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by Amy Belk The year is 1692. Several young, culpable girls are dancing wildly around a large, black cauldron, beckoning a Caribbean slave to cast love spells on a number of unsuspecting boys in the town of Salem, Massachusetts. As the girls reach the height of their uncouth frenzy, the town’s minister frightens them upon his arrival at the event. Extremely ashamed, the girls scatter throughout the dark, moonlit woods, rushing back to their homes in the village. Caught and disconcerted, they fabricate a terrible lie against certain members of the town to shift their condemnation onto others. The result of this occurrence serves as the core of the movie version of the play The Crucible, Arthur Miller’s harrowing account of the Salem witch trials. In his play, however, Miller feebly attempts to portray the disturbing iniquities that the vindictive young girls dispense upon the innocent, simple men and women of Salem, as well as their anguish and suffering. In the play version, Miller fails to reveal the magnitude of the powerful, emotion-arousing events that take place in this small village, and the terrible persecution placed upon the honest inhabitants. However, the cinematic adaptation of the play creates a more thorough and impetuous representation of these incidents, resulting in the viewer’s heightened awareness of the characters’ grief and sacrifice. In his play version of The Crucible, Miller fails to instill ample depth into his characters. He attempts to do so in the overture found at the beginning of Act One and in a few segments of narration placed intermittently throughout the play. Miller describes Reverend Parris as "a widower with no interest in children, or talent with them," and states that Parris "believed he was being persecuted wherever he went, despite his efforts to win people and God to his side" (Crucible 1.3). Unfortunately, Miller fails to further develop Rev. Parris’ character as the drama surges forward. As a result, the characters remain flat, rendering no chance of an audience-character emotional bond. Toward the end of the play, Rev. Parris is narrowmindedly preoccupied with his own good name and safety, anxiously awaiting John Proctor’s confession that will "surely damn the others in the public eye [ . . . ]" (4.128). His only concern is to quell the fears of the town that the court is hanging innocent souls, suggesting that his interest is selfish in nature. In addition, the play’s "multiplicity of secondary characters" depletes John and Elizabeth’s "personal drama of maintaining integrity in the face of compounded evil and folly" (Glassner 30). Miller’s use of unimportant, lesser characters reduces the effectiveness of the Proctor’s relationship upon the focus of their private and tragic struggle with honor. However, the film portrays the characters from a very different perspective. In the film, Rev. Parris is sympathetic and highly remorseful during the final scenes. As the marshal leads Mr. Proctor toward the wagon that will carry him to his death, Rev. Parris fearfully pleads with Proctor’s wife. He cries, "Go to him, Mary! There is time yet" (The Crucible). Then, the tearful reverend chases after John, screaming, "In the name of God, confess, confess!" (Crucible). Truly, Mr. Parris cares deeply about the Proctors now that he realizes the insufferable pain that his niece, Abigail, has inflicted upon John and Elizabeth. In addition, the characters in the film have a distinct and carefully chosen place within each scene. Each scene positions the focus on the plot through the careful placement of only the important and necessary individuals of the film. Moreover, the many dynamics of Arthur Miller’s characters in the film lay a solid foundation for a shocking story of accusation, betrayal, and martyrdom. Throughout the play, Miller curtails John and Abigail’s strained relationship. In Act One, Miller places an intimate conversation between Proctor and Abigail in an open, formal room. The two former lovers banter back and forth in front of a bedridden eight-year-old who is pretending to be bewitched. Although a few private words are passed between them, including Abigail’s statement that Proctor "sweat[s] like a stallion whenever" she draws close to him, Miller fails to reveal the weightiness of Abigail and John’s relationship upon the precursor of vengeance that brews within Abigail’s covetous heart (1.22). Many critics state that Abigail’s accusations are representative of Miller’s analogy between the Salem witch trials and the McCarthy charges of the 1950’s. Walter Kerr presents the notion that Miller’s preoccupation with this allegory hinders the development of the characters in the play. About Miller, he states, "He does not make [the characters] interesting in and for themselves, and you wind up analyzing them, checking their dilemmas against the latest headlines, rather than losing yourself in any rounded, deeply rewarding personalities" (Kerr 36). Obviously, Miller does not provide his characters with adequate depth to support the weighty issue of vengeance at hand. In addition, the town continually embraces Abigail’s saintliness. There is no mention of dishonesty against her after she confesses to her brief dance with the devil. The town believes that she is now "holy" and "clean as God’s fingers" (Crucible 2.77). Although the Puritan belief of immediate forgiveness is historically accurate, Miller fails to transform the nearly factual story into a more emotionally charged tale suited for the less-imaginative modern audience. However, the movie depicts Abigail’s relationships with John and the town quite differently. First, the infidel and his paramour carry out their personal tLte-B-tLte much more privately behind Rev. Parris’ house, out of sight from the meddling Salemites. This secrecy suggests the dangerous nature of their relationship. The passionate kissing and heavy groping between Abigail and John lay the well-structured groundwork for the retribution to come. In addition, the town begins to fear Abigail. One scene in the film shows several mothers and their children rushing apprehensively past her, the mothers telling their youngsters to "come away from her" while clutching them tightly (Crucible). Obviously, the relationship between Abigail and the town is faltering, revealing a broken trust that will soon magnify the sheer terror harbored by those accused of witchcraft. The Crucible as a play possesses relatively few scenes. The entire story takes place within two residences, a "meeting house" (3.83), and a jail cell, confining the reader’s imagination, and diminishing the realization of the story’s magnitude. In Act Four, Proctor and Elizabeth’s final conversation, representative of love’s terminal farewell, is restricted to a dank, unfitting jail cell. Proctor touches her hand, "and then, weak, he sits. Then she sits, facing him" (Crucible 4.134). Their discourse begins and ends, with meager emotion in between, abruptly. Miller administers a great injustice to the relevance of this scene. He fails to provide adequate passion for the idea that these two human beings will stop at nothing to reclaim those years of love they lost to suspicion and grievous self-assurance. In commenting on the lack of emotion of the play, Edward Murray states that "it seems to lack [. . .] sensuousness, [. . .] imaginative and technical brilliance, [and] warm humanity" (328). Unfortunately, this deficiency lessens the emotional potency of the plot. However, in creating the cinematic depiction of Miller’s play, the director has more freedom to change the location of certain scenes and the placement of the more forceful characters. For the same scene in Act Four, the director of the film places John and Elizabeth, completely alone, out on the open seashore. The waves dramatically swell and crash while the cold, piercing wind strips away all of their pretenses, laying the Proctors bare to their suffering souls. The intimate and heartfelt discussion between them is an outpouring of personal confession and forgiveness, understood as resoundingly and sonorously as the discernable torrent of wind that surges onscreen. According to the film’s review in Rolling Stone magazine, this particular "scene of tender reconciliation is the film’s moral core" ("The Crucible"). This statement further exemplifies the notion that the film adaptation more clearly reveals the emotional power exuded within each scene. Their pain and intent are realized when, after sobbing and holding tight to one another, John turns toward the crowd of men in the distance and, with a booming voice, cries, "I want my life" (Crucible). Deborah Kelley-Milburn states that this "one stunning scene [. . .] is positively heartbreaking [and] one of the most moving [. . .] scenes [. . .] ever seen" (Kelley-Milburn). Moreover, this unforgettable moment captures the Proctors’ haunting illusion that there will be no more suffering and increases the viewer’s emotional reaction to the idea of the Proctors’ terrible plight. In writing the play, Miller scarcely mentions a significant event that exemplifies the accused’s refusal to succumb to an inequitable authority by betraying one’s friends. Giles Corey, "a deeply innocent and brave man" (1.41), will not reveal his source of the information that could condemn the despicable Thomas Putnam in court. Mr. Corey’s failure to name an innocent confidant seals his fate and ultimately causes his death. Miller discloses this account through Elizabeth Proctor’s statement that, "he [stood] mute, and died Christian under the law" (4.135). The insufficient development of this statement is an injustice to the overall theme of the play in that Corey’s silence is the tragic epitome of martyrdom. According to John Simon, this "linguistic insufficiency" is a characteristic of a "word-deaf playwright" and an "unendearing flaw" in the play’s backbone (280). In addition, the conclusion of the play leaves the reader to ponder John Proctor’s demise. After the marshal escorts him from the jail, only Rev. Hale remains with Elizabeth, pleading with her to attempt to change her husband’s mind about his self-less silence. Unfortunately, Miller closes the play while the reader is unaware of, and wondering, what is transpiring beyond the confines of the cramped cell. However, the cinematic version of The Crucible opens many doors to the elaboration of theme that the play houses within itself. In fact, the film adaptation does not "soften or cosmeticize Miller’s tale," but "draws an emotional pitch from [its] actors that helps [the viewer] understand the mob fury and irrational fear that make a situation like the one in Salem possible" (Guthman). The addition of two distinct scenes helps to further develop the idea that Giles Corey and John Proctor died honorably for upholding their convictions. In the first appended scene, Giles is lying flat with all four limbs stretched tautly away from his body while two men place enormous, heavy rocks upon his chest. Attempting to squeeze the informant’s name out of his being, Rev. Parris screams, "What say you, Corey? We can not relent" (Crucible). Giles replies, "More weight," the utterance that earns him his wish (Crucible). Truly, Corey’ statement reveals his passion for the beliefs that keep him silent. In addition, the final scene of the film is truly the most powerful. John Proctor, Rebecca Nurse, and Martha Corey are forced onto the scaffold to face the ropes that will hang them for their refusal deny their faith by confessing to witchcraft. As the marshal secures the nooses around their necks, they begin to recite The Lord’s Prayer. During the profoundly symbolic delivery of the words, "lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil," the executioner pushes the accused to their deaths (Matt. 6.13). This extremely moving scene openly permits the heart and mind to grasp the enormity of the sacrifice made in the name of virtue. In drafting The Crucible, Arthur Miller sketches a tale of lust, vengeance, and sacrifice. Without the further expansion of the story, the reader is somewhat inhibited from fully understanding the abominable acts carried out upon the residents of Salem and the effect of those acts on their souls. However, the cinematic adaptation of The Crucible offers the viewer true enlightenment to the meaning of and horror behind the Salem witch trials. The film provides the viewer with an adaptation of the play that "crackles with visual energy, passionate provocation, and incendiary acting" ("The Crucible"). During a pivotal scene in the film, Abigail and the other accusers watch a group of innocent men and women as their necks break from the force of the rope that hangs them. Abigail flinches, and then smiles, as one by one, the marshal pushes the sinless martyrs off the scaffold. Let God place mercy upon the souls of those who persecute and bless the souls of those that they victimize. Works Cited Gassner, John. "Miller’s ‘The Crucible’ as Event and Play." Theatre
at the Crossroads (1960): 274-278. Rpt. in Guthman, Edward. "A ‘Crucible’ for All Time." San Francisco
Chronicle 20 Dec.2001. 27 March 2002 Kelly-Milburn, Deborah. "The Crucible." IMBD 1996. 27 March 2002
Kerr, Walter. "A Problem Playwright." New York Herald Tribune 23
Jan. 1953. Rpt. in Twentieth-Century Interpretations Miller, Arthur. The Crucible. New York: Penguin, 1981. Murray, Edward. Arthur Miller, Dramatist. Frederick Unger
Publishing Co. New York: 1967. Rpt. in Contemporary Simon, John. "Eloquence in Spite of Words." New York Magazine.
15 May 1972. Rpt. in Contemporary Literary "The Crucible." Rolling Stone. 12 Dec. 1996. 27 March 2002
The Crucible. Dir. Nicholas Hytner. Twentieth-Century Fox. 1996.
"A Crucible Realized" is an essay written by Amy Belk in Dr. Barbara Murray’s ENGL 1102 class in Spring 2002. At the time of this writing Ms. Belk was a sophomore majoring in Agricultural and Environmental Science . To her credit, Ms. Belk is a member of Phi Theta Kappa.
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A Crucible Realized
