Air Rage.

When it comes to artists, ambition is a tricky business. Whereas stockbrokers and politicians may labor with certain realistic goals in mind--greater riches, a Cabinet seat--artists' rewards are more elusive. The artist, possessed by the desire to perfect what can never be perfected, lives in a kind of uneasy truce with his given medium, hammering away at his blessing and his curse: his talent.

Happily for us, the thirty-nine-year-old actor and director Liev Schreiber, despite numerous successes onstage and onscreen, still seems to dwell in that anxiety-infused state of aspiration. As Naomi Watts's feckless, emotionally sleazy lover in last year's screen adaptation of Somerset Maugham's "The Painted Veil," Schreiber had a passion and a coldness that were practically clinical; the performance was a deep study in shallowness. Onstage last summer, as the star of the Public Theatre's "Macbeth," Schreiber served up not the character we've come to expect--all manly flaws and epaulettes--but an almost childlike wannabe king, with the power he craved dangling before him like a longed-for Christmas present. Though in recent years Schreiber has frequently been cast as a villain (he picked up a Tony Award for Best Actor for his performance in the 2005 revival of David Mamet's "Glengarry Glen Ross"), he is even more effective when playing the victim. As a struggling young Jewish husband in the 1999 film "A Walk on the Moon," he had a vulnerability that made viewers almost uncomfortable; unfortunately, few people want to see a grown man shed tears of hurt rather than tears of rage.

Like Meryl Streep, who helped him put a crooked spin on the mother-son scenes in Jonathan Demme's underrated 2004 remake of "The Manchurian Candidate," Schreiber has unconventional good looks. And although he works hard to make us forget them, it is his striking appearance that first grabs the audience in the current revival of Eric Bogosian's 1987 play "Talk Radio" (at the Longacre, under the direction of Robert Falls). In a dark T-shirt, jeans, and black boots, Schreiber's Barry Champlain enters the small Cleveland radio station where he is a late-night call-in-show host, carrying a cup of coffee and a lot of attitude. He's had a hell of a time driving to work. "I'm getting one of those Dirty Harry Magnums," he tells his producer, Stu Noonan (solidly played by Michael Laurence). "Next time some fucker cuts in front of me: BOOM! That's it. Or driving ten miles an hour: BOOM! Right turn from the left lane: BOOM! There should be a competency test for drivers. If they don't pass, they get shot."

It's spring, but love is the last thing on Barry's mind. His occasional girlfriend, Linda MacArthur (Stephanie March), who works at the studio, too, tells Barry that she waited for him for "a half hour last night. In the rain." Barry couldn't care less. "See, that's you," he says. "Me? I would've left." All Barry wants is to get behind the microphone. A jolly financial adviser named Sid Greenberg (the very funny Adam Sietz) is just signing off when Barry shows up. Sid has nothing in common with Barry, who, once he takes his seat, can't keep his vitriol to himself. From the start, it's clear that Barry's listeners talk too much for his taste. After all, it's his voice, his bile, that makes radio interesting.

Barry's first call is from a transsexual named Francine. (The excellent sound design is by Richard Woodbury.) Francine says that she's trying to save up enough money to have the operation that would change everything for her. But Barry's bored already. "You're a transsexual saving up for an operation?" he chides, talking into one of his two microphones. "You're a cliche. Call Larry King in D.C. I'll give you his toll-free number." Next call, please. And so it goes until Barry finally erupts at Stu. Why can't he put through more interesting callers? And as for those he's been listening to--well, Barry refuses to indulge in any kind of Miss Lonelyhearts sympathy shit with these freaks. They should all just suck it up. He has a show to do. Where are the ...