The Atheist

When this play premiered in Boston, J. Peter Bergman, writing for EdgeBoston.com, called Augustine Early, the anti-hero of Irish playwright Ronan Noone's one-man show The Atheist, "the most memorable new hero/villain in recent memory."

Well, as they say, that's what makes it a horse race.

Because I'm afraid I have to take a respectful stance and disagree. I found this to be one of the most tedious, ill-assembled, undramatic, unbelievable nights in the theater in some time. The only interesting thing about this one-man show is how an actor of Campbell Scott's ability and stature ever became interested (or was roped into) this travesty.

Early weaves a shaggy dog story (did I say shaggy dog--this is bouvier des Flandres-level shaggy) of a man who, even as a boy, was enterprising enough to burn down his trailor-park home so that he and Mom could move into a fancy apartment in town. He beds a gal, a wannabe actress, and happens to discover a camera in her bathroom that the apparently dozens of other tenants of her apartment never seem to have noticed, which leads to her on-site landlord, the local congressman, who is more than forthcoming with all details of his voyeur hobby, which leads to him to a big 72-point front-page newspaper scoop, which leads him to glamor (as a local-yokel newspaper man?!?), which leads him to bedding the now-widowed congressman's wife, which leads him to ...

Oh, who the hell cares? The story goes on and on and on, through two acts, one intermission, with the audience stupified at the end. At Noone's relentlessly anachronistic vision (it must be contemporary, because the congressman launches his campaign with a "www.Whatever," but Early strives above all for a job as a beat reporter). At the ridiculous plot, which meanders all over the place without actually going anywhere. At the set-up for the whole "break down the fourth wall" thing. At the alternately stilted and demotic writing, which would resemble the king's English of Damon Runyon's lowlifes if Damon Runyon had completely forgotten how to write engagingly.

There are so many holes in this play, it's like Sarah Palin at an FBI shooting range. Anyway, Campbell Scott, who retains the boyish charm that made him a gay icon in movies like "Longtime Companion," does as much as he can with the role, which isn't very much, but if anyone could do anything, I guess it would be Scott. I just hope and pray he returns to the boards in New York next time in a vehicle worthy of his talents.

After the play, which seemed like light years, as I was washing down the taste with a Village gelato, I heard two men on the street talking about how and why the actor would take such a lousy role in such a lousy play. I didn't have to overhear more to know whaty they had just seen.