THE story of recent American theatre has been, to a large extent, the

story of folk at the bottom of the pile trying to scramble their way up

the ladder -- and more often than not, slipping back down again. David

Epstein's new Jersey-based comedy is no exception. Epstein's three bums

are, to put it mildly, not having a good day.

Setting out to hold a small party in their hoodlum-run bar, two of

them encounter a larger fry hurtling towards them, pushed out of a

window by their Mr Big. Later we learn one of them has squandered all

their money on a soya bean equities gamble, later still that they've

even botched a kidnap job. Their personal lives are in a lousy state,

too.

So do this trio of no-hopers have anything going for them? To begin

with, not a lot. Even the redoubtable Mike McShane has trouble heaving

his way through sexist and racist lines that fall to the earth, like the

unfortunate be-ringed gangster, with a dull thud. If you are going to be

really obnoxious, do it with style.

The second half, however, sees a drastic shift of emotional gear.

Losers they may be but you can't in the end, not feel a growing sense of

compassion for these wild-eyed friends who wonder how life has brought

them to this pitch. ''The past is history. We'll go on from here,'' says

Kevin McNally's racy, slick-suited Botts with desperate stoicism. To

which, so saying, his two side kicks, Steven O'Shea's weasel-faced

Merola and McShane's Bompkee appropriately swivel their frames round and

turn their backs on us.