A romantic comedy? At Steppenwolf. It's been a while. Was Frankie and Johnny last season? Whatever, it's nice to see the folks here throw themselves wholeheartedly into John Kolvenbach's Love Song with just as much gusto as some of the darker fare audiences to this theatre might be more familiar with.

That isn't to say that this new show doesn't have its edgier moments. First off, what at first appears to be a straightforward, almost formulaic rom com shows its darker side sometime in the n most of what you've seen up to this point. Until then, however, the four character play is pretty second act, when an M. Night Shymalan type twist changes your perspective o straightforward. Ian Barford, a familiar face on this stage, is so depressed, he hardly speaks. His day mostly consists of sitting in his empty apartment, and occasionally stopping by the lofty condo that belongs to his sister and her husband. Always dependable, Molly Regan bites into the role of the loving sister who is also a hard as nails lawyer. Her more lackadaisical hubby, avuncular Frances Guinan trades barbs with her, in a kind of light version of Albee's George and Martha. Then, one night, in his slummy apartment, a visitor appears to our depressed hero. She is a petty thief, an ill-tempered borderline personality, and a perfect match.

The unlikely romance blossoms, and what was once a grey depression, is now sunshine and lollipops. Mariann Mayberry, she of the kewpie doll by way of lawn mower voice, is the right match for this somewhat otherworldly creature. Director Austin Pendleton masters some of the interplay between the characters, but fumbles on some of the simpler tasks. A scene in which Guinan must carry a too-full glass of wine without spilling is awkward and sitcom-y. Really, by the end of Act I, the two couples are on their way to The End. And, in Act II, the newfound happiness and joi de vivre has helped our George and Martha to love life again; they play hooky from work and have sex.

The pleasure of their change grows weary in an extended scene, where they trade unconvincing sexy barbs, and luxuriate in doing nothing. Are these people for real? Meanwhile, an even longer scene involves the two new lovers trading quips about how wonderful it would be to become one, again, not in this world. And, apparently, they aren't, as that unfortunate twist comes, and redefines all that has gone before. The fact that the twist is one that has been used too many times before, and leads to a predictable, unconvincing, and, worse, unmoving climactic moment makes it an even sorrier and more disappointing move. Why couldn't the author have trusted his characters enough, even with their artificial types, to let the drama play out as they demand?