The Grapes Of Wrath is a terrible three-hour endurance test

The Grapes of Wrath
National Theatre, London, until September 14

One of the roles the National Theatre has to fulfil is to occasionally stage very worthy, culturally significant but nevertheless dull productions that the commercial theatre would be reluctant to touch with a bargepole. Frank Galafi’s adaptation of The Grapes of Wrath most definitely comes into this category.

Carrie Cracknell is normally a director who can make much out of the thinnest gruel, but this time around the script has clearly defeated her. As in Waiting for Godot, “nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful”.

The story of the Joad family’s move west during the American Depression to find employment may have made for a great novel, and a good atmospheric Henry Fonda film, but it makes for terrible theatre.

The actors bob about on a stationary truck for the best part of three hours saying nothing in particular to each other and – through drooping eyelids – I believe I saw one old man with a beard die on the stage at least twice.

Its stars Cherry Jones – best known as Nan Pierce in Succession – and Harry Treadaway do what they can to breathe life into their parts, but it soon looks like it’s every bit a three-hour endurance test for them as it is the audience.

The script allows for neither of them to shine and I feel sorry for the pair of them that they’re going to have spend their summer involved in such a boring and thankless endeavour. I left feeling every bit as angry for them as the grapes.