Thomas Bradshaw’s new play Burning is playing at the New Group’s theater on 42nd Street, but it would have been right at home on the old 42nd Street as well. This sprawling, ambitious tale set in the worlds of art and theater features enough graphic sexual couplings and full-frontal nudity to satisfy any voyeur—even its poster, featuring a close of a derriere, seems tailor-made for the porn crowd.

The playwright, a theatrical provocateur who has won acclaim for such works as Southern Promises and The Bereaved, has previously demonstrated a far more minimalist style than he exhibits here. Running 2 and 3/4 hours and featuring a dozen or so characters, this work set in two distinct eras is practically Tony Kushnerian in its scope.

Unfortunately, Bradshaw doesn’t seem to have Kushner’s ability to juggle so many balls in the air at once. It’s impossible to gauge what he was trying for with this effort, which shifts wildly in tone and seems to border on satire without quite getting there.

The overlong evening features two intertwined storylines. In one set in the present day, Peter (Stephen Tyrone Williams), a black artist, travels to Berlin to participate in a major gallery show, only to run afoul of a neo-Nazi (Drew Hildebrand). In the other, set in the 1980s, Chris, (Evan Johnson), an orphaned teen, travels to New York, where he is taken in by a gay couple (Andrew Garman, Danny Mastrogiorgio) who work in the theater. He soon begins an affair with a playwright (Vladimir Versailles) with whom his caretakers are collaborating, with predictably emotionally messy results.

That brief description doesn’t begin to do justice to the many twists and turns of the labyrinth-like plot, which is positively baroque in its excesses. It mainly seems an excuse for a series of graphic sex scenes--of both the heterosexual and homosexual variety--including Peter’s life-changing encounter with a black prostitute (Barrett Doss) and the neo-Nazi incestuously helping his crippled sister (Reyna de Courcy) achieve a “release.”

Is all of this meant to be funny? It’s hard to say. Certainly it produced a lot of nervous titters from the audience, who were apparently not used to seeing such actors as Hunter Foster (Urinetown, Little Shop of Horrors) on the receiving end of anal intercourse.      

It’s all staged with gusto by director Scott Elliott, the New Group’s artistic director, who clearly doesn’t shy away from this sort of confrontational, in-your-face theater. He’s certainly elicited highly committed, fearless performances from the ensemble, who frequently bare all for the sake of their art.

The playwright clearly has a lot of things on his mind, with no shortage of provocative themes on display. The politics of sex, art and race are all dealt with in one way or another, entertainingly if only superficially. But by the time the overlong work reaches its truly absurd conclusion—I won’t even hint at it, it has to be seen to be believed—it’s long become clear that Bradshaw has wildly overreached.

The New Group@Theatre Row, 410 W. 42nd St. 212-239-6200. www.telecharge.com