Written and directed by Rebecca McNamee, and performed by Ebony Tucker, this is a beautiful production of a fascinating script.
Tucker is brilliant, presenting a character who is at turns playful, powerful and poignant.
McNamee’s use of the space is magnificent. With the aid of evocative lighting by Chris Milburn, haunting sound design by Keelan Ellis, and clever design by Angelina Daniel, the large black box that is Wharf 2 becomes a captivating arena of humour, horror and humanity.
I want to dig a little deeper into this 50 minute monologue’s deliciously thought-provoking script.
Like Arthur Miller, McNamee gives us a fictional Abigail Williams
Both this monologue and The Crucible posit Abigail as 17 year old girl who has a sexual relationship with John Proctor, a man in his thirties.
In Miller’s version, Abigail’s desire to continue her relationship with Proctor fuels the accusations of witchcraft which tear 17th century Salem apart.
But there was a real Abigail Williams. The historical Abigail was only 11 or 12 years old, and there’s no record she met Proctor before the trials.
So, here, we’re being given a story about a story. But stories are powerful (as storytellers are fond of telling us.)
This Abigail begins by quoting several critics who have viewed her as a villain. The quotes aren’t from the most reputable of sources – Spark Notes, Cliff Notes, Shmoop. But, as they’re indubitably the most commonly read analyses of the character, in an exploration of the impact of stories they’re entirely pertinent. Abigail asserts there’s more to her than their misogynistic judgements.
We’re then presented a prequel to the events of Miller’s play, from Abigail’s perspective. She’s positioned as a reliable narrator. In some ways, the monologue simply fills gaps in Miller’s text, portraying Abigail’s life at the Proctor’s farm while Elizabeth, the matriarch of the family, is unwell.
However, in what might be a surprise to the writers of Cliff Notes, Abigail is presented as enjoying being a homemaker and as devoted to the Proctor’s newborn child. And, in what might be a surprise to most people, Elizabeth is presented as suffering not only from (what we assume is) post-natal depression but also from fantasies of infanticide.
The affair between Proctor and Abigail is presented as consensual, but the monologue ensures we feel the older man has done more than break the Seventh Commandment. Abigail steps out of the historical world of the piece to discuss a modern case of what appears to be statuary rape. The salient point is that the defence team in this contemporary case claimed the teenage accuser was motivated by revenge.
This is where the purpose of the monologue becomes a little blurry. Are this fictional Abigail and the real victim so similar? It would appear that the sexual relationship between the younger woman and the older man in both situations was “consensual”. But both this monologue and the prosecuting lawyers in the contemporary case assert that such a relationship is, in fact, an abuse of power.
This seems inarguable. (Even Miller’s Abigail complains bitterly that she was taken advantage of in her youth– “I look for John Proctor that took me from my sleep and put knowledge in my heart. I never knew what pretense Salem was, I never knew the lying lessons I was taught by all these Christian women and their covenanted men!”)
But there are real differences between the modern day court case and this piece of fiction. The Australian woman sought justice. The fictional Abigail behaves in a way that leads to the deaths of at least seven people. What degree of victimhood permits you to be a murderer? (Having said that, I have to clarify that this monologue does not get as far as the witch trials – so perhaps we’re being invited to imagine a far less ruthless Abigail.)
Dismissing the popular critics mentioned above, does Miller himself present Abigail as a villain? (Like this monologue, I’ll ignore the criticism he has received for his manipulation of the historical record and focus on his fiction.)
Miller certainly does not present Abigail as acting morally. But he does give comprehensible reasons as to why a disempowered, traumatised young woman in a restrictive patriarchal society might be tempted to act the way she does. I’m not sure a dramatist owes their characters anything more. (As Miller says in his authorial notes to the play ‘one can only pity them all, just as we shall be pitied some day.’)
Declaring Abigail a villain is what’s done by some audience members, including critics – those who enjoy fiction as a kind of a moral holiday, one where you leave your humanity at the door and indulge in absurdly simplistic judgements. (If only that desire were gratified solely in our response to fiction!)
This Abigail claims Miller thinks he’s sufficiently outlined her character when he describes her as a “strikingly beautiful young woman” – but that’s just a cheap shot. A dramatist’s description of a character resides not in a casting note but in the play in its entirety.
This monologue is so very valuable because it presents the Abigail discovered by committed theatre-makers. (The type of theatre-makers who know how to shake audiences out of conventionality and complacency.) Any capable actor playing the part, or any serious director mounting the production, should delve into the character’s background and find a human being, not a monster.
Abigail doesn’t need to be justified. (Do any of us?)
Abigail can be deeply flawed. (Aren’t we all?)
She deserves pity. (Who doesn’t?)
Paul Gilchrist
Abigail Williams by Rebecca McNamee
Presented at Wharf 2, as part of the Her Story Arts Festival
www.herstoryfestival.com/program25
Image by Robert Miniter
Theatre Red 