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Tuesday, October 23, 2007 A Society in Madness It's not often that I leave a theatre with just one word on my lips: Wow. But Steppenwolf's current production of The Crucible, Arthur Miller's rendering of the Salem Witch Trials, is, in a word, "Wow." The production is intense from the very beginning--the house lights darken and the theatre fills with foreboding music and panicked shrieking, and within the first few minutes of the play we're witness to confessions made under extreme duress. Much has been made of the play's exploration of the McCarthy era, and Chicago newspapers have thrown in their two cents about the production's timely relevance to a society that passes legislation like the Military Commissions Act, but for me, the most interesting aspect of the production had to do with its exploration of a society gone mad. The Salem of the play (which is slightly different from the Salem of history), has a mixture of peoples: Rev. Parris is loath to jump to the conclusion that witchcraft is afoot (primarily due to concerns over maintaining his position as the town's pastor). Rev. Hale, a visiting minister, is an educated, fairly rational man with a conscience: before agreeing to examine a girl who has fallen ill, he tells the townspeople that he will only provide his services if they will agree to abide by his verdict, which may be that no witchcraft is at work. However, a wealthy couple are quick to pronounce the situation unnatural in the midst of jealousy and concerns over their own daughter. News of the illness spreads quickly through the village, and it doesn't take long for (believed, though entirely unsubstantiated) rumors to make their way: the girl flew! She levitated from her bed! A pot of soup is taken as a sorcerer's brew since a frog jumps in on accident. Even though Abigail repeatedly tries to convince her uncle that she and the other girls were just dancing in the wood, he is unsatisfied until she proclaims that she has been under the influence of a witch: her uncle's servant, Tituba. This he accepts without question, though he would not listen to the truth. Tituba is an easy target: she's merely a servant, an outsider (a black woman from Barbados in Miller's play, though the historical Tituba was a Christianized Native American). The Barbados songs are taken for incantations and Tituba is given the choice between hanging and confession for a "crime" she never committed. Before long, all of the townspeople's misfortunes and fears are the result of witchcraft. The first targets are like Tituba, women who will find few defenders--the second accused woman sleeps in a ditch. However, eventually even the most saintly of the townspeople are accused (and the accused all end up hanging or confessing to be witches, turning themselves over). The men who bring the warrants are reluctant, but their hands are tied: they have no choice but to do as the law requires, which includes chaining all the prisoners, some of whom are old, grandmotherly women. In contrast to this, the girls making the accusations enjoy their newfound power--Mary Warren, who serves as a nanny in an era where the head of the house had the right to bar her from leaving the house, starts making demands at home. Abigail, who was on the verge of being ostracized in the village, is now the most important individual: by her word people live and die. And she revels in this. Mary Warren comes to realize that she has been a fraud and tries to expose the others, explaining that during the trials she did believe she was being persecuted by a witch, purely because the other girls (led by Abigail) were acting as though they were being tormented--in the hysteria, she too acted as they did and believed even though she never saw any apparitions or witches. When the other girls accuse her of witchcraft, she ends up renouncing the truth in favor of joining back with the girls in order to avoid hanging. Danforth, the magistrate who directs the proceedings, explains his difficulty in the trials to Rev. Hale in a moment that brought murmurs from the audience: a lawyer is useless to defend the accused, because in cases of witchcraft only two parties are privy to what is going on: the witch and the afflicted. If the afflicted produces signs like growing cold, shaking, shrieking, illness, etc., then the witch is obviously tormenting her and must renounce sorcery: the law's penalty for witchcraft is death by hanging, so unless the witch confesses and turns back to God, she must die. It's a form of reasoning that doesn't allow for any real defense, and even though Danforth seems loath to follow his own reasoning at points, it comes to a question of authority: he cannot show mercy for fear of being called soft or unjust. He cannot be wrong. One wonders why the town does not revolt. The ending of the play makes mention of it (orphans are walking from house to house, cows are wandering without their masters), but it takes that level of social and economic disruption for the town to seriously consider rebellion. As a society, they have a choice to accept or disregard the court's authority--in this case, the tragedy is that they accept the madness with the same acceptance that they gave the claims of witchcraft, never evaluating the situation or holding their leadership accountable. ^ Top | 11:31 PM | | | 
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