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Of the Olympus-style pantheon of dead writers toasting with whiskey and Benzedrine in the heavens, Oscar Wilde, I’m willing to bet, would have the most Insta followers.

In any medium, Mr. James was compulsively loquacious, turning out essays, memoirs and novels between his countless TV appearances, like a “Benzedrine addict being held at gunpoint.”

The two took Benzedrine to keep alert; they didn’t want to get caught sleeping on the job.

The characters in this willfully anemic Atlantic Theater Company production, which opened on Monday night at the Linda Gross Theater in Manhattan, make Chekhov’s most stagnant no-hopers feel like Pollyannas on Benzedrine.

Suppose we were a bit high—keyed up with the Benzedrine, rattling through the French countryside in the moonlight, people we love and work with disappearing around us like burnt-out sparklers.