The rare and vaguely masochistic impulse to maintain a repertory company doesn’t pop up every day. Planning your every show, your every season around one core group of actors is like the ant sorting rice grains, if each grain had an ego. There’s an ensemble at the Pearl, one at the Irish Rep, and there is still one, in diluted form, at the Cocteau Rep.

Due to exigencies of casting and cash, Cocteau has broadened their definitions of “company,” though their recent production of “Pygmalion” certainly hasn’t suffered by it. But last summer several longtime actors split off to form The Phoenix Theatre Ensemble , where they could recommit to the actor-driven ways of the past.

Phoenix’s first production is, tellingly, “The Trial.” Kafka’s claustrophobic, weirdly erotic story about a labyrinthine legal process tackles both the inefficacy of rebellion and the opacity of power. For a recently liberated bunch of actors, leading themselves for the first time, musings on power must have come quite easily. But there’s another, keener departure from Cocteau’s traditions: The Phoenix Ensemble inserts a sharp political edge into their production. As Joseph K.’s ridiculous process unfolds, he seems to be reading directly from transcripts at Guantanamo.

Joseph K. (John Lenartz, doing early Dick Van Dyke) wakes up on his birthday to discover two men bursting into his room. They have come to arrest him, though they refuse to name the charge. His trial has begun, though his part in it is unclear. The vast, unfolding government will allow him to keep working (why interrupt the economy?), but its minions drive him from pillar to post with hints of how he might clear his muddied name.

Joseph stumbles blindly from adviser to adviser, trying to make sense of his trial. This is Kafka, so waiting rooms are filled with people who wait patiently for years, and lawyers lock their longtime clients in the pantry. That Joseph has been mistaken for another of the same name doesn’t stop the knife of justice. In Kafka’s novel, the unfailingly polite executioners pass the dagger back and forth, hoping that their victim will take it upon himself to plunge it into his own breast. On stage, the end is swifter, though equally perplexing and anticlimactic.

Director Eve Adamson (original founder of the Cocteau Rep), does not use Andre Gide and Jean-Louis Barrault’s stage adaptation with much vigor. Despite a rolling set by Robert Klingelhoefer, things do not move quickly, and spotty lighting from Tony Mulanix occasionally leaves speakers in the dark. Some of the same problems that plague the Cocteau have followed them here – there is a serious lack of good secondary players, and the actors seem uncomfortable in stylized roles. Ms. Adamson creates a few intriguing tableaus, particularly at Joseph K.’s bank and in a nearly empty cathedral, but the text’s own edginess usually outstrips the production.

Late in Joseph’s wanderings, though, there is an extended scene of creepiness and power that bodes very well for the Phoenix and its efforts. Jason Crowl, as Titorelli the court painter, leaps onstage with his robes swishing, and the play gets a sudden boost. All along Joseph’s struggles have been sexually tinged – women drape themselves on him when they learn he has been accused, and no woman’s stockings stay up for long. But Titorelli, with his smear of red lipstick, skintight trousers, and trio of short-skirted schoolgirls, makes even our worldly Joseph blush.

This scene is silly and chilling and nakedly wrong – just like Kafka would have wanted it.

***

Noel Coward’s birthday was yesterday; he was named, in fact, for holiday tidings. So as a Christmastime treat, a bit of fluff from his sharp quill seems totally in season.

The Irish Repertory Theatre, keeping their eyes trained for anything that might have escaped our laxer attentions, adapts and revives Coward’s frothy “After the Ball.” They rescue the dear little operetta, giving it a new home in a “chamber production” of surprising handsomeness.

This story seems to get a major overhaul every five decades. Oscar Wilde wrote “Lady Windermere’s Fan” near the turn of the 19th century, dolloping out helpings of his usual venom and syrup. Then Coward, in the 1950s, decided to return to the well. He turned Wilde’s play into a musical in an effort to recapture his own heyday.

That first “After the Ball” wasn’t totally successful. The current production’s director, Tony Walton, recounts seeing the original and commiserating with Coward himself over it. Now, a half century later, he and adapter Barry Day have rehabilitated the script by adding a few songs from elsewhere in Coward’s oeuvre, streamlining the character list, and restoring cut arias.

Lord and Lady Windermere (Paul Carlin and Kristin Huxhold) have been married only two years when a test of their love pops up in the form of the mysterious Mrs. Erlynne (Mary Illes). While Lady Windermere is the watchword in virtue, scandal hangs about Mrs. Erlynne, making her friendship with the former’s husband all the more disreputable.

A Byronically coiffed Lord Darlington (David Staller) has been pitching unrequited woo at Lady Windermere for months. Once the rumor mill convinces her of her husband’s alleged treachery, she stands in peril of falling for Darlington’s suit. With only one layer of misunderstanding separating everyone from full reconciliation, both Wilde and Coward have to keep the lords and ladies zipping in and out of drawing rooms, dropping telltale fans and hints to their true identities like slippery soap.

Neither of the authors had much time for prudes – it’s telling that the “heroine” Lady Windermere suffers the worst humiliation and greatest reversals. The rakes, on the other hand, show themselves to be people of far richer feeling. Lord Darlington’s heartbreak genuinely affects him, and Mrs. Earlynne exhibits selflessness on a scale the lovebirds can’t imagine.

The performances reinforce the imbalance. Ms. Huxhold’s strained soprano sounds absolutely thready next to the riper voice of Ms. Illes. And while Mr. Staller’s Lord Darlington winks his way through his songs, he far eclipses Mr. Carlin as a romantic lead.

The society itself – portrayed in microcosm as an Australian, a pear-shaped lord of the realm, and a gossipy Duchess with her daughter – provides an absurd backdrop to the central story. It’s here, among the wacky secondary characters, that the production shows its chief charms. Mr. Coward’s greatest inspiration seems to flow with them as well – all the love songs sound the same, but the character pieces (an ode to eating “Something on a Tray,” a hymn to “Oh, What a Century”) are captivating.

Mr. Walton, in the interest of keeping his tiny production to the point, has the duchess (Kathleen Widdoes) narrate between scenes in couplets of Mr. Day’s devising. She does her job beautifully, as she has the ratio of cloying sentiment to vitriol necessary for the show. Hopper (Greg Mills), the bounding Australian, has a dated song to sing about aborigines, which he somehow makes thoroughly inoffensive. And when he courts the empty-headed Lady Agatha (the miniature Collette Simmons), they build the most believable relationship of the night.

Mr. Walton’s program notes – and even the final song – are full of pleas for understanding. This is a chamber production! They all cry. But as an amusing light operas, Mr. Walton’s production stands second to none.

“The Trial” until January 9 (311 W. 43rd Street, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, 212-352-3101).

“After The Ball” (132 W.22nd Street, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, 212-727-2737).