The Flea’s PR machine says this play (if, indeed, that’s the right word) is “a spiritual history and spectral portrait of America.” This theory is based, I suspect, on the opening monologue—“America, you are a man falling downstairs!”—delivered as an angry rant by a young woman of Turkish descent. However, after that speech, which actually seems to make a kind of sense, the piece becomes a meandering tone poem of language fragments, some poetic, some gibberish, none with any perceptible meaning. The play could just as easily be a philosophical disquisition on the verb to be. Or maybe it has something to do with cats, rustic speech patterns, baseball, or something or someplace called the “labernath.” Then again, it could simply be irreversible cheese slop.

Whatever it may or may not be about, “Cellophane” is undeniably fascinating. Much of the credit goes to director Jim Simpson and his large, young and talented acting company called The Bats. Together they invest Wellman’s lush language-collage with meaning, passion and humor that holds your attention and encourages the close listening the piece demands.

The narrow theater has been transformed into an all-black cavern, like some ultra-hip nightclub, dotted with low black swivel stools, many of which turn out to be occupied by cast members. On one wall hangs a glowing animated light painting of waterfalls; in front of it is a microphone stand. The play unfolds as a series of set pieces, some of them sung, which have the feel of separate poems. Sometimes they evoke the Beats, sometimes Tristan Tzara and the Dadaists. The action takes place everywhere, often inches from your face.