It’s become a cliche to lump Richard Foreman together with Jay-Z and Roger Clemens, but the similarities have become impossible to ignore. Like the favorite son of Marcy Projects and the least favorite son of Fenway Park, the tireless experimentalist Mr. Foreman has retired and then unretired with alarming speed. Less than a year after the closing of his purported swan song, “The Gods Are Pounding My Head!” Mr. Foreman has ventured back into his surrealist sandbox of choice, the Ontological Theater,with yet another logic-, narrative-, and brain-bending provocation, an enjoyably cracked head-scratcher called “Zomboid!”

The string, the Plexiglas, the bings and bloops, the flash-bulb lighting effects, the goth babes, Mr. Foreman’s own sepulchral, vaguely godlike edicts – they’re all in place in “Zomboid!” right where he left them. The only thing missing is the group of “dwarves,” the mischievous cohort of supernumeraries who have bustled around innumerable Onotlogical sets and done all the existential scut work. In their place are two large video screens.Yes, the man who wrote “Film Is Evil, Radio Is Good” in the 1980s wants to make movies.

The play’s full title, in fact, is “Zomboid! Film/Performance Project #1,” although the de-emphasis on performance is unwarranted. Mr. Foreman has filmed a series of melancholy, mildly creepy scenes in which a group of performers recite Foremanisms in a field, a stairwell, and a bare room as words intermittently flash on the screen, often as questions. (“HIDING?” “SUPPOSE?” “REMINDER?”) The two groups appear to be observing one another as these cryptic scenes unspool simultaneously with the onstage action.

And I do mean “action.” Mr. Foreman has conjured up his usual array of naughtiness, this time with four nubile-nefarious actresses (Katherine Brook, Temple Crocker, Caitlin McDonough Thayer, and Stephanie Silver), one imperious overseer (the strapping Ben Horner), and a pair of stuffed donkeys. The women bow in supplication to the donkeys while the onscreen performers look on with a concerned air. Mr. Foreman’s voice stretches the word “inevitable” into about 17-syllables. The sight of a giant strawberry wreathed in flowers inspires two of the performers to raise swords. Not long after, one stuffed donkey pays homage to “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” by getting sexy with one of the actresses.

While “Zomboid!” isn’t any less chaotic than Mr. Foreman’s other works, receptivity and contemplation are clearly on his overheated mind. A pair of large eyeballs lies on the stage, and the live and (especially) filmed performers are blindfolded at different times. As the two mediums interact, each is put in the position of observing, of reacting, in a way that invites a certain level of rumination. Mr. Foreman states his penchant for these interims in a program essay: “MOSTLY – people are interested in ‘events.’ But I find more potent, the time between events, the oscillation of the field” – a curious statement from someone who takes less time between his own theatrical events than just about anyone.

The irony here is that these reflections on reflection are coming from one of modern theater’s most controlling auteurs. Among the filmed statements is the following: “Suppose I were to postulate … time passing means things are always under control.” Is Mr. Foreman savoring the release that comes with the passage of time, or is he now determined to control the idle moments as well as the kinetic ones? (It would be curious to see how he’d handle the surrender that comes with intermission, something not to be found during the 65-minute “Zomboid!”)

How to respond to those friends and associates – everyone who’s spent more than 20 minutes in theaters below 14th Street has a few – who maintain that this is all a bunch of micromanaged hooey? Well, one of Mr. Foreman’s on-screen antipodeans has a suggestion: “An opinion must always be an internal misunderstanding.”

Or, better yet, try this from Ms. Crocker, one of his ubiquitous sinister babes (clearly the intellectual of the “Zomboid!” group, as she wears a beret): “Fly away, giant mystic donkey people!” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Until April 9 (131 E. 10th Street at Second Avenue, 212-420-1916).