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A review by tristansreadingmania
The Crucible by Arthur Miller
4.0
“We are what we always were in Salem, but now the little crazy children are jangling the keys of the kingdom, and common vengeance writes the law!”
There is a remarkably harrowing scene in Frank Darabont’s expertly executed 2007 film adaptation of Stephen King’s lovecraftian novella The Mist.
The stage for this particular drama to unfold:
A group of denizens of a small rural town are holed up in a grocery store, enveloped by a mysterious, impossibly thick mist. To venture outside is inadvisable, since some of them have already been lost to the unfriendly creatures lurking outside. No one knows what is going on, or whether their loved ones are still alive. Fear, despair and panic reign supreme. Soon, a feverish cult– stoked by an evangelical, unbearably sanctimonious zealot, gathering ever more disciples around her – takes shape, and the search for a scapegoat is well underway.
After two soldiers have hanged themselves, a third – the last one of their group - confesses under pressure that he and his compatriots served on a military base where clandestine experiments were conducted in order to attempt communication with other dimensions. Put simply: It all went to hell in a handbasket. A portal opened up, which spewed forth the strange mist and a horde of creatures, an outcome which could very well spell doom for the entire world.
And thus, the scapegoat has been found, and – after enthusiastic prompting by their cult leader - is promptly and under a loud clamouring sacrificed by the mob. A butcher, striding towards him like an automaton, viciously stabs the soldier multiple times in the lower abdomen, after which he – still alive- is thrown out of the store, to be offered up to the creatures outside. He pleads to be let back in, but is faced by the door, which will never again be opened up to him. Something grabs him, and pulls him into the mist.
The real monsters are still inside, looking on.
When I saw the film at its release, this scene absolutely terrified me. Mob mentality (the willing surrendering of one’s own individual morality or sovereignty) to me has always been the ugliest aspect of the human psyche. Whenever I see it occur, a deep revulsion fills my being. Yet, I am also eternally fascinated by it. To be able to arrive at some kind of – admittedly uneasy - peace with this unpleasant reality, and more importantly to not be swept up by it when it comes, to face it head on and not budge an inch, is something that has kept me preoccupied for many years. It’s one of the greatest moral responsibilities any human could ever confront.
While radically different in its approach to The Mist in its portrayal of the inevitable fallout of hysterical groupthink, Arthur Miller’s The Crucible does leave one reeling for its sheer visceral power. None of the many examples of man’s inhumanity to man during the infamous Salem witch trials are directly shown, only briefly commented on, yet the paranoia and suffocating atmosphere are captured perfectly. Miller has a great ear for authentic dialogue, and deftly uses the idiom of 17th century English to craft a supreme human drama which elicits both sadness and righteous indignation.
A play which, I imagine, would be even more brutal to witness at a live performance. Essential in whichever way you opt to experience it.
There is a remarkably harrowing scene in Frank Darabont’s expertly executed 2007 film adaptation of Stephen King’s lovecraftian novella The Mist.
The stage for this particular drama to unfold:
A group of denizens of a small rural town are holed up in a grocery store, enveloped by a mysterious, impossibly thick mist. To venture outside is inadvisable, since some of them have already been lost to the unfriendly creatures lurking outside. No one knows what is going on, or whether their loved ones are still alive. Fear, despair and panic reign supreme. Soon, a feverish cult– stoked by an evangelical, unbearably sanctimonious zealot, gathering ever more disciples around her – takes shape, and the search for a scapegoat is well underway.
After two soldiers have hanged themselves, a third – the last one of their group - confesses under pressure that he and his compatriots served on a military base where clandestine experiments were conducted in order to attempt communication with other dimensions. Put simply: It all went to hell in a handbasket. A portal opened up, which spewed forth the strange mist and a horde of creatures, an outcome which could very well spell doom for the entire world.
And thus, the scapegoat has been found, and – after enthusiastic prompting by their cult leader - is promptly and under a loud clamouring sacrificed by the mob. A butcher, striding towards him like an automaton, viciously stabs the soldier multiple times in the lower abdomen, after which he – still alive- is thrown out of the store, to be offered up to the creatures outside. He pleads to be let back in, but is faced by the door, which will never again be opened up to him. Something grabs him, and pulls him into the mist.
The real monsters are still inside, looking on.
When I saw the film at its release, this scene absolutely terrified me. Mob mentality (the willing surrendering of one’s own individual morality or sovereignty) to me has always been the ugliest aspect of the human psyche. Whenever I see it occur, a deep revulsion fills my being. Yet, I am also eternally fascinated by it. To be able to arrive at some kind of – admittedly uneasy - peace with this unpleasant reality, and more importantly to not be swept up by it when it comes, to face it head on and not budge an inch, is something that has kept me preoccupied for many years. It’s one of the greatest moral responsibilities any human could ever confront.
While radically different in its approach to The Mist in its portrayal of the inevitable fallout of hysterical groupthink, Arthur Miller’s The Crucible does leave one reeling for its sheer visceral power. None of the many examples of man’s inhumanity to man during the infamous Salem witch trials are directly shown, only briefly commented on, yet the paranoia and suffocating atmosphere are captured perfectly. Miller has a great ear for authentic dialogue, and deftly uses the idiom of 17th century English to craft a supreme human drama which elicits both sadness and righteous indignation.
A play which, I imagine, would be even more brutal to witness at a live performance. Essential in whichever way you opt to experience it.