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To sum up the plot of God of Carnage, at the Bernard Jacobs Theatre, would go something like this: Two nice couples argue over their sons’ fight, eat, drink, spend a lot of time contemplating the fate of a pet hamster, and engage in a physical bit of repulsive stage business more commonly seen in Farrelly Brothers movies. To sum up the themes of the play, re-read the title.

Set in real-time in a comfortable Brooklyn suburb, "God of Carnage" is a 90-minute volleyball game, and whoever gets the last spike rules the living rooms of the world. Brutal in its decimation of civil society, Yasmina Reza has crafted a clever play whose ultimate success is achieved through the talents of four expert actors and one whiz of a director. Matthew Warchus, who warp-speeded last season’s "Boeing-Boeing," goes off on another tangent here, unearthing the middle-class characters so that, even when sitting silently in comfortable chairs, they’re ready to blow. His hand-grenade directorial style is matched by four of Broadway’s current best, each one filling out their part like a suicide bomber turning on his own.

Jeff Daniels, Hope Davis, James Gandolfini, and Marcia Gay Harden are equal pros onstage, all of them taking turns in the spotlight, then ceding it to their co-stars. "God of Carnage" is the kind of play where every line is held accountable to the main action and each beat depends on the support and follow-through of the next one. Under anything but expert hands, the play would sink faster than the Titanic. Luckily, these guys sail like they’re after the World Cup.

Invited over to discuss the altercation between their two boys, Alan and Annette (Daniels and Davis), a lawyer and a wealth-management consultant, are treated to refreshments by Michael and Veronica (Gandolfini and Gay Harden); he’s in plumbing, she’s writing a book about Darfur. Not surprisingly, things get really ugly, then take a turn for the worse; tulips fly, drinks are tossed -- as is something far more vile -- and everything in the brick and blood-red room (Mark Thompson’s sprawling set has the primary color extending to the heavens) looks like rebels just machete’d their way through the village. Alan’s never-ceasing cell-phone calls are almost as annoying as Michael’s Mom’s landline calls, and Annette and Veronica end up like a pair of Roller Derby queens. Still, the audience laughs (loudly), perhaps finding pieces of themselves safely beyond the stage ropes.

The cast and crew of "Carnage" are so good that you’re likely to miss the flaws, and they’re hidden among the delightful wreckage. Reza, whose work has been translated from French by Christopher Hampton, misses opportunities to bring out anything but the basics of these people, usually relying on the physical when it’s time for a mood change. As such, any resemblance to "Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf" is surface glow. The 20th century playwriting pool has already taught us that lawyers are greedy, intellectuals are animals, and anyone who lives in a comfortable suburban home is bursting from the seams.

Setups, such as one involving Veronica’s swigging from a bottle of rum, are put aside instead of explored, and there’s one huge flub involving the abandonment of Alan’s lifeline. (Lawyers don’t give up as easily as Reza would have us believe.) It’s also disappointing whenever collapsing on the floor is used as a mechanism to signify a character’s defeat.

Where Reza and Warchus both misstep is in the final scene, which tells the audience to reflect on what they’ve witnessed. Instead of heightening any profundity, it deflates the ride, so the audience catches their breath before the curtain comes down. "God of Carnage" is such a dizzying panorama of American life, the smartest way to go would be to leave us on one final, unexpected drop.