A.R. Gurney’s play about a playwright (William Parker Shore) who writes a play about his family and goes home to get their blessing on it is pleasantly (as opposed to mind-bendingly or self-admiringly) meta, what with its talk of how such a work ought to have a big confrontation to end the first act just before the big confrontation that ends the first act, etc. Scribbler John’s parents Bradley and Ann are big enough fans of the theater that they know what they’re most likely in for in these anything goes days of the mid-‘70s: all their skeletons yanked from their closets and sent skittering across the stage for the world’s amusement and/or mockery. Dad is particularly worried, in part because he’s an actor himself, playing the role of Pillar of Society and Preserver of Civilization when the facts are that he doesn’t come from money, his own father killed himself, and his beloved titular time period, the one that is meant to glue society together with convivial conversation, is instead dissolving it under splash after splash of gin, Scotch, and various other tipples. So naturally, that’s when the play we see here takes place. It’s a delicate piece of work: we’re in Buffalo, New York, not hothouse South, meaning that rage and hate must give way to their more reserved cousins, annoyance and frustrated love. Director Dennis Floyd seems to understand this, maybe a little too well: the pain of certain exchanges didn’t register with me until I considered them apart from their presentation. When their time comes to skitter, the skeletons are a mite too polite. And while it’s son John who’s on the quest to find out What Went Wrong, it’s Dad who owns the show. That’s not a bad thing, though: David Janisch lends heart and humor (and a rich trombone of a voice) to a sad man who would never want to do the damage he does, if only he could see it.