The Scarlet Letter
Well, your philistinism has paid off: you’re the perfect audience member for Footsteps Theatre’s fascinating Scarlet Letter. Phyllis Nagy’s adaptation of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s 1850 novel plays like a murder mystery; it seems she’s hoping you won’t remember all the juicy details, since she delights in disclosing them with methodical care.
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Of course, she’s just following Hawthorne’s lead. This is no murder mystery, however, but a birth mystery: who is the father of Hester’s adulterously conceived child? Hawthorne begins at the scene of the crime–or, more in keeping with Puritan times, the scene of the punishment–as Hester is forced to stand upon a scaffold in the public square while the good women of the town gawk and various officials demand that she name her child’s father. She refuses, but through a savvy orchestration of minute details Hawthorne gradually lets his readers in on Hester’s secret. Similarly, when a malevolent, misshapen stranger appears in the crowd and locks eyes with Hester, Hawthorne takes his sweet time revealing this monstrosity to be her long-lost husband.
Heinen’s essentialist approach relieves this production of a potentially crushing burden of proof. This isn’t Hawthorne, as Nagy’s myriad deviations from the plot make clear. And Heinen isn’t out to convince us otherwise: we never forget that we’re in a theater watching contemporary actors stand in for nearly mythic characters. Sure, this ensemble could use another log or two in its collective fire. Nothing here thrills or overwhelms. But the Footsteps troupe has thought through nearly every moment. And if you’re like me, smarts onstage go a long way toward making an evening in the theater worthwhile.
