At its best, “Relatively Speaking,” the anthology that opened last night on Broadway, is middling; at its worst, it’s shockingly bad. The biggest problem is that these comedies are woefully unfunny. Considering at least two of the three contributors, Woody Allen and Elaine May, are known for their quips, you’ll be hard-pressed to find many decent jokes in the show. So few are good enough to be quoted that one of Marlo Thomas’ lines (“What will I do? I don’t have the depth to feel this bad”) pops up in several reviews, including mine.

But what bugged me the most is the cynicism of the whole enterprise. Of course, Broadway producers are running a business and want our money, but they shouldn’t take theater audiences for a bunch of fools.

Having seen Ethan Coen’s theater work at the Atlantic, I know he can do better than his piece in “Relatively Speaking.” The 30-minute one-acter feels dashed off, as if he was half-heartedly fulfilling a requirement.

Woody Allen’s offering is downright puzzling. Allen seems to have two distinct writing styles: one for the movies and one for The New Yorker. The films have enjoyed a renaissance after a bad slump in the 1990s, while the essays have become downright painful, reflecting a humor that stopped evolving in the early 1970s. Read collections like “Without Feathers” and you’ll get an idea of the vibe in his current piece, “Honeymoon Motel.” Weirdly, Allen’s last full-length play, the family drama “A Second Hand Memory,” was a departure in style, and enjoyable in a ripe, melodramatic way. “Honeymoon Motel” is a big step backwards in every respect.

Elaine May’s contribution is marginally better, but like the other two, it feels as if it could have been written years, if not decades, ago. And not in a good, timeless way, but in a bad, dated way.