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“Everything Handmaids wear is red: the color of blood, which defines us,” says Offred, the protagonist of Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale.” Renee Nault’s graphic novel adaptation, which features this quotation on the back cover, embraces this explicit visual vocabulary. Offred’s scarlet robes radiate against the muted hues of her surroundings. They trumpet her singular purpose: to give birth. Nault presents the puritanical Republic of Gilead with a brutal austerity that instantly distills the text’s most pertinent themes.

Indeed, amid today’s aggressively anti-intersectional political climate, “The Handmaid’s Tale” is certainly having a cultural moment. Atwood’s decision to pen a sequel, “The Testaments,” arriving this September, affirms her novel’s relevance 34 years after its publication. Sadly, “The Handmaid’s Tale” as a current phenomenon today owes largely to its stylistically thriller-esque TV adaptation. Casual reference to the book evokes imminent apocalypse, an anti-feminist End of Days. Saturated coverage has diluted the concise frankness of the original work.

Nault’s adaptation, however, exercises uncommon restraint. Liberal use of blank space conveys the maddening lack of stimulation and the impossibility of escape. Even the most hectic illustrations ultimately accentuate the accompanying text. Through watercolor and ink, Nault imbues her figures with surprising gentle humanity. Fear, not malice, maintains the status quo. Oppressors exist not as comic book villains, but more alarmingly, as good people failing to act.

Off all the characters’ appearances, Offred’s is the most generic. She possesses few identifying traits besides brown eyes and hair. In a crowd or even in a pair, distinguishing between Handmaids often becomes impossible. Whereas the TV adaptation gives Offred a face (Elisabeth Moss) and a moniker (“June Osborne”), the graphic adaptation makes her at once anonymous and universal. She more closely parallels Atwood’s Offred, who never reveals her real name. Nault’s heroine is arguably even more instantly relatable.

Nault shrewdly avoids overt displays of emotion, reserving drama for when it matters. Her character’s expressions are usually subtle. The historical significance of the novel’s New England setting naturally implies some of Gilead’s underlying ascetic fanaticism. Nault’s diligent recreations of colonial brick houses and their self-righteously modest interiors simply heighten that fervor. Humorous little drawings interrupt terse confrontations with shameless glee. The delightful absurdity of a special forces soldier wearing a pink hand-knitted scarf, for example, elicits a private giggle.

Most aesthetically compelling is the juxtaposition between the unfeeling present, rendered through discordant bold colors, and the intimate familiarity of the recent past. Nault bathes Offred’s cherished memories in warm, harmonious hues. Her recollections of friends and family, sketched lightly in pencil, have already begun to fade. Conversely, painful experiences suddenly emerge as thick brushstrokes forcefully dash the page. Still, on the whole, life seems peaceful and calm. The Handmaids, in their softly tapered hats and full, billowing gowns, begrudgingly embody the feminine ideal. Forget sensational carnage — romantic serenity is more chilling.

Nevertheless, any visual adaptation of “The Handmaid’s Tale” presents an admittedly pedantic conundrum. The Republic controls women by banning mechanisms of free thought, most notably through written word. “Now it’s forbidden, for us. Now it’s dangerous. Now it’s indecent,” says Offred. On Gilead’s main streets, images of cows, eggs, and bees prevent the “temptation” of reading the shops’ names. Nault’s illustrations, though veritably engaging, still beg the question of what may be lost. Indeed, in an interview with The Crimson, Nault describes Atwood’s involvement in Nault’s work as “pretty hands-off altogether.” Unfortunately, any graphic adaptation bearing Atwood’s complete text would be lengthy and redundant.

Nault’s adaptation does uphold the general storyline, which is structured into a series of episodes just as in the original. She crucially preserves the sanctity of the numerous unresolved ambiguities. The two editions do noticeably vary when Nault occasionally sanitizes Offred’s contemptible thoughts, trading character depth for likeability.

Offred’s first-person narration in Atwood’s novel is resolutely feisty and sharp. Her unfiltered earnesty helps her cope. During the ritual of mechanical, loveless intercourse known as the Ceremony, Offred evaluates her partner with a cynical wisecrack: “If he were better looking would I enjoy this more? At least he’s an improvement on the previous one.” Later, Offred disparagingly describes a fellow Handmaid as “formerly that whiny bitch Janine.” At the sight of a cruel former supervisor from the prison-like Red Center, she fills with rage: “I would like to strangle her,” Offred says. Nault purges these remarks to put forth a more relatable narrator whose plight quickly draws sympathy. A “nasty woman” like Atwood’s Offred, however, would likely still appeal to the predominantly liberal audience drawn to this feminist work.

For fans of the original book, “The Handmaid’s Tale: The Graphic Novel” introduces a striking new visual experience to the iconic realm of Gilead. One can also hope Nault’s provocative and captivating adaptation can galvanize first-time readers to seek further answers in Atwood’s text.