There is an opera “The Crucible”. Written by Robert Ward, it won a Pulitzer Prize in 1962. But this isn’t opera…is it? Lindsey Turner’s National Theater production of Arthur Miller’s timeless classic of 1953 is packed with vocals from the opening period-style folk ballad to the final angelic main chorus—not to mention an enduring vocal spectacle—that you can forgive for making a mistake for opera. While some 69-year-old playwrights need theatrical help to successfully revive them, this is not one of them.
Turner’s decision to “help” the play is also present in its operatic visual response. In 2016, she and designer Es Devlin transformed the naturalness of Brian Friel’s masterpiece “Faith Healer” in Donmar’s 250-seat warehouse by enveloping the three-sided stage with a curtain of downpour-lit rain so that the water shimmered like a cage of solids. , the White light. It was a fitting metaphor for the fictional village of Friel. Now reused for “The Crucible” at Oliver’s 1,029-seat amphitheater, as the play opens and closes and the scene changes, it feels less figurative, and more impactful in the show.
There are also textual changes, with Turner adding an illustrative preface and a code from Miller’s writing about the play, with the before and after being announced to the audience in a high-severity tone. The opening title is an immediate indication that the production does not trust the script itself to do its dramatic work.
Although this political thriller was written in response to America’s mid-20th century fever of McCarthyistic witch-hunts and name-calling, there was never, on both sides of the Atlantic, a time when the play was not “relevant.”
Much credit to the play is that successive productions have found a unique response to the content of their time. The Royal Shakespeare Company’s award-winning production turned Dominic Cooke into a fierce distillation of the danger of fundamentalist thinking. Richard Eyre’s Broadway revival with Liam Neeson and Laura Linney saw the play as a portrait of personal integrity in the face of fast-paced political events. Part of the problem with this new revival is that it lacks a clear perspective because the attention-grabbing production overwhelms the play.
Much of that stems from a lack of speed. Miller’s handling of the manipulative lies of angry and despised teen Abigail Williams (the appropriately strong and frantic Erin Doherty)–who provokes terror, harnesses resentment and opens up to hang innocent townspeople–is masterful. His tale showcases what must have been a fun and uninterrupted twist of turns. But outside the apparent plot climax of girls’ hysteria or the lure of individuals into court scenes, the production turns subtle, captivating writing into unchanging scenes that feel screaming, speechless, and lengthy.
Much of that is the result of the Perma-dom soundtrack: the constant stress, persistence, and buzz from the cast. By telling the audience what to think – “Listen: something terrible is about to happen” – the music turns the dialogue into more accompaniment and flattens the drama.
It also goes back to Turner’s guidance to the actors, many of whom have been encouraged to overestimate them since their first entry. But with the deadly gameplay at the end of their initially dramatic trajectory, their personalities and motivations are immediately crystal clear. This leaves audiences with almost nothing to distinguish and separate them from the momentary drama. This divergence is further expanded by separate performances, including highly experienced Matthew Marsh, who relies on a highly accurate rendition as Judge Danforth, who directs Kelsey Grammar’s Frasier Crane, and thus appears only as one version of self-deception. .
There are exceptions. As Mary Warren, who nearly manages to escape Abigail’s power and tries to tell the truth, Rachel Daedricks blows herself well with strength, and unlike a bewildering high percentage of the cast, her brilliant work is consistent.
Oliver Fenwick’s violent side lighting burns the actors and allows them to etch beautifully against the surrounding darkness. His work has an astonishing precision and depth woefully absent elsewhere. Even the central relationship between John and Elizabeth Proctor lacks oomph because although Eileen Walsh is as tired and tired as Elizabeth, John Brendan Coyle is both physically and vocally restless. It’s a performance marked but too generalized to let crucial moments fall, not least of which is his climax and play-defining shout: “How can I live without my name?”
Carl Johnson earns the role of the controversial and honorable elderly Giles Corey, who went to his death for refusing to bow to the court’s double-thinking. He dies because he is pressed with stones, and his only words are “more weight”. Ironically, it is this production’s wholly conscious attempt to add more heft that stifles the play.
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