The first thing I think of when I hear David Mamet’s name is Steve Martin in a black suit. Glengarry Glen-what? This should give you an idea of how much of a Mamet-phile I am. Funny, then, that the new revival of his 1988 play Speed-the-Plow turned out to be exactly what I expected: a brisk satire of Hollywood featuring a minuscule cast of characters shooting angry repartee at each other within confined settings.

This play’s first production in 1988 was completely overshadowed by the fact that Madonna starred as its leading lady. Now, in this first-ever Broadway revival, fans of cable TV drama have their day as the stars of Entourage, Mad Men and Pushing Daisies comprise the entire cast. Yes, that’s Jeremy Piven reprising his TV role as lovably abrasive Hollywood agent, Elizabeth Moss reprising hers as meek but quietly ambitious secretary, and Raul Esparza just being fucking angry all the time. Get that man some coffee, please.

The plot is barely there. Charlie Fox (Esparza) delivers to his boss Bobby Gould (Piven) a big-time movie star contract to make a loud, dumb, “titillating” action film. Temp secretary Karen (Moss) almost foils their plans by sleeping with Gould and trying to get him to produce an artsy novel about the end of the world. We all know who wins in a play this cynical, and the plot is beside the point. People see Mamet plays because of the dialogue, right?

As with any good Mamet play, the dialogue moves so fast that you often won’t have time to register what anyone’s saying. Roughly half of it consists of characters cutting each other off mid-sentence. What you do hear drips with sarcastic wit and disdain for Hollywood and its market-driven business models. “Make the thing everyone made last year,” Gould explains to his naïve secretary. “It’s more than what they want. It is what they require.”

Speed-the-Plow is a diatribe that speaks through its characters. Gould patiently explains to Karen the concept of the “courtesy read”—he reads the artsy book so he can have something intelligent to say about it when he inevitably rejects it. The final third act is the most riveting as his crisis of conscience, brought about by Karen’s sincere enthusiasm for the book (well, maybe the sex, too), results in a three-way battle between him, Karen and Fox, who flies into rage when he learns that Gould wants to jettison him to make the art film.

Punches are thrown, blood spatters, bullets of sarcasm fill the air, catching poor, hapless Gould in their crossfire. He just wants to do something good, he says pathetically, something important…who wouldn’t understand that? He doesn’t get it; Fox does. What’s good in Hollywood is the moneymaking.

I suspect people who see this already know they’re seeing a play instead of a movie, right? In that sense, Mamet isn’t winning anyone over, but this wicked little show is just the thing to get those audience members punching the air and yelling “amen!” at every zinging barb he chucks toward Hollywood’s bigwigs.