sprawling but meticulous look at the roots of our current financial culture, Ayad Akhtar returns with his latest play, McNeal, about A.I. and ethical honesty that’s provocative and pertinent but a distinct dropoff from those earlier works.

 

American novelist Jacob McNeal (Robert Downey Jr. in his Broadway debut) has just won the Nobel Prize for literature and is finishing a new novel. His art is at its pinnacle, but his personal life is a shambles: his wife Jessica committed suicide, which his adult son Harlan (Rafi Gavron) blames him for. And, as the play starts, his doctor Sahra (Ruthie Ann Miles) admonishes him that, after decades of alcohol abuse, liver failure is imminent. 

 

However, McNeal treats his messy—and unwoke—personal life as a small price to pay for a successful career. When his loyal agent Stephie (the always lively Andrea Martin) secures a New York Times Magazine cover profile about his new book, McNeal flippantly raises the ire of his interviewer, the young, hungry Natasha (Brittany Bellizeare), by namedropping Harvey Weinstein, calling her a diversity hire, and generally acting like an arrogant, entitled prick. 

 

That he also brazenly stole from his dead wife’s unpublished manuscript and used ChatGPT to barf out reams of pages under his name unmasks the biggest flaw in Akhtar’s play. Although again choosing a subject ripe for dissection in our endlessly fragmented world—A.I. centers many breast-beating discussions about artistic originality and ownership—Akhtar has placed at McNeal’s center someone undeserving such a spotlight.

 

There’s intelligence, humor and occasional insight in McNeal, alongside a nagging feeling that Jacob McNeal himself could have been coughed up by ChatGPT itself. Epigrams from Sophocles and Nietzsche introduce the play’s script—too bad contrivance and caricature rule. When McNeal shockingly suggests Jessica’s love for Harlan may have been incestuous, this weird accusation is immediately dropped, unconvincingly making it just another example of how nasty McNeal can be. Downey, in his Broadway debut, infuses McNeal with a charming roguishness, but his sardonic edge is blunted by conventional writing. 

 

Bartlett Sher’s slick staging is dominated by Jake Barton’s excellent projections, which envelop us in the overwhelming virtual world. Barton also collaborated with Michael Yeargan on the sleekly clever set design, and Donald Holder’s exquisite lighting and Justin Ellington and Beth Lake’s inventive sound design also contribute to the frame that more effectively illustrates what McNeal has become than Akhtar’s script. 

 

Aside from Martin, the supporting cast is underutilized; even Gavron’s Harlan has one angry gear. By play’s end, these characters are reduced to hovering in the background, as in a meeting between McNeal and Francine (Melora Hardin), veteran Times reporter and Natasha’s mentor, with whom he had an affair. That scene, in which Francine berates McNeal for mining their intimate relationship for his book, feels like an uncertain, tacked-on attempt to give closure to a meandering story. McNeal is a rare misfire for a playwright who’s usually strongly attuned to our complicated present moment.