The Crucible (1996)

Nicholas Hytner's 1996 screen version of The Crucible arrives with the gravity of a monument and the pacing of a court transcript. Arthur Miller adapted his own 1953 play, itself a glancing blow at the House Un-American Activities Committee, and the film retains the playwright's conviction that a village gone mad is a lesson for all seasons. Daniel Day-Lewis broods as John Proctor, Winona Ryder schemes as Abigail Williams, and Paul Scofield presides as Judge Danforth with the serene menace of a man who has never once doubted himself. It is a handsome production. It is also a deeply earnest one.

On the matter of modern social consciousness, the film is largely innocent. Charlayne Woodard plays Tituba, the enslaved woman who becomes the first convenient scapegoat, and the role is historically sensible without functioning as any kind of casting statement; the rest of Salem is uniformly pale. The girls wield genuine power over the town, yet the film reads their testimony as hysteria and spite, not as commentary on women and authority. The Putnams angle for confiscated land, which offers a faint grumble about property and greed and nothing more. There is no environmental sermon, no body politics, no neurological vocabulary, no reordering of history to suit present tastes.

What remains is the sermonizing, and Miller's allegory delivers it in theatrical bursts. The cry that God is dead lands as a thesis statement, and the closing gallows scene is built to instruct. The lessons concern false accusation, reputation, and cowardice, all durable and none of them especially contemporary. The film means well. It has meant well since 1953. We can respect that without pretending it is anything other than a sturdy, self-important adaptation of a sturdy, self-important play.