“Miss Julie” has become something of a go-to classic these days. If a company isn’t doing Buchner’s “Woyzeck,” then, inevitably, it’s “Miss Julie.” Some of the blame can be put on finances – very few things appear as tasty to a poor administrator as a single-set play with only three actors. And, of course, you get to list Strindberg in your season without getting mixed up in all his post-meltdown craziness. But when reading Craig Lucas’s note in the program for the Rattlestick’s current production, you can’t help but notice that he read 60 (60!) of Strindberg’s plays to prepare for his adaptation. That sort of statistic makes the remounting of this over-played potboiler seem almost cruel. Nothing in that pile of texts seemed more interesting?

To be fair, “Miss Julie” can be, with the right weather conditions, a ball of lightning. Constant sexual danger stalks the tale of the privileged, hoydenish Julie (Marin Hinkle) who flirts her way into disaster with her servant Jean (Reg Rogers). The awful machine of social progress grinds the girl’s life to a halt- her femininity, her sexual need, and even her wealth conspire in a bloody downfall. “Miss Julie” has within it a nearly diabolical urge to destroy everything lovely, summed up in Strindberg’s famous image of a rose garden smeared in dung.

The plot is little more than a sketch. On Midsummer’s Eve, the daughter of a grand house has come down to make merry with her servants. While Jean and his fiancee Kristine (Julia Gibson) laugh behind her back, Julie disgraces herself with her filthiness, a nasty beer-drinking habit, and an eye for her male employees. Her impropriety, though, turns the tables between employer and butler. Illusions of dominance make her reckless, and Jean’s illusions of inferiority make him cruel. The night turns into a frightening, dimly glimpsed orgy, and by morning, Julie has been well and truly trod in the mud.

While Strindberg’s intentions are undeniably misogynist – he lays out his meaning in a pushy introduction – the piece can exceed his intentions if the production excels. The play’s three-act structure moves in a single whoosh, like a flame up a dress, and given the right cast, the audience gets singed. But the conditions in Anders Cato’s production feel far too damp for fire. Gloopy, inexact relationships and a wet central couple make the swift-moving piece feel like a slog through a marsh. With no chemistry to spark our interest in the struggle-cum-seduction, this show fades into a crowded background of unmemorable “Miss Julies.”

Craig Lucas asserts in his program note a desire to make a translation that didn’t seem “fusty” or “sanitized.” Unfortunately, in Ms. Hinkle’s and Mr. Rogers’s mouths, the piece sounds no different from the “British-sounding” translations that already abound. Both actors seem to ignore each other, rolling along in sing-song voices through their lines. Even worse, neither of them bothers to act or think about their characters between the line ing her underwear, and a character asks her “Why are you dressed?” The famously fastidious Jean polishes boots in his Sunday coat without even rolling up his sleeves. And after establishing that Julie is not a virgin, Ms. Hinkle affects a ginger, wincing walk the next morning that argues otherwise.

Much of this inexact, sloppy characterization rests at the feet of Mr. Cato. Perhaps he was too busy setting up the weird disco-scene that stood in for the climactic seduction. (For future reference, despite rock concerts to the contrary, red and green lights do not automatically translate as “uncontrollable lust.”) At the end, desperate to create a little friction between his stars, Mr. Cato has them fling metal bowls about and stumble over the furniture. But all the ruckus comes too late. “Miss Julie,” for all its bawling and whining, won’t even get your attention.

Until June 19 (224 Waverly Place, between Perry and 11th Streets, 212-868-4444).