Tim Hopper and Ora Jones in The Crucible. Photo by Michael Brosilow. Playwright: Arthur Miller. At: Steppenwolf Theatre, 1650 N. Halsted. Phone: 312-335-1650; $20-$68. Runs through: Nov. 11
Twenty years ago, Gary Sinise dismissed The Crucible as outside Steppenwolf's rough and raw aesthetic. 'I can't see us doing a play where people are called 'Goodie' and wear buckles on their shoes,' he's quoted in Richard Christiansen's A Theatre of Our Own.
What a difference a few decades make. The buckles and quaintly monikered characters are out in abundance in the Steppenwolf's forceful, unnervingly timely revival of Arthur Miller's classic. Directed by Anna D. Shapiro, the piece roils with relevancy. The rough magic that defines Steppenwolf flows through Arthur Miller's scathing, metaphorical expose of mediocre minds made dangerous by unchecked power. The Crucible illuminates a time of habeas corpus-free arrests and indefinite imprisonment, of Orwellian trials and language twisted into a mockery of its meaning. From dolls, the self-appointed righteous deduce devil worship; in reading, they see the hand of demons; in stillbirths, the curse of a witch.
Today, the Rev. Parris ( Ian Barford, wonderfully smarmy and self-pitying ) would insist weapons of mass destruction lurk under every stone in Iraq, while Danforth ( Francis Guinan, perfectly pompous and oozing self-righteousness ) would ensure that the accused fester forever in some officially non-existent prison.
'No uncorrupted man may fear this court…the pure of heart need no lawyers,' Danforth trumpets, and it's clear we're in the land of both 17th-century Salem and 21st-century Guantanamo.
Shapiro does a mighty job ensuring that the politics of The Crucible don't come at the cost of the story—Miller's agit-prop agenda is dramatic rather than didactic here, and that's a major accomplishment. There's no denying Miler's brilliance, but there's also no denying that, in lesser hands, The Crucible could—ironically enough—come across as a piece of powerful sermonizing first and storytelling second.
At the core of The Crucible is James Vincent Meredith as John Proctor, a man of unmistakable nobility and profoundly human frailties. Proctor's flaws make him eminently empathetic. Called on to recite the 10 Commandments, Procter remembers them all except 'adultery,' a lapse that achingly highlights the source of his troubles.
That source is Abigail Williams ( Kelly O'Sullivan, a perfect mix of innocence and viciousness ) . First wooed and then spurned by Proctor, Abigail discovers power and exacts vengeance in wailing fits and wild-eyed accusations. If Shapiro makes a misstep in her direction, it's in not highlighting the fact that Abigail's devastating lies are the desperate recourse of the abused and the powerless. Women in 17th-century Salem had fewer rights than cattle; in feigning demonic possession, Abigail balanced the scales of power.
'I'll cling to no faith when faith brings blood,' utters one of the accused. It's a statement that cuts through the centuries in its immediacy.