The Crucible @ The Maddermarket
I feel like I’m watching a period episode of Jeremy Kyle with a deadly edge.
Readers of Outline magazine will understand that as an aspiring hipster there is nothing I like more than appropriating the anachronistic trends of bygone decades in a fatuous and affected way. (You know who you are, you moustache twirling jerks). It was in this frame of mind that I headed out to the Maddermarket Theatre tonight wearing 1970’s high tops, listening to a 1980’s Walkman and with my pockets brimming with kindling for a good old witch burning from the 1690’s. I know lighter fluid is cheating but the weather looked touch and go and I wasn’t going to berk about with a bit of flint.
The theatrical treat on offer was a production of The Crucible by Arthur Miller. Ostensibly concerned with a partially fictionalised account of the Salem witch trials, Miller uses the setting as an allegory to explore the McCarthyism of 1950’s America which sought to weed out ‘un-American activities’ (presumably such as walking short distances or allowing oil rich middle eastern states to resolve their own internal struggles without military intervention – God bless Uncle Sam and all who sail on her!) For the evening then, reds under the beds became... witches in your breeches? At the time of writing the play, this sentiment was highly contentious. 1950’s America was a period when anti Soviet sentiment was rife and suspected communists were placed on government watchlists. People were accused of being a red simply if they didn’t adhere to your worldview. Did they vote Democrat? They’re a commie! Did they look at you funny? They’re a commie! Do they believe in a socioeconomic system structured upon the common ownership of the means of production and characterized by the absence of social classes, money and the state? Then they’re a commie! Fortunately in our more enlightened age the West is fostering much closer political relations with Russia.
It is also auspicious that it should be this week that the production appears here in Norwich. The allegory extends beyond the metaphorical witch trials of the 1950’s to the greatest criminal investigation of the 21st century that climaxes almost as I type... who killed Lucy Beale?! Was it you Goody Proctor? Was it you Goody Brooke-Taylor? Was it you...Karl Marx?!
At curtain up a dense ethereal mist crept over the audience and shrouded the stage in mystery. It’s cloying depths set my heart on edge. A group of young women were seen dancing in the woods! Perhaps naked! The town find this scandalous, what are they...puritans? Why were they doing this? In a leap of biblical stupidity there can be only one answer – the devil was afoot! (This also explains a lot of Flashdance). Accusations are made and blame flies; the problem spirals out of control as dozens are arrested and put on trial. Good men and women find themselves caught in the machinations of a larger machine, the victims of petty disputes and idle revenges. We as an audience keenly feel this loss of control as those that were once calm and assured fray at the edges and wither. Even the drivers of the trials eventually find themselves at the mercy of their own creation.
An interesting piece of staging was the inclusion of audience seats on stage facing back towards us. I initially felt uncomfortable with this. As an audience member my greatest delight is the opportunity to sit in anonymity in the darkness and silently judge more talented people than myself. To have it turned around on me, as if I were being judged? I see what you did there. This became more interesting when the reciprocal, suspicious inspection turned into more of a bear pit with characters surrounded on all sides by mute accusers as they approach the gallows. As the drama unfolds the contrast of these petty disputes with the deadly repercussions becomes disturbing. I feel like I’m watching a period episode of Jeremy Kyle with a deadly edge. Titles like ’65 And Pregnant...But Who’s The Father?’ flicker past my eyes.
The play was ably performed with a few real stand out parts. The Proctors were marvellous, the priests excellent and the Governor terrifying. I also really enjoyed the trio of girls at the heart of the case who formed a ‘Mean Girls’ esque clique (‘On Wednesdays we wear dirty grey.’) It’s a difficult play, to watch and perform, but is definitely worth the effort.
