Grapes of Wrath, The

"The Grapes of Wrath," as a novel and later as a great film, was and is an overwhelming experience. Then Frank Galati's beautiful stage version was perhaps even more shattering to experience first-hand onstage in Chicago, then London, then on Broadway. Its unique, all-encompassing view of the forced exodus of a half-million people from the dustbowl of Oklahoma to the misery of exploitation in California -- those who got there alive! -- was enlarged and condensed in those former developments.

Now Stratford's new version presents it within a framework of sung and played narrations in the style of music native to the traditions Steinbeck hints at in his title (from "The Battle Hymn of the Republic"). (Director Antoni Cimolino has shown a fondness for "folk"-style popular music to flavor his productions; he invited Bare Naked Ladies to accompany his version of Shakespeare's As You Like It.)

Cimolino's design staff has created both an endlessly shifting vista of dry, desolate landscapes through which their amazingly resilient, crowded wreck of a truck carries them, and hints of changing terrains and troubles.

But grabbing and unforgettable though this huge undertaking is, it is no picnic. As a friend of mine likes to say about such overwhelmingly depressing dramas, "It hasn't enough tap-dancing." There is dancing, and, as mentioned, a whole lot of singing, much of which I find depressing anyway, and the seemingly endless misery of these mostly brave and decent people, as seen through the struggles of the Joad family, packed onto a decrepit truck struggling across the country, truly does feel like an ordeal. Cimolino's design staff has created both an endlessly shifting vista of dry, desolate landscapes through which their amazingly resilient, crowded wreck of a truck carries them, and hints of changing terrains and troubles.

One relief is that the huge cast is inspired. Cimolino's direction is stark but redolent of the humanity of the many people we encounter (some actors play as many as eight different roles each). And the musical stylization of the narrative and choreographed movement give the spectacle more sense of flow than I remember from the Broadway version.

Most people know some version of The Grapes of Wrath, so I don't feel a spoiler to mention highlights, but should say that Stratford's is, thus far, both the most memorably satisfying experience I've had of it. Evan Buliung's flawless, understated Tom Joad, the central hero of the work, doesn't seem to be acting. His famous parting speech to his mother ("I'll be there!" as he lists the instances of injustice to be combated) is a simple statement of belief and intent, and therefore more heartbreaking than usual. Tom McCamus' ex-preacher, Jim Casy, is funny, wise and commandingly real. Janet Wright's Ma Joad is also never a theatrical turn but rather a captured important person. And Chilina Kennedy matures before our eyes as the only seemingly frail Rose of Shanon. But I do disservice to the many impressive performances in this play by not naming all of them.

From the earlier staging I remember the exultation of the family splashing in a pond when they reach California, and bits of male and female nudity and scarily explicit childbirth details. And the finale of the novel and stage versions -- the tragically young and pretty Rose of Shanon, who has just lost her baby but must save a starving boy by making him feed at her breast, and finally, after all that pain, slowly begins to smile -- here, at least as much as ever before, that moment is epiphany. Not a lot of fun, but an astounding experience, The Grapes of Wrath is unquestionably one of this great theater center's major achievements.