‘23rd Floor’ Provides Its Own Laugh Track . . . Ba-Dum-Bum : Theater review: Howard Hesseman is a standout in Neil Simon’s play about a comedy team firing off quips.

Neil Simon’s one-liners have never been more appropriate than in “Laughter on the 23rd Floor.” The play at the Doolittle Theatre is about a bunch of comedy writers--stray quips go with the territory.

The characters frequently salute their own jokes with the exclamation “Ba-dum-bum.” Before the evening is over, there are a lot of these verbal rim shots. And there’s also a lot of laughter.

Much of this laughter is inspired by the antics of Howard Hesseman as Max Prince, star of an NBC sketch comedy series in 1953. Simon based the play on his own experiences as a young writer for Sid Caesar’s shows.

Still, Simon didn’t probe nearly as deeply into his past here as he did in his “Brighton/Biloxi/Broadway” trilogy. “Laughter on the 23rd Floor” is simply an affectionate, nostalgic memoir of good times.

True, the writers on the Prince show sometimes fret about McCarthyism. When Max wants to do a sketch that would specifically target McCarthy, the writers assure him it could never get on the air. But this doesn’t seriously dampen their morale. Nor does it interrupt their work or make them nervous--they can invent their own interruptions and neuroses, thank you very much.

The darkest shadow on their good times is the usual network pressure for maximizing profits by appealing to the lowest common denominator. At one point it looks as if one of the writers will have to be laid off to save money. But the problem is resolved with no fuss, long before it becomes a crisis.

Throughout the play, Simon keeps the network pressure safely and completely faceless, existing only to be jeered from a distance. At the climax of the first act, Max discusses the network desire to put an “observer” on the set and what that might mean. It’s such a funny speech that it sets up expectations of even greater laughs when the NBC flunky shows up. But that never happens--at least not in the play itself.

The main conflicts are over the subject of who is funnier. And when Hesseman’s Max is in the room, that isn’t much of a contest.

Hesseman was an audacious choice for the role. Nathan Lane, who first played it, is much closer to the “early 30s” age described in the script. As the series is breaking up near the end, Max consoles the group by pointing out that “we’re all young,” but this Max doesn’t look young. Although we’ve seen him deceiving himself on other subjects, it seems unlikely that he would pretend he’s still a spring chicken. Nonetheless, taken as a whole, this scene is more poignant because of this implied self-deception.

Elsewhere, Hesseman works up a remarkable head of comic steam. He has mastered the dislocated timing of an absent-minded comic genius. His ability to express mounting wrath by quickly turning crimson is a physical marvel worthy of the Cirque du Soleil. And his caricatures of Winston Churchill and Marlon Brando are worthy of, well, Sid Caesar.

The quality of the writers’ roles is all over the map. Lewis J. Stadlen is very funny as the sartorially obsessed Milt, the retorts champion. Lanky Michael Countryman plays Val, a Russian emigre who still has his accent from the old country, with winning charm, although it’s a little hard to believe he’s the head writer. J.K. Simmons’ Irish American Brian has a wide, elastic brow that translates easily into a road map of which jokes are funny and which aren’t.

Going head-to-head with Max, late in the play, is Ira, a hypochondriac who always arrives late. The role is mired in repetition. We grow as impatient with Ira’s over-the-top riffs as the other characters do. Alan Blumenfeld brings the requisite comic energy to the role, but it still seems artificial.

Anthony Cummings’ Kenny has a dry wit, but Matthew Arkin’s narrator Lucas, the staff novice, just seems dry. Is this more or less the same character who narrated the “Brighton/Biloxi/Broadway” trilogy, graduating to professional comedy during “Broadway Bound”? He should be.

There are two women onstage. Writer Carol’s (Alison Martin) only distinctive shtick revolves around her pregnancy, and then she gets to complain that she’s being treated as a woman. But if that’s ironic, look at secretary Helen (Michelle Schumacher). She talks like a New York cliche, gets an awkward scene designed to expose her witlessness, then ends up (we’re told) in law school.

Jerry Zaks directed, his second show in this final Ahmanson-at-the-Doolittle season (“Smokey Joe’s Cafe” was his other credit). Leave ‘em laughing.

* “Laughter on the 23rd Floor,” Doolittle Theatre, 1615 N. Vine St., Hollywood. Tuesdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Saturdays, Sundays, 2 p.m.; Sundays, 7 p.m. through May 28; Thursdays, 2 p.m. June 1-July 6. Ends July 9. $15-$47.50. (213) 365-3500 or (714) 740-2000. Running time: 2 hours, 25 minutes.