“The Crucible”: A Reckoning in High School Theatre

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The Crucible

Tualatin High School Theater Department —
March 8th & 15th, 2025
Tualatin High School Auditorium, Tualatin, Oregon
Directed by Jenn Hunter Tindle
By Arthur Miller

Notes from a high school production where history and reinterpretation collided.

Some plays feel like history lessons. Others feel like warnings. Tualatin High School’s The Crucible was both — staged with conviction, urgency, and a surprising resonance that made it worth archiving.

The program for Tualatin High School’s The Crucible, framed against the glowing red outline of the set. A reminder that archiving begins not just with memory, but with objects and atmosphere.
The program for Tualatin High School’s “The Crucible,” framed against the glowing red outline of the set. A reminder that archiving begins not just with memory, but with objects and atmosphere.

First Impressions

The program already hinted at depth: director Jenn Hunter Tindle, in her Director’s Notes, recalled her own first encounter with Arthur Miller’s play in high school, and how the story functioned as both history (the Salem witch trials) and allegory (McCarthyism). That dual lens shaped the entire performance.

The minimalist production design carried the audience back to what one assumes is the 1950s — signaled by the pre-show and intermission song choices — the very decade when Miller was reckoning with hysteria and false narratives. Instead of Puritanical costumes, it was a modern, rural setting where farmers, community, and rigid faith were tested. What struck me most, though, was how those echoes felt alive in 2025 — in a year where polarization and the spread of misinformation still dominate public life.

Why This Production Stands Out

A chiaroscuro oil painting of a sparse 1950s rural bedroom interior, evoking cinematic noir realism. The space is dimly lit, with worn wooden plank floors and rough plaster walls. A narrow bed with a plain blanket sits beneath a single window, where a shaft of cold light cuts diagonally into the room, casting stark geometric shadows across the floor. A simple wooden bench is placed at the foot of the bed, and a straight-backed chair leans against the far wall beside a bare wooden table. Empty wooden frames on the wall echo the shapes of doors and windows, giving the space a stark, stage-like abstraction. The atmosphere is heavy, tense, and foreboding, with deep shadows swallowing parts of the room. The style should resemble an oil painting from the 1940s–50s, with textured brushstrokes, muted earthy tones, and high-contrast lighting reminiscent of film noir cinematography.

Performed by high school students, yes — but this staging was not a retelling. It highlighted the play’s enduring themes of unchecked power and mass hysteria while also reflecting the values of a new generation. The casting choices spoke volumes, making this what I would call the strongest ensemble I’ve ever seen in a high school production. What gave it force was not just individual performances, but the way the company worked as one. Voices overlapped, energy collided, and silence was wielded as power.

It felt less like a school play and more like a collective reckoning — carried by one of the most talented groups of Gen Z actors I’ve ever witnessed. They know firsthand what it means to come of age in a world shaped by chaos, misinformation, and polarization. And in that recognition, Miller’s warnings stopped feeling like history. They became present tense.

Editorial Note: I name adult directors and performers in public, professional contexts. Out of respect for privacy, I do not publish the names of student actors.

Performance Highlights

A horizontal, cinematic noir realism oil painting of Reverend Samuel Parris reimagined in a 1950s rural setting. The character is portrayed as a non-binary figure, wearing modest dark 1950s preacher’s clothing — slightly ill-fitted, with a simple jacket and clerical collar — emphasizing fragility and insecurity rather than authority. They lean tensely over a rough wooden pulpit, hands gripping the edge tightly, shoulders hunched, eyes wide with doubt and fear instead of confidence. A stark, angular shaft of light falls from above, isolating them in the frame while the surrounding meetinghouse interior fades into oppressive shadow. The background is spare: worn wooden walls, a simple chair, empty window frames, and indistinct shadowy figures seated in judgment, half-hidden by darkness. The palette is muted and earthy — browns, ochres, grays, and deep blacks — with textured brushwork and heavy chiaroscuro. The mood is tense, oppressive, and dramatic: hypocrisy unmasked, authority stripped bare, a fearful figure trapped beneath the gaze of their own congregation.

Reverend Samuel Parris was played by a non-binary student (they/them), adding complex dimension to a role traditionally defined by patriarchal male authority. Here, Parris became less a caricature of rigid faith and more a study in hypocrisy and insecurity — fragile, rather than commanding. Their performance carried a sense of poetic justice: a non-binary actor reclaiming and subverting the very figure who, in history and in the text, so often demonizes the marginalized. What emerged was less the voice of spiritual authority than a mirror held up to fear itself — fear as theater, fear as power, fear as pretense.

The performances of John Proctor and Deputy-Governor Danforth — especially in what I call “Act 3: The Trial” — were unlike anything I had seen from young actors before.

A horizontal, cinematic noir realism oil painting of John Proctor reimagined in a 1950s rural American setting. He is depicted as a man in his mid-30s, lean and wiry, with a youthful but strained face that shows guilt, pride, and desperation rather than age and authority. His dark hair is slightly unkempt, his jaw tight, his eyes wide with a conflicted intensity — a man caught between conscience and patriarchal pride. He wears rugged, work-worn 1950s farmer’s clothing: a rumpled white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders stretched over his shoulders, and trousers marked by wear. His posture is tense and defensive, leaning forward over a rough wooden courtroom bench with both fists pressed firmly against the wood, his chest thrust forward as if mid-outburst. The setting is a dim rural courtroom or town hall: bare wooden benches, stark walls, and shadowy figures of townsfolk and judges watching in silence. Harsh, angular beams of light fall across Proctor, isolating his form in sharp chiaroscuro while much of the room dissolves into heavy shadow. The palette is muted and earthy — deep browns, ochres, and grays contrasted against shafts of pale light. The painterly style emphasizes textured brushstrokes and atmospheric depth. The mood presents Proctor not as a heroic martyr but as a younger, insecure man, his desperation laid bare under judgment, clinging to authority as it unravels around him.

So often mistaken as a hero, Proctor instead emerged here as a morally insecure, tormented man clinging to patriarchal ideals and control over Elizabeth Proctor, Mary Warren, and even in his strained exchanges with Reverends Parris and Hale.

A horizontal, cinematic noir realism oil painting of Elizabeth Proctor reimagined in a 1950s rural American setting. She is depicted as a woman in her early 30s, dressed in a plain, muted blue-gray 1950s house dress with a charcoal cardigan, her appearance neat but worn from labor and hardship. She sits alone at a rough wooden table in a bare, dimly lit farmhouse or courtroom interior. Her posture is upright yet tense, hands clasped tightly in front of her on the table, as though holding back words or emotion. Her face is solemn, pale, and weary, lips pressed together and eyes lowered slightly, reflecting quiet suffering and resilience. A single shaft of light falls across her face and hands, leaving the rest of the room — cracked wooden walls, an empty chair, and faint shadowy figures in the background — engulfed in darkness. The composition frames Elizabeth as solitary and isolated, yet dignified, her presence emphasizing moral clarity and endurance. The painterly style is textured, with chiaroscuro lighting that creates sharp contrasts between light and shadow. The palette consists of earthy browns, grays, and faded blues, reinforcing the bleak atmosphere. The mood is somber and claustrophobic: Elizabeth as the quiet moral center of The Crucible, her suffering exposing the fragility and hypocrisy of the world surrounding her.
Elizabeth Proctor

His presence revealed the burning red flags of a man desperate to preserve authority while hiding behind a conflicted conscience — an insecurity that came to explosive clarity in the courtroom.

Proctor has been immortalized on professional stages and screens — from Daniel Day-Lewis’s brooding in the 1996 film to the late George C. Scott’s severity in the 1967 TV movie. The name ‘John Proctor’ even inspired American playwright Kimberly Belflower’s 2022 Broadway debut, John Proctor is the Villain, a modern re-imagining set in a high school that (rightfully) centers the voices of young women. Yet this Tualatin student actor carved a space of his own. His Proctor did not imitate; it unsettled. It felt born not of tradition, but of the present moment — and it left its own mark. One can imagine, someday, the role itself belonging to a woman — another landmark in the ongoing reinterpretation of Miller’s text.

A horizontal, cinematic noir realism oil painting of Deputy-Governor Danforth presiding over a 1950s rural American courtroom. He is depicted as a man in his late 40s to early 50s, lean and severe, with sharp angular features and an intense, prosecutorial expression. He wears a plain, dark 1950s judicial robe that drapes heavily around his frame, emphasizing his authority as judge. He is firmly seated in a tall, high-backed wooden judge’s chair behind a raised bench, his posture upright and commanding. One hand presses down onto a stack of scattered depositions and legal papers on the desk, while his other hand is raised mid-gesture as if silencing the courtroom or delivering a decisive ruling. His eyes are fixed forward with piercing certainty, projecting quick judgment and absolute control. The setting is stark and oppressive: rough wooden paneling and benches fade into deep shadow, with faint silhouettes of townsfolk visible below him in the gloom. A harsh, angular shaft of light cuts down from above, isolating Danforth’s face, robe, and hands in chiaroscuro relief while the rest of the chamber dissolves into darkness. The palette is earthy and muted — blacks, browns, ochres, and grays — painted with textured brushstrokes that heighten the sense of weight and atmosphere. The mood is authoritarian and chilling: Danforth not as a relic of Puritanical law but as a terrifyingly modern figure of relentless speed and certainty, a judge whose every word carries the inevitability of doom.

Danforth, by contrast, orchestrated the courtroom with theological certainty, leaving the chilling impression that no one could ever receive a fair trial in his world. Yet this was no recycle of the rigid, Shakespearean-toned judges of the past. Instead, this Danforth bore the quick mind and prosecutorial speed of someone itching for convictions, his questions snapping like traps. It felt less like regal gravitas and more like the relentless pace of rumor, gossip, and misinformation in today’s social media age. One slip in his courtroom meant immediate doom. In this interpretation, Danforth became less a relic of Puritanical law and more a terrifyingly modern figure — a performance that could rival even the Oliviers of the stage.

A horizontal, cinematic noir realism oil painting of a group portrait tableau showing four young women embodying traditionally male roles in a 1950s rural American staging of The Crucible. The setting is a dimly lit wooden courtroom, with bare walls and a single window in the background. The four figures are arranged in solemn poses of authority: One sits forward at a wooden judge’s bench, hands folded on the table, her youthful face stern and unsmiling. Another stands just behind her, wearing a clerical collar and glasses, clutching a large Bible to her chest with tense hands, posture rigid as a reverend. To the side, a figure in an oversized sheriff’s-style coat and broad-brimmed hat holds a baton at her side, her profile turned partly into shadow. Another sits upright in a plain dark suit and hat, hands clasped tightly in front of her, expression grave and composed. Their clothing evokes 1950s men’s attire — jackets, vests, coats, hats, and collars — but ill-fitted and slightly oversized, emphasizing the theatricality of assuming patriarchal roles. The lighting is stark and angular, a beam cutting across their faces and hands, leaving the rest of the chamber in deep chiaroscuro shadow. The palette is muted and earthy — browns, blacks, grays, and ochres — with painterly brushstrokes emphasizing texture and atmosphere. The mood is solemn, oppressive, and theatrical, underscoring the reinterpretation of authority: young women embodying and reshaping figures of patriarchal power in a tableau that conveys both gravity and fragility.
Left to right: Judge Hathorne, Reverend Hale, Constable John Willard, and Francis Nurse (seated)

Other roles — Reverend Hale, Judge Hathorne, Constable John Willard, and Francis Nurse — were embodied by young women. This reshaping shifted the balance of power on stage, underscoring how gender and authority are never fixed, but interpreted anew each time the play is staged.

A horizontal, cinematic noir realism oil painting depicting Tituba, Betty Parris, Mercy Lewis, and Susanna Walcott in a 1950s rural American reimagining of The Crucible. At the center stands Tituba, an Afro-Caribbean woman in her 30s, wearing modest, work-worn 1950s domestic clothing — a plain dress with a faded apron and headscarf. Her posture is tense and expressive: one hand pressed against her chest, the other raised in a pleading gesture. Her face is lit dramatically, eyes lifted upward in fear and defiance, embodying both her scapegoating and her central role in sparking the hysteria. To her left sits Betty Parris, a pale young white girl in her early teens, wrapped in a blanket on a wooden chair or cot. Her small hands are clasped tightly to her chest, her eyes wide with dread, her figure bathed in shadow except for a faint touch of light across her face. On Tituba’s other side stand Mercy Lewis and Susanna Walcott, white teenage girls in modest 1950s blouses and skirts. They lean forward, whispering and gesturing with urgency: Mercy pointing outward with accusation, Susanna’s face taut with fear and fervor. Their expressions carry the raw energy of hysteria, half-lit in chiaroscuro. The setting is sparse: rough wooden walls, a bare table, and a sheet of paper lying forgotten. The lighting isolates Tituba and the girls in angular shafts of light, while the rest of the room dissolves into oppressive darkness. The palette is muted and earthy — browns, ochres, grays, and faded beige — rendered with textured brushstrokes and dramatic contrasts. The mood captures raw urgency: the machinery of hysteria beginning in the voices of the young, with Tituba framed as both accused and central, surrounded by the frightened, fervent faces of the girls who ignite the storm.
Left to Right: Betty Parris, Tituba (center), Mercy Lewis, Susanna Walcott

The intensity of Tituba, Betty Parris, Mercy Lewis, and Susanna Walcott carried raw urgency, reminding the audience that the machinery of hysteria often begins in the voices of the young.

A horizontal, cinematic noir realism oil painting of Abigail Williams reimagined in a 1950s rural American setting. She is portrayed as a teenage girl at the edge of womanhood, wearing a simple 1950s blouse and skirt in muted, workmanlike tones. Her posture is tense and performative: standing at a rough wooden bench, one hand pressing down for balance while the other is raised high in a gesture of false innocence and accusation. Her expression is sharp yet vulnerable, eyes glinting with manipulative energy — both fearful and commanding — as though orchestrating hysteria while pretending to be its victim. The setting is a stark rural courtroom or meetinghouse. A small window casts a pale shaft of light across Abigail’s face and hand, isolating her in harsh chiaroscuro against the dim surroundings. In the gloom behind her, shadowy silhouettes of other girls echo her gesture, blurred forms that amplify her influence while remaining indistinct. The space is spare and oppressive: rough wooden furniture, bare walls, and a palpable sense of judgment hanging in the air. The painterly style emphasizes heavy texture and muted earthy tones of gray, brown, and ochre, with deep shadows swallowing much of the composition. The mood captures paranoia and theatricality — Abigail not as a passive victim, but as manipulator and performer, embodying fear as spectacle and wielding it as power.

With Abigail Williams, her desperation and fire made her feel less like a stock villain and more like a tragic, abused figure — someone whose fear and longing drew more sympathy than many of the supposed adults around her. The playbill even noted that the student in this role had previously won “1st place in State with a group scene from The Crucible” and considered Abigail Williams the role she cherished most.

A horizontal, cinematic noir realism oil painting of Mary Warren reimagined in a 1950s rural American courtroom. She is depicted as a young woman in her late teens, dressed in a modest, plain 1950s blouse and skirt in muted beige and gray tones. She sits at a rough wooden bench, her posture tense yet resolute, one hand braced on the table for balance while the other clutches a simple handmade cloth poppet. The poppet is illuminated dramatically, becoming the symbolic centerpiece of the composition, as if it were the spark of hysteria and confrontation in the trial. Mary’s expression is conflicted but determined: her wide eyes carry both fear and a flicker of courage, no longer crumbling under pressure but finding her voice in defiance. The background is stark and oppressive: bare wooden walls, darkened window frames, and shadowy figures of onlookers blurred into obscurity. A single angular shaft of light isolates Mary and the poppet in sharp chiaroscuro, while the rest of the room fades into heavy darkness, reinforcing the fragile but explosive weight of the small object. The palette is earthy and subdued — browns, grays, ochres, and muted beige — rendered with textured brushstrokes and deep shadows. The mood reframes Mary not as a passive victim, but as a figure who shifts the balance of the courtroom, embodying the idea that even the smallest voice or object can ignite the greatest upheaval.

The same needs to be said for the student playing Mary Warren, the object of Proctor’s crushing, gaslighting control. While one is often led to believe Warren collapses under the weight of Proctor’s horrific verbal oppression, in this version it was Warren who ultimately turned the tables — in dramatic, heroic, and satisfying fashion. In one scene, a simple poppet — thought to be the hysterical source of dark magic — became the spark that set the climactic courtroom showdown ablaze. It was a reminder that even the smallest voices and roles can make the biggest difference.

If Oregon high school theater had its own version of the Tony Awards, this Crucible — and especially the performances of Parris, Proctor, Danforth, Williams, and Warren — would surely be contenders.

A horizontal, cinematic noir realism oil painting of Giles Corey reimagined in a 1950s rural American courtroom. He is portrayed as an elderly man in his late 60s or early 70s, with a weathered, wrinkled face that mixes humor and defiance. His gray hair is unkempt, his expression lively, and his mouth is open mid-remark as though delivering one of his comic yet biting lines. His eyes gleam with sly wit, capturing his blend of crankiness, humor, and resilience. He wears rumpled 1950s work clothes — a worn wool jacket over a plain shirt, suspenders, and trousers, the fabric showing signs of labor and long use. He leans forward in a wooden chair, one hand gripping a cane for support, the other resting on the edge of a rough courtroom bench. A sheet of paper lies in front of him, hinting at his many lawsuits and quarrels. The background is dim and textured: rough wooden paneling, faint outlines of benches, and shadowy onlookers partially visible in the gloom. A single angled shaft of light falls across Corey’s face and upper body, isolating him in dramatic chiaroscuro while leaving much of the scene in shadow. The palette is earthy and subdued — browns, ochres, grays, and muted blacks — rendered with painterly brushstrokes. The atmosphere balances tension with comic relief: Corey emerges not only as a crank and a troublemaker, but as a humanizing presence amid fear and hysteria, reminding us that even in darkness, wit and contradiction survive.

Even the performance of Giles Corey held its own, offering a brief touch of levity in an otherwise harrowing story. A particularly memorable moment in Act I came when Corey lamented about everyone suing everyone else, yet boasted of his six court appearances that year — including suing Proctor for four pounds in damages for accusing him of burning a roof. Proctor’s sharp retort lamenting about how saying good morning to Corey meant being dragged into court for defamation in comical hysteria drew hushed laughter. The exchange reminded the audience that even amid fear and hysteria, Miller wove in contradictions and comic relief that make his characters strikingly human.

Multimedia Highlight

A horizontal, cinematic noir realism oil painting styled like a mid-20th-century illustration, inspired by Kip Taylor’s bluesy 1950s track “She’s My Witch.” The scene is set in a dimly lit rural American interior, evoking a roadside diner corner or a modest 1950s living room. At the center of the composition stands a glowing jukebox, its curved chrome edges and neon-lit panels in teal, crimson, and amber shining against the darkness. The jukebox itself becomes the focal point, its glass front reflecting distorted shapes as the record spins within. From the machine, faint curls of smoke or light drift upward, as if the music itself were casting an uncanny spell. Around the jukebox, the room is sparse and atmospheric: worn linoleum or wooden flooring, empty chairs pushed to the side, and walls faded with age. The edges of the composition dissolve into noir shadows, leaving the vibrant glow of the jukebox to dominate the space. The lighting is dramatic: shafts of neon color ripple across the floor while the rest of the room remains engulfed in deep chiaroscuro. The palette emphasizes contrasts — deep blacks and grays set against bold turquoise, scarlet, and amber — with textured brushstrokes creating a painterly sense of mood. The overall effect is eerie yet playful, stylish yet unsettling, embodying the off-kilter charm of “She’s My Witch” as it framed the preshow and intermission atmosphere of The Crucible. The jukebox becomes both a period object and a symbol of the 1950s lens through which the production reframed the play.

Among the preshow and intermission songs was Kip Taylor’s “She’s My Witch,” a bluesy track that underscored the production’s 1950s framing. Its presence — playful, eerie, and slightly off-kilter — reminded the audience that even in its quietest moments, this Crucible was steeped in atmosphere.

During act transitions, recordings from the McCarthy hearings were played, collapsing the distance between Salem and Washington, 1692 and 1954. The voices of real senators and witnesses bled into Miller’s dialogue, reminding the audience that the mechanics of hysteria and false accusation are not just allegory, but documented history.

Archival Note: When Arthur Miller first staged The Crucible in 1953, it was an allegory for McCarthyism — hysteria weaponized to destroy lives during The Red Scare. Seeing it in 2025, performed by Gen Z students, the allegory stretches further. This is a generation raised in the thick of misinformation, polarization, and cultural battles over identity. Their performance didn’t treat Miller’s warnings as relics; it refracted them through the urgency of their own moment. In their hands, The Crucible felt less like a classroom exercise and more like an urgent act of interpretation.

Why It Belongs in the Archive

A horizontal, cinematic noir realism oil painting of the infamous “dancing in the woods” scene from The Crucible, reimagined in a 1950s rural American setting. The scene takes place at night in a dense, twisted forest, the silhouettes of bare trees rising sharply against a dim, moonlit sky. The forest floor is strewn with leaves and faint mist, creating an atmosphere of secrecy and unease. At the center is Tituba, an Afro-Caribbean woman in her 30s, wearing a plain, work-worn 1950s dress and a headscarf. She kneels on the forest floor, her face lifted toward the sky, one hand pressed against her chest while the other is raised in a gesture of pleading or reluctant invocation. Her figure is sharply illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, isolating her in chiaroscuro against the dark woods. Surrounding her are four white Puritan girls — Abigail Williams, Betty Parris, Mercy Lewis, and Susanna Walcott — all dressed in modest 1950s blouses and skirts, their clothing slightly disheveled from movement. Their poses vary: one stands with eyes closed and arms raised as if entranced, another clasps her hands at her chest in fear, while two others lean forward, whispering or gesturing anxiously, caught between excitement and terror. The composition emphasizes secrecy and forbidden play: youthful gestures illuminated in fragments by moonlight, faces half-hidden in shadow, their expressions a mix of dread, thrill, and hysteria. The palette is muted and earthy — dark greens, browns, grays, and silvery moonlight tones — rendered with textured brushstrokes. The mood is raw and foreboding: the primal spark of hysteria in a dark wood, where youthful fear and playfulness erupt into a moment that will ignite the tragedy of the trials to come.

What made this production unforgettable wasn’t just Miller’s words, but the way they were embodied by a new generation: non-binary voices, young women inhabiting authority, students refusing to let the past stay sealed in history.

This was The Crucible not as a relic, but as living theater — both a warning and a reclamation. That is why it belongs in my archive.

Archival Meta Note: I rarely see the same play twice, but I returned for The Crucible. Once might have been enough to admire the conviction, but twice made it a reckoning. Returning wasn’t only about catching details — it was about affirming that this student production deserved the same seriousness as any professional stage. In going back, the act of archiving shifted from observation to participation.