The three-hander is spliced into the minute, inconsequential segments and multiple locations beloved of television soap opera. The yawning spaces of Ashley Martin-Davis's inappropriate stage design - the back walls as high and blank as a warehouse - are regularly littered with stagehands bringing odd items of furniture on or off. Between scenes, childhood tapes of the brothers putting on a show impart a contrived air of pathos. Rupert Goold's jerkily uncomfortable production charts the collapse of relations between the Sunday Father of the title, Dan Fredenburgh's vulnerable Jed, a doting daddy and husband, and Raquel Cassidy's cool, sexy, hard-to-hear Amy who opts for another lover. The brothers' joshing, affectionate relationship unbelievably erupts into impure hatred when Alan's father leaves him little in his will. Corey Johnson's eloquent raging cannot atone for the play's dying fall or general vacuousness.