I’d never suggest that anyone skip reading Crime and Punishment to take in the play version—please, Dostoyevsky and I are likethis—but I will tell you that Intiman Theatre’s engrossing current production gives you the fevered pensiveness of that masterpiece without the pain of flipping through all those damn Russian names.

Though other characters enter and exit scenic designer Carey Wong’s deft, three-doored-dungeon of a room, you’re really only required to remember a main trio: Raskolnikov (Galen Joseph Osier), who’s visibly upset (and then some) by the murder of a mean old pawnbroker and her long-suffering sister; Sonia (Hana Lass), the prostitute with whom Raskolnikov seeks chaste solace; and Porfiry (Todd Jefferson Moore), the wily official in charge of investigating the deaths.

Director Sheila Daniels originally staged this brisk but bracing adaptation by Marilyn Campbell and Curt Columbus two years ago in the intimate basement of the old Capitol Hill Arts Center with the audience flanking it on two sides. The upscale transfer to Intiman means the director can now stretch striking shadows in front of and behind the players (bravo to Dans Maree Sheehan’s lighting). She also craftily utilizes the bleak madhouse set to choreograph Raskolnikov’s emotional descent as some dark, fleet ‘30s farce—doors are always opening and closing on another reminder of our anti-hero’s guilt. The room acts as an elegant metaphor for a troubled, busy brain.

Daniels sometimes, however, seems flummoxed by this grand new layout. Her three actors—Lass and Moore play all the supporting characters—keep walking the long way around each other in what appears to be an awkward effort to make sure no one in the house is cheated of a good view. And Osier’s performance is operatic in scale, which won’t work for everybody. The show is essentially 90 minutes of his aria of despair. What was overpoweringly effective in CHAC’s small confines now somehow just feels overheated.

Osier doesn’t know where else to go once he hits his top note very early on. But, man, does he hold that top note with tenacity—it lacks nuance yet still powers the play. Lass’s innate gentleness complements him; she’s got the quiet strength of a woman who doesn’t have time for self-delusion. Moore’s comic eccentricities as an actor, disconcerting in other productions, provide crucial leavening here—and, more importantly, you believe that he’s not out to trap Raskolnikov so much as save him.

Go ahead and read the book if you haven’t already. Or, hey, don’t. In the meantime, Daniels and company deliver a rich, rewarding hour-and-a-half far more compelling than Cliff’s Notes.