Greatest Written Films - The Grapes of Wrath

Celebrating the written word in film.
Character, Dialouge and Subtext over traditional plot.

The Grapes of Wrath

1940


The Grapes of Wrath covers the period of the American Great Depression. Henry Fonda in one of his penultimate roles returns from a stint in prison to find his family have been evicted from their farm. He is forced to pack up all his belongings on the back of a truck and along with his family move into one of the ‘Dustbowl camps’ in California is search of work. But there are many others in the same situation. Life is cheap here. There is much corruption and crime. Every day is a battle. With it’s realistic portrayal, there is a pseudo-documentary feel here, (despite the dated trailer). This is powerful drama.









The screenplay by Nunally Johnson was based on the novel by John Steinbeck (Of Mice and Men) which was published a year earlier and had caused an uproar. It was accused of being communist propaganda and Steinbeck of being a socialist. The Farmers Federation protested the loudest as they had been shown to treat the mainly migrant families depicted in the book poorly. Some said that Steinbeck had exaggerated that conditions to prove a point, but in fact, he had underplayed them. The film was also controversial for the same political reasons.
Naturally, the controversy caused the book to be widely read and was soon considered a classic. Steinbeck won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1962.

Interestingly, Lenin banned the film in Russia as it showed that even the poorest of Americans could afford a car.

The picture was directed by John Ford with a sense of reality rare for its time. Its stunning black and white cinematography by Gregg Toland, who would go on to shoot Citizen Kane the following year, contributes to the ambience. The Grapes of Wrath earned many Oscar nominations, and Ford won for direction.

The film is still poignant, historically relevant, beautifully written and one of the greatest films ever to come out of America.

More Greatest Written Films

Coming in July, an insight into my six completed novels.
Next week, a new, original video poem, Sun Drenched Rosy Days.

My Books

Poem - What’s in her Name?

What’s in her Name?


Her name was Sarah.
Not her real name.
And I didn’t know it
Before she died.
But I knew her face,
Her form...
As I passed her in the hallways.

I soon began to smile
Developing into a Hello
Gestating into the smallest of small talk
By the coffee machine.
I did not know her name
She was a face
A persona
That I had created
Based on snippets of conversation
And the way she dressed
The way she moved
Her poise by the coffee machine.
In order to find position for her
Inside my realm
I had to create one for her.
Without comprehending it,
She was catalogued.
Later,
After her sudden death,
I began to learn more about her
Starting with her name.
I had never asked her what it was.
I collected snippets
From other conversations
And a more complete portrait emerged.
The way she dressed
And moved
Did not represent what I thought I knew
My realm was false.
I know her name
Her name was Sarah
Not her real name,
But I did not know her at all.

Next week, an entry from the Greatest Written Films.
Soon, A new Video Poem, Sun Drenched Rosy Days.


My Books

'Once she was slim.' - A Tribute to the Victims of the U.S. Tornados, April 2011.

Once she was slim.


A short fiction.


Thinking about the phone conversation with her daughter she’d had not twenty minutes before, wondering if her advice had been taken onboard, even though she already knew the answer, there came a sound like a reversing truck.
A moving ‘disintegration’ if such a thing were possible. A noise that had no comparison in her seventy six years, though enough to charge her veins with adrenalin.
Before she could cross to the stream of daylight through the front window in search of answers and possible escape, she was rising from the floor and the roof twisted and the wall crumbled.
Gravity shifted and she was carried sideways and something hit her so hard that she almost didn’t feel it, an overwhelming numbness that left her with the knowledge that the right side of her body was now useless.
The light was shut out and she felt wet, soaking, as though having emerged from a pool, though she had not been in one for over a dozen years because of a child who had stared at her in her hair cap and goggles and at the lumps in her costume from her age and the reminders of her four children that had been left on her body and the boy’s stare was intrusive as though she were not a real person and just a thing of curiosity and more than likely repulsion but it was not his fault really as he was just a little one but it was enough to guarantee that she never went back to that pool or any other one as it was not a pleasant thing to have your body betray you even though you know it’s inevitable for all and was one of the more disappointing things in life as it’s the same body that was once universally adored and doesn’t that feel like a lifetime ago. Yet she knows that it’s not water that swirls around her but the debris of her shattered home and the wetness must be coming from her and it can only be the fluid of her life and she closes her mouth and her eyes to protect them and that’s all that she can do even though this is not real, cannot be real, and if it is, then perhaps this is what death feels like. A pain like piercing blades shoots through her chest and surely something has hit her in the dark and the reality of being so vulnerable scares her coupled with the noise like a jet plane hovering above and perhaps one has crashed into her home or more likely it’s the worst of nature or the finger of God as her punishment for having left her children’s father years before despite his consistent emotional cruelty and this is a mistake of sorts, a fatal one and she coughs and splutters and is rolling or flying and if that be true then whatever may come in the next few seconds will surely be the end.

As of May 3, 2011, 354 people were killed as a result of the tornado outbreak in the southern states of the U.S. in particular Alabama, from April 25 - 28. Many people are still missing.


Donate or help here:

http://www.redcross.org/


My Books

Next week,

A Poem, What's in Her Name.

Followed by one of the Greatest Written Films.

Soon, A Video Poem - Sun Drenched Rosy Days.


Until Then,

Count your blessings and enjoy life.
I know I will be.

=]

Why did the Man cross the road? aka Poo Said That?

Stories About Fuck All and Everything

Why did the Man cross the road?

(aka Poo Said That?)

I went to High School in a small town. Once a month a couple of friends and I would catch a bus to the bigger town across the river to do some shopping, for want of a better phrase. I never actually bought many things as my family had little money. That meant I had a less than that, though I did earn pocket money from a few lawn-mowing gigs. I would merely browse at the record store and saved my money for the second hand books from the Book Exchange. I loved them. They may be dusty, musty, torn, yellow pages with a scribble of some oblique gift dedication, but I didn’t care. Science Fiction, Horror, Fantasy, I was a genre Junkie. The problem was I'd be so excited to visit the Exchange that by the time I got there, I needed to crap. My excitement gave me cramps. Not content with a mere calling to nature, my body insisted upon a dramatic and urgent expulsion. Despite my boyhood dreams, I never would have made an astronaut. Of course, there were no toilets nearby and it was often weeks between visits. I literally fantasised about the dusty corner where all my books were, (located just by the Western saloon style wooden swinging doors to the adult section. I never did visit that section though I thought I might when I was old enough. There was curiosity but only after Sci-Fi).

And so I would endure the pain, and trust me, it did hurt. It was a bloody cramp in the guts like Sigourney Weaver’s friend was trying to burst out. I had to rock from side to side to stave off the urges and when that didn't work I would cross my legs and clench my butt cheeks. Why did this happen? Especially when there were so many books to look through. I’d only get to browsing through the second book when I knew I just had to leave. I was forced to make a hasty selection, sometimes on cover alone, pay my dollar and waddle several blocks to the public toilets. It was so touch and go that I didn’t dare run, in case of Mr Peek-a-Boo.

I soon learnt to prioritise my brief schedule. The Book Exchange visit had to come last. On this day, my friends and I were heading to the record store, which didn't have the same effect on me but it was enough to kick-start a wind turbine.
The centre of town was like many middle-sized towns with its long straight criss-crossing streets. We were talking some inane rubbish that most teenagers talk about in groups, when a man who looked like he ate parking meters for a living appeared from between two parked cars and deliberately blocked our path. He looked like he was in his twenties, though anyone older than eighteen was merely an adult and therefore all the same. He had a medium length mullet that was chunky and facial skin that appeared groomed by a tiger. He pointed his fat calloused finger at our faces, especially mine, as I was in the middle of my friends. 'What'd you say about me car?' he said.
Huh? Came three blank but edgy faces.
'I heard what you said!'
'Didn't say...' I replied, just above a whisper. Or maybe just below it.
'I fuckin heard youse! You're lucky I don't punch ya fuckin heads in!'
He looked like he could do all three of us at once, with his arm behind his back. Probably with both arms. His mullet alone could have taken us out.
'If you see that car again you better fuckin watch it!' And then with a final scan of that fat greasy finger he turned and took off back between the cars and made his way across the road.
We looked to each other, totally frazzled. Now that it was over, I felt like I'd already been to the Book Exchange. Mr. Peek-a-Boo was saying hello.
'You must have said somethin!'
‘No, you musta!’
‘I didn’t say anything!’
‘You musta looked at him!’
‘I’ve never seen him before!’
‘His mullet scared me.’
After a triple-round of accusations, we were left alone with the mystery and the memory of that 'near mullet experience.'

To this day, I don't know what the hell he was talking about. It’s funny how something so ill-defined has stayed with me for so long.

By the way, I still love second-hands books but thank God for the internet.

Next week,
A New Poem.


Coming Soon,
A Guest Blogger,
Video Poetry.

Until then,
Have a great week

Writing Break - Creative Photography at Home - Part 2 of 2

Get ready to sing a song, break the wine, do the ho-down and have a good time.

It's called sleep deprivation folks.

A few days after Part 1, mildly pleased with the shots, I again donned the khaki outfit and the AK-47 and went back for Round 2.

It was tough out there. That's all I'll say. It's difficult for me to talk about.

(They look better enlarged. Click to enlarge).

It's been said before, but there is beauty in small things. Sometimes we tend to overlook them.

Writing Break - Creative Photography at Home - Part 1 of 2

In my limited spare time, I try to write or create videos and this can be a challenge in itself with a 6 month old. Hello! Daddy wants to write! Ahhhhhhh, but sometimes even I need a break from it. Clearly I can't go roaming the landscape taking exotic panoramas like I did when I was younger (and I've got lots of great shots from years of travelling so one day I may put some up), so with limited options, what the hell, I trek into the back yard.

Yep, the freakin back yard.

But...
Even the most mundane item has a type of beauty to it, if you look in a certain way. (Plenty of ugliness too but that's another story).

So here the first day's shots and a few days later I again donned the khaki outfit and the AK-47 and went back for Round 2.

(click photo to enlarge).


Round 1

It's a distraction from poems, videos and stories, but after the next part, I'll post an actual story and we can all drink a Irish coffee and sing a song.
Or something.
(Gimme a break, I got serious baby brain).

Hope to see you then.

What we can learn about people from observing babies.

Food is the Number One Priority in Life. Period.

Sometimes, we just don't know what we want.

We need routine, (even if we think we don't.)

Smiling can change someone's perception of you.

Whoever invented the term, 'Sleep like a baby' had never had one.

(Artist Naomi Dawson. Order prints at Red Bubble).

We connect with some strangers and not others, and who knows why.

We are much happier after a good crap.

A person's size is inversely proportional to the amount of noise they make.
(also known as Napoleon Syndrome).

We like the familiar.

Just because we cry doesn’t mean we’re sad.

Insisting on having it your way doesn't mean that it’s all going to work out.

We are by nature, contradictory.

We are easily entertained, but just as easily bored.

We don't always know what's good for us.

No matter how adorable you are, you can still be considered a pain in the ass.

It's impossible to be happy all the time.



Thanks to my daughter Tilly, who didn't really have to do anything but contributed to this post all the same.


Care to make any additions?

My Books

Video Poem - A Roaming Romantic Rejection

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Thank you.

See you next time,

https://www.anthonyjlangfordbooks.com/