John Steinbeck / The Grapes of Wrath / Chichester Festival Theatre

 Grittily conscientious ... Christopher Timothy as Pa Joad and Sorcha Cusack as Ma Load in The Grapes of Wrath. Photograph: Tristram Kenton

John Steinbeck

THE GRAPES OF WRATH

Chichester Festival Theatre

Michael Billington

Friday 17 July 2009

F

rank Galati's adaptation of John Steinbeck's famous novel caused a stir at the National 20 years ago. Presented by Chicago's Steppenwolf Theatre Company, it felt like a vital reclamation of a piece of American history. Seen on a wet night in Chichester with a mainly Anglo-Irish cast, Jonathan Church's production, however grittily conscientious, cannot achieve a comparable resonance.

You could argue that there are parallels between Steinbeck's Depression-era story and today: after all, the fictional Joad family of Oklahoma dirt-farmers are driven west because of ecological disaster and bank foreclosure. But the novel, published in 1939, is of its time. It is both a story of mass migration to the supposedly golden land of California and an indignant social document about political awakening in the face of economic exploitation. When Tom Joad finally responds to oppression by taking over as labour organiser from the lapsed preacher, Jim Casy, he cries: "A fella ain't got a soul of his own, only a piece of a big one." However touching Steinbeck's tribute to collective power and generosity may be, it is rooted in 1930s America.

On a second viewing, one becomes aware of the limitations of Galati's adaptation. It has moments of power, as when Casy, forced to utter a prayer over the corpse of Grampa Joad, says: "He lived life an' he just died out of it." Casy's determination to take responsibility for Tom Joad's beating up of a deputy sherriff, also registers strongly. But the chronicle-structure of Steinbeck's novel means we are confronted by fragmented episodes. The sub-Tolstoyan interludes in the novel, such as the vivid description of hamburger stands along Route 66, fall by the wayside.

Church's production is, however, fluently presented on a sloping stage and against a slatted wooden background skilfully designed by Simon Higlett and beautifully lit by Tim Mitchell. And, although many of the roles are generalised, key performers stand out: Damian O'Hare as the increasingly militant Tom Joad, Oliver Cotton as the ex-preacher who substitutes political for religious faith, Sorcha Cusack as the indomitable Ma Joad and Rebecca Night as Rose of Sharon, who inherits her compassion and, at the last, suckles a starving man. That is one of the all-too-rare moments that transcends the cultural gap between Steinbeck's America and west Sussex, and achieves the kind of communion with an audience that is theatre's justification.

THE GUARDIAN