THE GRAPES OF WRATH

Adapted by Frank Galati

Based on the novel by John Steinbeck

Rights: Dramatists Play Service

440 Park Avenue South

New York, New York 10016

THE GRAPES OF WRATH starts with music. A man seated on a wooden crate plays a rusty wood saw with a violin bow. A second man joins in with harmonica, and they both sing YES SIR, THATíS MY SAVIOR, an ironic beginning to a story that brings into question manís humanity and the unequal entitlement afforded children of God. We are in OKLAHOMA, 1938, and what continues will be forty-nine actors playing sixty-two roles, bringing to life the story of the Joad family and their arduous journey from the Oklahoma dust bowl to the promised land of California.

A school production would benefit from being inter-departmental. The English Department teaches Steinbeck, and the History Department acquaints students with the Great Depression, Hoovervilles and the rise of unions. Music students are introduced to the American sound of bluegrass, the fun of fiddle playing and the beauty of a lone harmonica. Dancers learn American folk dancing.

THE GRAPES OF WRATH is rife with stellar opportunities for actors. It depicts the plight of poor families forced off their land by bad weather, bad bankers and bad luck. The unemployed see fliers promising golden opportunities for work in California, so they migrate in dilapidated, overburdened trucks and jalopies. They discover, however, when five thousand people show up to fill five hundred jobs, owners have the leverage to pay next to nothing. Landowners pay off police and hire thugs to keep workers from protesting. Corralled like cattle, displaced, undernourished families struggle to survive. Some die, some run off, and others, like parolee Tom Joad and preacher Jim Casy, risk their lives in pursuit of justice.

Even though much of the story is sad or disheartening, it is fundamentally about common decency, love and resiliency, and those components add up to hope and accompanying joy. THE GRAPES OF WRATH is visceral. We understand it with our guts, an understanding enhanced by physical depiction. Therefore, celebrate, when opportunities present themselves, because celebration provides connective counterpoint, involving the audience by engaging their affection. For example, at La Guardia, I might turn the concert hall stage into a large, dirt filled sandbox. When underfoot, dust is kicked up, adding a physical element to the action. I might then fill the empty orchestra pit with hundreds of pieces of torn foam rubber, transforming the space into the Colorado River, allowing all to find temporary relief during their tragic journey. Throw in music and dancing, sounds of the blanching wind and the songs of birds singing under the California sun.

Within one, available storyline, THE GRAPES OF WRATH communicates through the senses, and, in doing so, it communicates to everyone. The more the stimuli, the better the play. Steinbeck and playwright, Frank Galati, dramatize the human condition in dimensions both individual and universal. The dramatization is neither more nor less sophisticated than human beings, themselves. As such, it is as educational as it is enjoyable, because, basically, we find our way to its teachings through our hearts. The love of oneself is transformed into the love of family and blossoms into the love of community and finally mankind. The profoundly beautiful last scene of the play affords proof of that contention. A pregnant Rose of Sharon, The Joadís daughter, has recently lost her husband and, as of this morning, has lost her baby. It arrived stillborn during a torrential rainstorm.

MA: This is hay. Come on in, you. Lay down, Rosasharn. Lay down aní resí. Iíll try to figger some way to dry you off.

WINFIELD: Ma! Ma!

MA: What is it? What you want?

WINFIELD (pointing) Look! Over there.

(MA looks. There are two figures in the gloom. A man sprawled on the blanket and a boy, his son, sitting beside him. The boy gets up slowly and turns to the Joads.)

MA: Your pa?

BOY: Yeah. Says he wasnít hungry, or he jusí et. Give me the food. Now heís too weak. Canít hardly move.

(The man moves his lips. MA kneels beside him and puts her ear close. His lips move again.)

MA: Sure. You jusí be easy. Heíll be awright. You jusí waitíll I get them wet cloíse offín my girl. Now slip ëem off.

(MA moves to ROSE OF SHARON and holds up the comfort. The girl undresses.)

BOY: I didnít know. He said he et, or he wasnít hungry. Lasí night I went aní bust a winda aní stoled some bread. Made ëim chew ëer down. But he puked it all up, aní then he was weaker. Got to have soup or milk. You folks got money to git milk?

MA: Hush. Doní worry. Weíll figger somepiní out.

BOY: Heís dyiní, I tell you! Heís starviní to death, I tell you.

MA: Hush.

(MA looks at PA and UNCLE JOHN. She turns to ROSE OF SHARON, now wrapped in the comfort. The two women look deep into each other. The girlís eyes widen.)

ROSE OF SHARON: Yes.

MA: I knowed you would. I knowed!

ROSE OF SHARON: (whispering) Will – will you all go out?

(MA brushes the hair from her daughterís eyes and kisses her on the forehead.)

MA: Come on, you fellas. You come out in the shed. (The boy opens his mouth to speak.) Hush. Hush and git.

(MA helps the boy up and leads him to the open door. UNCLE JOHN, PA and the children leave. The boy looks back after his father and then goes out. MA stands in the door for a few moments, looking back at ROSE OF SHARON, and then goes. ROSE OF SHARON stands still in the whispering barn. Then she draws the comfort about her and moves slowly to the man and stands looking down at the wasted face, into the wide frightened eyes. She slowly kneels down beside him, loosens one side of the blanket and bares her breast. He shakes his head feebly from side to side.)

ROSE OF SHARON: You got to. (She bends low. Her hand moves behind his head and pulls him up gently.) There. (Her eyes gleam.) There.

(A violin plays in the distance. As the lights fade slowly, ROSE OF SHARON looks up and across the barn. Her lips come together and smile mysteriously.)

CURTAIN