Anyone who believes that John Steinbeck’s mighty modern classic The Grapes of Wrath (1939) is a historical document about a specific time (the Great Depression) and place (the so-called Dust Bowl states of the US, followed by California) needs to head to the National for reprogramming.
Carrie Cracknell’s sweeping and epic production of stylishly sculpted ensemble work, of an adaptation that won Frank Galati a host of Tony Awards, makes us uncomfortably, insistently aware of the modern-day parallels, of well-intentioned migrant workers at the mercy of factors far out of their control.
In almost three hours of playing time the lighting barely shifts from a state of Stygian gloom, as the Joad family make their way from their tenant farm in Oklahoma to what they hope will be the sun-drenched promised land of California, a place dripping with milk and honey. Herein lies the wellspring of Cracknell and Gulati’s power: they imbue the narrative with the fever dream quality of a Biblical pilgrimage, ensuring we understand that while this story is absolutely about the three generations of the Joad family plus assorted hangers-on, it is simultaneously a tale with universal resonance.
Tom Joad (Harry Treadaway) returns from four years in prison to find his family in a state of suspended animation: they have abandoned their hardscrabble farm life and, lured by seductive handbills promising work out West, are preparing for the long drive across the country.
In they all pile to their overloaded old jalopy, good-natured parents Ma (Cherry Jones) and Pa (Greg Hicks), pregnant daughter Rose of Sharon (Mirren Mack), and preacher-who-lost-his-faith Jim Casy (Natey Jones). If they are careful, they should have just enough food and money to last them until they find gainful employment in their new home.
Even those not acquainted with the novel will be unsurprised to learn that things do not go well for the Joads, as they begin to encounter thousands of other weary hopefuls who have undertaken the same arduous trek as them. There follows a merciless procession of deprivation and despair, at times so bleak it is almost comical. Maimuna Memon, powerfully plangent of voice, heads a small group of wandering minstrels who supply atmospheric blues accompaniment.
Yet despite all the suffering, tiny shoots of humanity continue to peek their heads above the barren terrain of hopelessness. The luminous Jones quietly radiates Ma’s unshakeable decency, expressed through continual small acts of kindness, and Hicks projects an inner goodness that has not been dented. There is huge power to be harnessed, suggest Ma and also Steinbeck, through sticking together and looking out for each other.
To 14 September (020 3989 5455, nationaltheatre.org.uk)
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