In fashioning his play, Miller did extensive research, even traveling to Salem to read the trial records. In a justified exercise of artistic license, Miller acknowledges that he occasionally condensed several people into one character and also raised the age of Abigail, the ringleader of the girls who began the madness. But the play is essentially faithful to the historical facts available.
There are those who consider The Crucible Miller's best work. That honor, in my view, clearly belongs to Death of a Salesman, although The Crucible represents an attempt at a more exalted kind of Aristotelean tragedy. In the Salem play, rounded and shaded characters are mostly absent; Miller's moral position was so strong that he seemed able to deal only in blacks and whites. There is here an inescapable preachiness and an occasional failure of the diction to satisfy the demands of subject and context.
I am not objecting, as some do, to the archaic language that Miller has used to suggest the historical period and create a Brechtian distance between audience and player. The chief agents are the use of "Mister" to address the men and of "Goody" (colloquialism for "Goodwife") to refer to the women, along with a lot of unusual third-person verb forms ("He have his goodness now"). But one has only to compare The Crucible with Shaw's Saint Joan--another play that climaxes with confession, recantation and martyrdom--to see how much greater a master of language the Briton was.
Nevertheless, once one gets past a certain diffuseness in Miller's first act, The Crucible shows itself to be skilfully and carefully constructed. And there is no denying that it offers us a series of highly effective and exciting confrontations--sometimes external, sometimes internal. So theatrical is the work, indeed, that it rarely fails to make a strong impact even in a middling production--which is one reason that it is so popular with amateur drama groups. In fact, the play's original Broadway production enjoyed a substantial six-month run despite the fact that it was not very well performed. The far superior off-Broadway revival five years later ran for more than 500 performances (at this time a French film version, Les Sorcieres de Salem, was also in release, with a screenplay by Jean-Paul Sartre; and Robert Ward's fine Pulitzer-Prize-winning opera based on the play would follow in 1961).
The current production that Michael Kahn has directed for the American Shakespeare Theatre is respectable enough, I suppose, but not so distinguished as one would like. It will satisfy those who have never experienced the play, but will disappoint those who have seen such an incandescent version as the 1958 revival.
The trouble starts with the role of John Proctor, the farmer who embodies Miller's moral viewpoint and becomes the tragic hero of the play. The part is here entrusted to Don Murray, who does make an earnest attempt. He starts off all right; but as soon as the role begins to make heavier demands, his shortcomings are evident. In his second-act colloquy with the Reverend Hale, Proctor has an exceedingly important remark: "Is the accuser always holy now?" Murray hurries over this so that the idea is all but lost.
In the third act Murray pushes his voice to the point of ugly hoarseness, and in the last act he makes us suffer through his yelling, yelling, yelling. This is not the same thing as digging deep into a part. For that we need someone who can approach the profound grandeur that Michael Higgins captured in the 1958 production.
Maria Tucci is much better as Proctor's wife Elizabeth, who at a crucial moment tries to help her adulterous husband by telling her first lie, when he is counting on her to be truthful as usual. And she makes the play's final moments moving as her cheeks course with tears in a combination of sadness, joy, and pride. Tovah Feldshuh is properly sexy as the teenage girl Abigail, who accuses Elizabeth of witchcraft in hopes of getting Proctor for herself.
The one superlative performance in the show is that of Jack Gwillim as Deputy-Governor Danforth, the symbol of political authority and religious certitude. He does not appear until the third act, but from then on he really takes command of the stage whenever he is present, as befits his station in life. Although Danforth thinks himself a surrogate for God, Miller describes him as a person "of some humor." Gwillim manages to convey touches of humor without ever undermining Danforth's sense of infallibility--an exemplary piece of work.
William Larsen is acceptable as the paranoid and pompous Reverend Samuel Parris, who won't give an inch about anything: "I am not some preaching farmer with a book under my arm; I am a graduate of Harvard College." Actually, Miller's scholarship slipped here, for Parris did not hold a Harvard degree. The late historian Samuel Eliot Morison, who wrote book after book on Harvard's first 300 years, stated that Parris may perhaps have attended the College for a time around 1672-74, but was not a graduate. Harvard was at times lax in its early attendance-keeping, but it was always meticulous in recording all its degree recipients.
The important character in the play who did graduate from Harvard is the Rev. John Hale, who in fact received both a bachelor's and master's degree. An expert on demonology, Hale starts off siding with Danforth, but in the course of the play undergoes moral growth. He comes to harbor doubts about the trials, and winds up denouncing them. George Hearn handles this vital role commendably. But Wyman Pendleton turns Judge John Hathorne into too much of a caricature of Hercule Poirot.
Will Hussung, who had a less prominent role in the original 1953 production, is good as the octogenarian Giles Corey, one of the noblest figures in the Salem saga. Rather than plead guilty or innocent, Corey steadfastly remained mute, the only way under the law that he could insure his property would go to his sons. To force a plea out of him, heavy stones were piled on his chest. Saying only, "More weight," he died. (Corey and his brave death figure more prominently in Lyon Phelps' aforementioned dramatization.)
Anne Ives, as the 72-year-old victim Rebecca Nurse, is much too weak of voice; and she behaves more like a queen-dowager than a Salem villager. But Sarallen makes believable the somewhat comic Barbadian Negro slave, Tituba, who confesses to "conjuring" to save her neck.
As suits the Puritan environment, David Jenkins has designed spare wooden sets with a minimum of props. John McLain's lighting could stand improvement, notably in the fourth act, which takes place in the Salem jail. The cell is supposed to be dark, with only a few moonbeams getting through; but the stage is bathed in bright light. Somebody was asleep at the switch.
[Ed. Note-The drive to the picturesque American Shakespeare Theatre's grounds on the Housatonic River takes about two and a half hours via the Massachusetts Turnpike, Interstate 86 and 91, and the Connecticut Turnpike to Exit 32 or 31. Performances tend to begin rather promptly at 2 p.m. or 8 p.m., and a group of singers offers madrigals on the lawn beforehand. There are free facilities for picnickers on the premises.]