Steinbeck's Words are Ripe and Heavy on Asolo's Stage

SARASOTA – Sometimes anticipation causes you to set your expectations so high that you go into an event prepared to be pleasantly disappointed. You begin to realize that the bar sits so high above that which would be reasonable to expect that you begin to hedge your own excitement in order to wind down the enthusiasm a bit.

I've been waiting not-so-patiently to see the Asolo Repertory Theatre's production of The Grapes of Wrath since the season was announced last spring. My favorite book, by my favorite author, adapted by a brilliant playwright, directed by a master, and featuring an Asolo Rep dream cast. That's certainly a fine start to say the very least, but it's also sort of like throwing all of your favorite ingredients into a meal. There's potential for one to cancel another out, for two or three to behave badly together. Chemistry can be the trickiest of things.

Friday night was also the kick-off of my roommate/best friend/book buddy/only son's 10th birthday weekend. He's the precocious kid who sits feet to feet on the couch with me, as twin reading lamps illuminate the pages of whatever each of us is reading from opposite end tables. He knows how many Steinbecks are in the built-in bookcases lining the walls of that room, which ones are rare or first editions that could pay the rent in a tight month. He had dibs on my second ticket from the get-go, and we were both as giddy as Christmas Eve kiddies from the time we awoke to go on our 6 a.m run that morning.

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Adaptation can be even trickier than chemistry. It was no mere coincidence that it took more than half a century for someone to adapt The Grapes of Wrath to the stage. The term "literary masterpiece" can have that effect. Sure, Hollywood quickly capitalized on the success of the book, and provided you were able to put Henry Fonda in a John Ford film each time, there aren't too many projects that would go bust.

Still, there were aspects of the 1940 film that were a bit hokey, and in my humble opinion, the movie was never capable of delivering the gravity of Steinbeck's magnum opus. Tinseltown (and particularly the MPAA) was still running with a heavy governor back then – though it's worth noting that no one's attempted a redux since. In roughly the same time, Gatsby has gone to celluloid in four different incarnations.

Broadway also cannot offer the level of accouterment that Hollywood has at its disposal. Taking a big, sprawling story like Grapes to the stage can be like painting the inside of a small closet – there's not enough room to spread out the equipment, let alone bend your elbows and cast broad strokes.

I guess it shouldn't be a surprise that it took Frank Galati to discern that music would be the perfect way to bridge those gaps, that the right era-specific songs could be used to make more happen in less time, not unlike creating the illusion of varied depth on a flat canvas. The result is a stage play that is every bit as tight as a snare drum and just as percussive. 

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So now you're the guy in charge – in this case, Asolo Rep's Producing Artistic Director Michael Donald Edwards. You're not only putting on a Tony Award-winning play, but the fella who adapted the work, who won the Tony for both best play and best director, is currently on campus, directing Philadelphia Here I Come. Pressure is the first word that comes to mind.

Edwards struck gold early with Tim Grimm, the actor/folk singer who – short of bringing Woodie Guthrie or Pete Seeger back from beyond – is about the most perfect man to handle the music that is such a critical component of the play. Grimm nimbly weaves in and out of scenes, stringing together narratives and pleasantly propelling the story forward without letting crucial aspects fall by the wayside.

He also turns out to be one hell of an actor. Grimm plays a couple of bit parts in the ensemble, but delivers big as Floyd Knowles, a somewhat small part, but a character who nonetheless has to hold his own and almost loom larger than the story's hero, at least for a moment, as Knowles serves as a critical anchor to a pivotal scene.

Grimm wasn't the only coup. As I noted earlier, the casting was top-shelf all the way around. That being said, Edwards deserves much credit for keeping that many balls up in the air at once, for there was not a single scene in which the balance was not struck, something I can't imagine being easy with that many extra-large presences on stage – like conducting a symphony in which every instrument is an electric violin.

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When it comes to The Grapes of Wrath, it's fair to say that as goes Tom Joad, so goes the production. To that end, Christian Conn was nothing short of perfect in his second turn as Steibeck's most beloved angry young man. Conn endows the character with the quintessential balance of quiet rage and uncertain altruism. There are few, if any, characters in 20th-century American literature who live as vividly in as many readers' minds as Tom Joad (Holden Caulfield, Nick Carraway?), and Conn fills him out from work boots to a weathered cap.

Andrew Sellon gives Jim Casy a presence that was sorely lacking in the movie version. His faithless preacher much more closely embodies the conscience of Steinbeck's story, and the considerable chemistry between Sellon and Conn elevates their scenes to impressive heights.

The always-brilliant Peggy Roeder is everything you would expect as Ma Joad, gracing the cast with a pivotal moral compass that lights even the darkest scenes. Douglas Jones is equally crucial as Pa Joad. Jones serves up enough Okie to illustrate the family's cultural heritage without ever straying into vaudeville territory.

It seems like David S. Howard was born to be Grampa Joad, a pistol of an old-timer choc full of grit, brimming with the sort of piss and vinegar that Tom repeatedly summons. Carolyn Michel continues to demonstrate a magnificent range in playing all ages and character types, turning in a solid performance as Grandma Joad. Anne-Marie Cusson, who is enjoying a wonderful run starring in Asolo's Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike, kicked in for three understated, but very well-done ensemble parts, and the magnificent David Breitbarth's immense stage presence was clutch as Uncle John, a ne'er-do-well backslider whose misguided guilt is eating him into oblivion.

Edwards made splendid use of the FSU/Asolo Conservatory for Actor Training to round out his cast. Kristen Lynne Blossom endowed Rose of Sharon with a subtle grace that continued to mount quietly right up to her stunning closing scene. Jefferson McDonald gave an animated turn as Tom's younger brother Al, and the young Samantha Crawford shone as little Ruthie Joad.

Asolo's man of a thousand faces, Zlatomir Moldovanski, once again amazed the audience with his ability to morph in and out of no less than seven ensemble parts, none of which seemed incidental, though each too easily could have been in less capable hands. Brian Nemiroff, Cale Haupert, and Mark Konrad also contributed noteworthy performances in multiple ensemble roles.

Scott Bradley's impressive set is nearly a character unto itself. From sparse and understated to innovative and almost beyond imagination, in his use of limited space to create such a sprawling and contrasting backdrop, Bradley delivers a stage that is capable of holding the enormous production which takes place on it – no minor feat indeed.

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In rare moments when artistic perfection is achieved, there exists a very small space that resides between the last gasp of an actor's breath, the fall of the curtain, and the applause of the crowd. It is ever so brief, yet everyone in the room can sense it. It's a sort of stunned and even awkward pause, an unlikely and hopelessly fragile silence that swells in a tiny moment before the applause set in to spoil something we only wish we could hold onto for just a little while longer.

The clapping breaks the trance, but it's only then that we can consciously understand what we've just been a part of; that we can stumble out into the lobby ... dizzy, high, and consumed. Words fall flat and are soon abandoned. There is nothing to say; no expression seems adequate, but you can feel it all around you in a room electrified by the energy that human beings have been mesmerized by for more than 2,500 years – playacting, the most beautiful of all arts.

That is why I go to the theater. That is why the people who brought this production to life do what they do for a living. Hell, that's why stages exist in the first place. It doesn't always happen this way, hardly ever in fact, not to such a degree. But Friday night reminded me why I love the stage and what it is that I and every fan longs to see, what every actor and director strives to deliver … that one precious and indescribable moment when every person in the room rubs up against something so rare and precious that it will stay with them forever ... Bravo.