Nearly 40 years after Che Guevara’s death, Che chic continues to attract adolescent rebels in droves, few of whom seem to care much who the Che-in-a-beret on their T-shirts was, or whom he killed; it’s enough that he was a cool countercultural dude from South America. Of late, the myth of Che Guevara has even gotten a boost from Hollywood. There’s an upcoming biopic from Steven Soderbergh, hot on the heels of the successful 2004 movie version of “The Motorcycle Diaries” — a lushly filmed chronicle of the young, earnest Che’s shoestring trip across South America, in which he awakens to the world’s injustices, one village at a time.

José Rivera wrote the screenplay for “The Motorcycle Diaries,” and now, with the Public Theater’s new drama “School of the Americas,” he establishes himself as something of an expert in Che hagiography. Admittedly, in “The Motorcycle Diaries,” he had an easy time of it. The memoir on which the film was based covers what was hands down Guevara’s most sympathetic period: treating lepers by day, seducing girls by night.

But by the time “School of the Americas” catches up with Guevara, on the eve of his 1967 execution in Bolivia, he’s got a lot of blood on his hands. How to find the kinder, gentler Che inside that case-hardened comandante?

Mr. Rivera’s solution is to imagine the dialogue from the final days of Guevara’s life — bluntly, to put the words in Che’s mouth. Remarkably, Mr. Rivera begins his story the day after Guevara’s extensive “Bolivian Diary” ends. “School of the Americas,” though dressed in the trappings of realism, is pure myth, and the myth it sells is that Che was — although extraordinary — well, a lot like us.

Of course, Guevara was nothing like the people munching gourmet brownies during intermission at the Public Theater. He trained guerrillas to kill, and he killed. He ordered the execution of accused traitors, with and without trial. He oversaw firing squads and a political prison. He called for “two, three, many Vietnams,” inciting people around the world to violent revolution.

However, as imagined in “School of the Americas,” Che (played by John Ortiz) hardly seems like the violent type. He lies on a mud floor of a primitive schoolhouse in Bolivia, arms tied behind his back, wheezing with asthma and bleeding from the gunshot wounds in his legs; he’s waiting to see if the Bolivian army will kill him. Here, as in life, the teacher who belongs to this schoolhouse, Julia Cortes (Patricia Velasquez) is (dumbfoundingly) able to talk her way in to see the great Che, and it’s these two fictionalized meetings between the starstruck Catholic schoolmistress and the foul-mouthed guerrilla leader that comprise the bulk of “School of the Americas.”

And what does he tell her? That she ought to get a boyfriend. That he regrets how he treated his wives and children. That he screwed up the Bolivian campaign through his own arrogance. That the little things in life — raising a pig, growing a potato crop — mean everything.

It’s as if the final Guevara exclusive had inexplicably gone to Barbara Walters. All Julia wants to talk about is romance and God and feelings. Julia also happens to be a shrill, judgmental type, with more schoolmarm traits than one character can handle: an invalid sister, destitute students, no qualified suitors, and a reflex of crossing herself when Che swears. (The pinched, angular Ms.Velasquez makes her more credible than she is on the page.) How, Julia asks, can a nice, handsome guy like Che slaughter people in cold blood?

“Julia, dear Julia,” replies Che, in the full flush of melodrama, “it’s too late now. You can’t shape me like clay into something easier to live with and accept.”

Of course, the clay-shaping has been under way for a while by now, and it’s not over yet. Mr. Ortiz gives Che so much warmth that it seems inconceivable that this man could have killed anyone. But even when Mr. Ortiz does try to give the revolutionary some edge, the script won’t let him build steam. Every time Che’s roaring about the necessity of brutality or raging against religion, the script follows up with some softer touch — maybe a tender scene with Che listening to Julia talk about her home life.

Mark Wing-Davey’s stiff direction can’t connect the leads to each other; they come off as two strident ideologues. Nor can it smooth the choppy transitions between the lengthy schoolhouse scenes and briefer ones in the school courtyard, and Julia’s home. The flashy films and faked radio broadcasts that are blasted during scenery changes only make things more disjointed.

Among the many sins of this lives-of-the-saints treatment is its failure to even handle the basics in a smart way. Che, who went to medical school and often treated his soldiers on the field, here seems to think the best thing for a leg riddled with bullet holes is to stand on it. He also cares surprisingly little about escaping,despite the fact that he’s got an infatuated girl and a conflicted prison guard willing to help. And the Spanish is handled in a slapdash manner — Julia has an accent in English while Che has none; they conjugate Spanish verbs on the chalkboard but almost never speak them. (At the very least, characters might have called Julia “señorita,” not that awkward, harsh, “Miss!”)

Falling somewhere between a telenovela, a 21st-century therapy session, and a standard-issue biopic, “School of the Americas” has none of the authority of either its history or its charismatic leading figure. In his day, Guevara could command the attention of continents by sheer force of personality. His vision of a single mestizo world without borders resonated with millions. He was a son of the upper classes, yet a leader of peasants, a man capable of idealism and brutality.

There is nothing of that Che in “School of the Americas” — only a fairly bland guy who killed some people so his “children’s world” would “be more just.” People who buy Che T-shirts may fall for that, but a playwright should know better.

Until July 23 (425 Lafayette Avenue at Astor Place, 212-329-6200).