Based on an Italian film released in 2016,  Paolo Genovese’s “Perfect Strangers,” Robert O’Hara’s new play “S—. Meet. Fan.” contains a “trigger warning” in its script: “This play is a blistering vulgar satire on Male Toxicity and White Privilege,” Mr. O’Hara writes. (The capitalization is his, not mine.) He adds, as a tip, “Allow the laughter to indict the audience and lure them into a sense of comfort.”

With apologies to the playwright, who also directs the production, at no point during a recent preview did I feel indicted — or comforted, for that matter. I did feel a little sad at times for his adroit and accomplished actors, whose characters, however initially intriguing, devolve into tired racial and gender stereotypes.

I felt especially bad about the two characters who aren’t white: Logan, who like Mr. O’Hara is a Black man, and Hannah, an Asian woman. It bothered me that over the course of the play, both are defined chiefly by their relationships with and eagerness to please Caucasians, particularly the Caucasians represented here.

Rodger, a superficially successful but tormented cosmetic surgeon, is among the more sympathetic ones, or perhaps pathetic would be a better word. Played drily but with the right halting edge by Neil Patrick Harris, Rodger resides in a sprawling luxury condominium in Dumbo — exquisitely furnished by scenic designer Clint Ramos — with his wife, Eve, a domineering psychotherapist portrayed by Jane Krakowski, and their 17-year-old daughter, Sam. 

“Fan” opens as Sam, who is played by the young actress Genevieve Hannelius, is arguing with her mom about condoms, in what will prove to be one of the play’s warmer, cheerier passages. Once the teenager takes off, her parents welcome a group of friends, including three of Rodger’s old fraternity buddies.

Ostensibly, they’ve all gathered to watch a lunar eclipse. Yet a hidden agenda paves the way for a dangerous game, through which Mr. O’Hara will, to his credit, make an astute and intriguing point: that as communication has expanded and thrived in our information age, so has duplicity.

Eve, a chic blonde who speaks to her doorman in an exaggerated Latin accent and likes to shop at Balenciaga, proposes that the pals all throw their phones into a pile on the coffee table. “Whatever texts, emails, calls from whatever apps, whatever arrives we share it,” Eve proposes. “We don’t have any secrets for the next hour.”

And indeed they don’t, as the revelations come pouring forward, each wilder than the one before it. Not all of them involve sex, but the majority reflect some form of infidelity or betrayal. Logan and Hannah aren’t entirely exempt, but, predictably, they emerge as the noblest of the bunch.

“I knew you’d be like … ‘Who are all these crazy white folks?’” Logan muses to Hannah, recently married to Frank, who might as well have “bro” tattooed on his forehead; he’ll show himself to be a raging homophobe before the night is over. (Michael Oberholtzer plays the type gamely.) When Hannah interrupts, insisting, “I don’t mind that,” Logan replies that he doesn’t either: “But I just know how I feel sometimes. … Being the only one.” 

As Logan, Tramell Tillman brings an easy authority and dignity to these lines, and to angrier ones as the show progresses, and Constance Wu gives Hannah a quirky sweetness that makes her equally appealing. Trouble is, the other characters — among them Claire, a shrewish alcoholic, and Brett, her doltish if ultimately self-sacrificing husband (Debra Messing and Garret Dillahunt, respectively, both doing their level best) — can be so irritating that one wonders why Logan has put up with them for so long.   

Mr. O’Hara, who has earned acclaim for his writing and directing through a steady stream of high-profile projects, from his own “Insurrection: Holding History” to Jeremy O. Harris’s “Slave Play,” suggests that the answer lies in aspiration and insecurity, stemming not only from the color of his skin but from something else he has hidden beneath it — something, it’s implied, that absolves him of the toxic masculinity shared by his pals. 

Suffice it to say that “S—. Meet. Fan.” is a play in which character is tied to, if not dictated by, identity. “You all are so in love with who you are,” Logan sneers at his longtime friends toward the end. “I’ve spent my entire life thinking I was one of you … and now I’m finding out that I’ve been hiding myself. From myself.” 

He notes later, for good measure, “You are all miserable white people. And you make those around you miserable.”

Mind you, I haven’t experienced the kind of challenges that Logan and his creator have. But it’s discouraging to think that in 2024, they would produce a satire as resolutely bitter as this one.