The studio walls of Cleveland’s WTLK radio — the setting for Eric Bogosian’s potent “Talk Radio” — are covered in soundproofing as far as the eye can see. The yards upon yards of padding that make up much of Mark Wendland’s imposing all-black set, it seems, would successfully muffle Armageddon.

Barry Champlain, however, is another matter.

A predictably unpredictable deejay with a gift for suffering fools gleefully, Barry sees himself as part court jester, part sin eater, part voice in the wilderness. His coworkers see him as part con man, part oracle, part train wreck. They’re both right, and director Robert Falls reveals these and many other personae in Mr. Bogosian’s pungent if occasionally flabby marathon of late-night verbal combat. Aided enormously by a terrific performance from Liev Schreiber, Mr. Falls’s welloiled production sees to it that this infuriating opportunist in truth-teller’s clothing remains wickedly entertaining company.

“Talk Radio” represented a new direction for Mr. Bogosian when he wrote the play in 1987. By creating a steady stream of input from other characters, albeit unseen ones, the acclaimed monologist shared the spotlight for a change. And for this revival — the author’s Broadway debut, believe it or not — he has passed the baton entirely, casting the galvanizing Mr. Schreiber in the brutally demanding role of a charismatic contrarian repeatedly forced to play both straight man and wild man, often simultaneously, with almost no interruption for 100 minutes.

Spalding Gray, Mr. Bogosian’s fellow icon in late-20th-century solo performance, described his own subject matter as “the poetics of anxiety.” That pretty much describes the precarious relationship that Barry maintains with the menagerie of “Night Talk” listeners who call in to pick fights, gush, ramble, complain, pontificate, threaten, and otherwise unburden themselves. (These lonely souls are brought to vivid life by six talented actors — Christine Pedi, Christy Pusz, Barbara Rosenblat, Adam Sietz, Marc Thompson, and Cornell Womack — all of whom also appear in tiny onstage roles.) There’s the occasional call about the Cleveland Indians or about pooper-scoopers, but most of Mr. Bogosian’s graveyard shift confessors cover more treacherous ground.

“I’m here to lead you by the hand,” Barry explains, “through the dark forest of your own hatred and anger and humiliation.” Unlike most of the talk radio giants who have emerged in the 21 years since “Talk Radio” made its premiere, Barry can’t be slotted easily into any political category beyond a sort of all-purpose libertarian cantankerousness. As long as he can argue with the caller — and Barry finds a way to cross swords with all of them, even the ones who call in to praise him — he’s happy. (“Nothing more boring than people who love you.”) But a series of crises, including a bomb threat from a white supremacist and the promise/threat of national syndication, force Barry to confront just what has led him into that forest alongside his furious, faceless combatants.

Mr. Bogosian gave his script a fairly rigorous going-over for the 1988 Oliver Stone film, and several of those modifications have made their way onto the Longacre Theatre stage. In each instance — a desperate on-air phone call from Linda (Stephanie March), Barry’s producer and plaything, in addition to the bomb threat — he has retained only those portions that keep the action within the dingy, all-black confines of the studio. Topical references to George H.W. Bush, Oliver North, and the like have also been included; these additions, like the others, are welcome additions.

The ringleader at the play’s center, however, remains unchanged, although Mr. Schreiber gives Barry a new level of wary malevolence. Lulling his callers with insincere sympathy, chuckling at his own provocations, ingesting a steady steam of cigarettes and Jack Daniels and Pepto-Bismol, Mr. Schreiber creates an interpretation that is as hypnotic in the flesh as his disembodied voice is to his listeners. During the few moments that Barry is off the air, Mr. Schreiber (whose last foray into 1980s-vintage alpha-maledom, in the “Glengarry Glen Ross” revival, won him a Tony Award) ratchets his speaking voice upward; this soft, slightly nasal tenor makes Barry’s radio persona all the more suspect and yet all the more compelling.

A trio of expository monologues remain in place as three of his coworkers — Linda, the hard-partying engineer Stu (Michael Laurence), and the tolerant station manager Dan (Peter Hermann) — each step forward and jabber about how interesting/mysterious/frustrating/self-destructive they find Barry Champlain. Have they missed everything that has happened on stage thus far? Can Messrs. Bogosian and Falls possibly think these intrusive and uninvolving spiels have anything to offer that the charged “Night Talk” calls haven’t already conveyed? It doesn’t help that, of the three actors enlisted to deliver them, only Mr. Hermann carves out a fully convincing performance; Ms. March makes the mildest of impressions, and Mr. Laurence’s rock-and-roll shtick quickly grows tiresome.

Mr. Falls does a fine job enlivening the necessarily static act of sitting at a microphone, but he stumbles with the arrival of Chet (Sebastian Stan), a hopped-up youth who comes to the station for a live chat. His arrival is meant to signify a turning point, as Barry soon loses control of both his callers and his own emotions. But Mr. Stan’s performance, while diverting, lacks the unpredictable menace that this pivotal segue requires.

Even without it, though, Mr. Schreiber twists Barry’s arrogance, helplessness, and self-loathing into a memorable freefall. Barry’s bulging cheeks redden with strain, his satisfied chuckle expands into an unhinged laugh, and he’s even willing to commit the cardinal sin of radio: sending total silence over the airwaves for an agonizing 45 seconds. After the seismic waves of invective that Messrs. Schreiber and Bogosian have hit us with, the quiet is a source of both relief and unease. But the feeling is short-lived: He’ll be back. And this time America will be listening.

Open run (220 W. 48th St., between Broadway and Eighth Avenue, 212-239-6200).