When a wayward young son returns home unexpectedly, his family’s initial euphoria can rapidly shift into discomfort: What are they to do with him now?

This ill-at-ease feeling lurks beneath the jokes in “Return of the Prodigal,” the 1905 St. John Hankin play now being resurrected by the Mint. At first, it’s funny to watch the likable prodigal Eustace Jackson (Roderick Hill) milking the situation for all it’s worth. His felinelike laziness is a particular affront to his by-the-book English father (Richard Kline) and his hilariously square older brother, Henry (Bradford Cover, in fine form).

But soon it becomes apparent that Eustace has no intention of working. Convinced (after numerous false starts in Australia) he is unable to make his living, he plans to live off the labors of his father — as his father, he argues, lives off the labors of his factory workers. And to get his allowance, he will resort to blackmail if necessary.

If all this seems a bit heavy for a drawing-room comedy, it is, and there are times when the play sags under the weight of the various ideologies being promenaded through the salon. The Jacksons and their friends are the kind of upper-crust snobs who make crude remarks about the large families of the poor. Father and Henry are spokesmen for the necessity of hard work, while sister Violet (Leah Curney) has a startling speech about the plight of the unmarried woman.

Eustace himself comes off as a cynical nihilist who despises the family firm but sees no reason why he shouldn’t siphon funds from it. Still, at moments the play suggests a heart to this lounge lizard — he nobly offers not to steal his brother’s intended bride, and displays authentic compassion for his sister — but the writing and Mr. Hill’s performance combine to make it difficult to distinguish Eustace’s sincerity from his manipulations.

Mixed in among the speeches and dramatic confrontations are wry comic exchanges and bits of funny business. The result is that “Return of the Prodigal” has plenty of fascinations, but no identifiable consistency. It’s not a black comedy, exactly — it veers too far into drama for that. But neither is it persuasive as a straight drama; it seeks too brazenly to score laughs.

Jonathan Banks’s direction doesn’t help matters. Having placed the actors on a non-specific contemporary set and cut antiquated references from the play, Mr. Banks achieves a certain contemporaneousness, but doesn’t go far enough. Lounging about, Eustace wears loud hipster shirts, but he doesn’t play Nintendo games or watch TV — he reads and does a crossword puzzle. His sister’s social constraints are clearly stamped with 1905, as is the plan to send the prodigal to Australia (again) to make his fortune.

In his eagerness to remove the play from its time period, Mr. Banks has inadvertently stripped away its context. What remains is a fairly sterile environment. The set, done in beachy colors, is rather blank, as is the flat lighting — an effect reinforced by a mystifying decision to costume all the characters in off-white for the first act. (Thereafter, they wear a wide range of colors.)

The main problem with “Return of the Prodigal,” however, lies on the page: The stream of ideas and characters never quite adds up to one play. There is one perfectly exhilarating presence, the sharptongued, unapologetic Lady Farringford (a wonderfully snappy Kate Levy), who, to our great chagrin, ends up being little more than window dressing. The compelling figure of the kind, vague mother (Tandy Cronyn) is likewise left hovering on the fringes of the action.

Yet for all its flaws, “Return of the Prodigal” dares to engage its demoralized young slacker with unexpected intensity. Seeing it on the same weekend as the Judd Apatow comedy “Knocked Up,” I was struck by the contrast between Mr. Apatow’s happy, harmless slackers who eventually figure things out on their own and Hankin’s Eustace, who remains angry and despondent over his failure to get the things other young men have acquired. “Nobody wants to sponge on other people!” Eustace cries at one point. “We all want to be prosperous and highly respected members of society. I’m good for nothing, as you say. But don’t imagine I like it!” It’s in moments like these that “Return of the Prodigal,” imperfect as it is, draws you in by the force of its brutal, uncomfortable honesty.

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