Arthur Miller has always been your go-to man for the collisions between the individual and power, the gut-wrenching moral dilemmas we all hope we’ll never have to face in reality. His play The Crucible, although notionally set against the witchcraft trials of 17th century Salem, was famously aimed at the Un-American Activities Committee, at its height in 1950s America, when artists, writers and many more were persuaded to denounce each other and/or face professional ruin. Many did, confirming the inescapable power of institutionalised violence.
But of course it doesn’t have to be god or the US government you’re offending, which is why Miller’s tale renews its startling resonance today in Helen Pickett’s sensuous – and, yes, quite scary – production for Scottish Ballet, here getting its first revival since 2019 in a world that has grown even more threatening in the intervening years.
Pickett’s 2014 one-act version, premiered in a double-bill, had proved successful but perhaps too compressed for clarity. Encouraged to expand it into two acts, she gave the central relationship between the Proctors a little more room to breathe and underlined even further the terrible power of self-appointed authority.
In a brief Prologue a girl plays house, imagining herself the wife and mother within. It’s an image of innocence, soon to be wiped out by the maelstrom of revenge, hysteria and spite that follows the discovery of John Proctor’s foolish dalliance with his maid Abigail (Kayla-Maree Tarantolo). She is herself that dangerous thing, a girl on the verge of womanhood, and her come-hither solo propels him into a kiss and then a daring and passionate duet. He swings her high and around; she scissors her legs round him in triumphant possession. Of course they are found out by Elizabeth and the long pas de deux that follows between husband and wife couldn’t be more different in tone. It moves from Elizabeth’s fury – an outraged Jessica Fyfe is all flailing arms and flashing feet – to Bruno Micchiardi’s repentant John desperately begging forgiveness in a lovely, if tentative resolution. They melt into each others’ arms just like any pair of classical lovers. Pickett’s choreography, rooted in that classicism but enlivened by quirky moves, makes this relationship truly moving. But that’s the last gasp of romance.
Next, townsfolk heading for church are meeting and greeting happily until the arrival of the minister converts all to stylised conformity. From then on, the people’s response to the authority of their ministers is represented by these almost robotic, ritualistic movements – arms (and bibles) raised in unison, everybody (literally) in step. A note of concern is already creeping in. No wonder the girls are in rebellion…
The scene in the forest where they sneak out to dance begins playfully; scary folktales of wolves shown in shadowplay on a backcloth (marvellous!) but childish fun soon morphs into real life as the girls strip and dance themselves into a naked frenzy. When they are discovered and the subsequent accusations of witchcraft begin to fly, fear and spite turn them into a mass of screaming, pointing and convulsive gestures, in a scene that gives Act 1 its truly thrilling close.
My minor quibble with this terrific production, back in 2019, was that the courtroom scenes of the second act are a wee bit confusing. Robbed of Miller’s complex dialogue, the danced drama is certainly powerful and convincing but it’s not always easy to identify specific characters (the Rev Parris, ‘Witchfinder’ Hale, Governor Danforth…) or, indeed, exactly how the moral issue that dooms the Proctors plays out. But does it matter? Pickett’s choreography is never less than thrilling: pointe work, high lifts, held-in spiky ritual – it’s riveting stuff.
Design and, perhaps especially, the music are big players in this production. Peter Salem’s strings-and-percussion score really drives the action, sometimes scratching eerily as it ramps up tension, sometimes sweetly romantic. On Emma Kingsbury’s minimal set, crosses dominate, set across the floor by lighting. The lack of colour or ornament in costuming sets us firmly in period and drains individuality from the supporting characters. Arthur Miller apparently felt that the first production of his play was too stylised: it would be good to think that this production might persuade him that that wasn’t such a bad idea.
The Crucible continues at Theatre Royal, Glasgow, 22-24 May 2025
