"The Trial states the problem of the absurd in its entirety." --Albert Camus

Over the years, my criticism of Portland director Charmian Creagle's work might have been rough at times, but it sprang from an impatience with a young artist who often lacks the strength of her convictions to create a fully fledged piece of work. Still, I believe she is both talented and gifted. All of Creagle's productions during the past four years have been frustrating experiences, as intelligent interpretations and ideas were inevitably marred by lazy, easy choices.

Now Creagle is off to New York, which is as it should be. Certainly she'll be exposed to more and better theater, and she will meet peers who will challenge her in ways she could never be prodded here in the land of Good Enough. But the fluidity and power of her valedictory production makes certain that her absence will be keenly felt.

André Gide's adaptation of Franz Kafka's The Trial remains one of the most faithful translations of a novel into a play, brilliantly capturing the intricacies of Kafka's labyrinthine parable. In the novel, a young man, Joseph K., is arrested in his room one morning for a crime that's never named or understood. In an attempt to clear his name, or to at least learn what it is he's accused of, K. stumbles down blind alleys searching for aid or explanations. Conspiracy may be the theology of the paranoid, but at least it's a doctrine based more on facts than faith. Joseph K. is the Everycog of the modern era, when even suffering comes off the assembly line.

As with her previous work Machinal, Creagle experiments with an Expressionist style; here she asserts more control, though there are a few sloppy transitions. Seven actors divide the crowd of characters pressing in upon K. Decked in black and holding distorted papier-mâché masks before their faces like lorgnettes, the actors line the back of the stage, passively observing K.'s tragedy until they are called upon to dirty their hands in it.

Creagle has cast strong support with Eric Newsome, Michael Teufel, Rick Sanders, Jamie Rea, Luis Moreno, Courtney Weber and the dependable Sarah Dresser. There are moments of bits-'n'-skits dramatics (Teufel's Titorelli, Newsome's Advocate--a quick read of Genet's The Balcony might help), but otherwise it's an impressive ensemble.

Unfortunately, Creagle wasn't as lucky with her K. First, Bobby Bermea is physically wrong for the role. It's difficult not to see the tubercular delicacy of Kafka in K., or the great Jean-Louis Barrault, for whom Gide devised this play. Bermea simply can't physically communicate vulnerability. Nor can he adequately convey the desperation, confusion and incipient guilt that swamps K. emotionally. At present, Bermea is an actor who has his lines down; though it may be unfair to make comparisons, I kept wondering what former Other Siders Sean Doran or Tom Gallup would have done with this role.

Portland can never become a theater center as long as the old-guard hacks stack the boards and pack the stage. But what it does offer is the space and time for young artists to find their voices before moving on to more serious cities. Bon voyage, Charmian Creagle.