No sirree. As portrayed with soft-spoken, silky threat by a hypnotizing actor Larry Pine, a male we accommodate in Lucas Hnath’s new play, “A Public Reading of an Unproduced Screenplay About a Death of Walt Disney,” exudes a infrequent cruelty of a child who likes to lift a wings off flies on a playground, only for kicks.

The play, that non-stop during Soho Rep on Thursday night in a glorious prolongation destined by Sarah Benson, presents a blackly comic inversion of a open Disney persona, in a form of a stylized screenplay being review in an anonymous-looking corporate discussion room. (As is mostly a box with this first-class downtown company, a consultant set pattern by Mimi Lien incorporates a audience; we lay on chairs upholstered in bland, feign white fabric and are done to feel like attendees during a shareholder assembly being presided over by a quite cruel arch executive.)

Mr. Pine starts a record by announcing: “I’m Walt Disney. This is a screenplay we wrote. It’s about me.”

But a genuine Walt, who clinging his life to airbrushing divided a world’s imperfections, would frequency be approaching to write this warts-and-feet-of-clay-only self-portrait. On a contrary, Walt would be doing cartoonish gyrations in his grave if he were to see how entirely Mr. Hnath (pronounced nayth) has subverted a renouned design of Disney as America’s joyful paterfamilias, swelling fever with any new enterprise. (In Mr. Hnath’s chronicle of a Disney legend, Walt’s conduct ends adult being cryogenically recorded for posterity, so maybe one day a reconstituted male can offer his possess critique.)

Departing liberally from a chronological record — that cryogenics gossip has been resolutely debunked, for instance — Mr. Hnath is reduction meddlesome in educational a life of a male than he is in excavating new meanings from a arc of his distinguished career. “A Public Reading” is a imagining on a tellurian enterprise to aspire to a standing of a god, and a guileful change of this wish on a suggestion and a flesh.

Written mostly in prolonged streams of staccato dialogue, which, as in Mr. Hnath’s “Isaac’s Eye,” another rarely fictionalized play about a chronological figure, advise a hypercaffeinated David Mamet, a play concentrates on a attribute between Disney and his hermit Roy, played with dispirited subservience by a superb Frank Wood.

Roy is Walt’s sounding house and primary henchman, approaching to govern Walt’s increasingly desirous dreams with nary a murmur. Walt’s not confident creation all those “fairy tales and angel things” and has motionless to enhance into a “real world,” initial by creation inlet documentaries. (“No one unequivocally wants to stand a mountain,” he grumbles, “cuz who has a time?”) And nonetheless when a lemmings in their design don’t act as lemmings are ostensible to — we know, throwing themselves off cliffs in those lifelike mass suicides — Walt urges Roy to feign it.

Later Roy contingency take a tumble when labor disputes bluster to explode among a animators, fouling a atmosphere in Walt’s ideal world. No dignified peck can be authorised to blacken a repute of a visionary. “People indeed name their children after me,” he adds, after derisive Roy with his analogous worthlessness.

But Walt’s possess family with his daughter, played with simmering rancour by Amanda Quaid, are even some-more unwholesome than those with his brother. With all those small Walts peopling a world, she and her husband, a ex-football actor Ron Miller (Brian Sgambati), had nonetheless declined to respect Dad by fixing any of their sons after him (at slightest until Walt motionless to implement Ron in a association during a energy conflict with Roy).

“Because when we contend your name,” she quietly explains, “I consider all sorts of things we don’t wish to think. When we contend your name, we consider of you, and when we consider of we we get all angry, and when we consider of we and a approach we act, and a approach we yell, and a approach we threw a pretension during my marriage and threw cake during people …”

Mr. Hnath’s discourse infrequently falls into this repetitive, roughly incantatory style, as if it were on a repeat loop. More mostly a outcome is of a record actor skipping, as characters miscarry one another’s utterances, so that their lines of discourse seem to be move on opposite sound tracks. Although this rarely synthetic character can be wearying, a actors do a remarkably good pursuit of giving stroke and expostulate to this incongruous talk, so that a play has a uniformly propulsive transformation of, well, a Monorail during Disneyland.