Thom Pain (based on nothing)

C

It has been 13 years since playwright Will Eno (The Open House, The Realistic Joneses) took New York by storm with this extended monologue that received an ecstatic review from then Times critic Charles Isherwood, who described it as “stand-up existentialism” and dubbed Eno “a Samuel Beckett for the Jon Stewart generation.” The play became a hot ticket, a Pulitzer contender, and the topic of heated arguments at cocktail parties. I was not one of its fans, but could not resist Signature Theatre’s revival because the star Michael C. Hall (The Realistic Joneses, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, “Dexter”) is an actor whose work I have long admired. Knowing more or less what to expect this time around, I could relax and enjoy a fine actor at work without a sense of disappointment at the play’s circularities and teases. The script reminds me of the comic “Peanuts,” with Lucy repeatedly pulling the ball before Charlie Brown can kick it. Thom repeatedly promises the audience something and then abruptly retracts it or begins a story that he never finishes. Clearly in pain, he alternately charms and alienates the audience. Fragments from his life story including a childhood trauma and a failed romance give a few clues as to the reasons for his state of mind. Lodged amidst the self-laceration and passive aggression are some very funny bits. Michael C. Hall has more charm and less menace than I recall from James Urbaniak’s 2005 performance, which takes some edge off the play. I question Signature’s decision to put it on their largest stage, because it needs intimacy to have its full effect. From the third row, I saw nuances that may have been lost several rows back. The set by Amy Rubin (Miles for Mary) turns the stage and large parts of the theater into a construction site, complete with ladders, tarps, a scaffold, and an onstage excavation. The relevance of this concept to the play is questionable at best. For me, it was one more example of what seems to be a trend this season — overloading a play with dubious visual distractions such as the set for Good Grief and the furniture-moving chorus in The Hard Problem. Did director Oliver Butler (The Open House, What the Constitution Means to Me) not trust that the play itself was enough to hold our interest? If the thought of a rambling 65-minute rant does not appeal to you, skip it. If you are a Michael C. Hall fan, you’ll want to catch it.