Venerated author John Steinbeck had a magical knack for writing the Saddest Thing Ever, and his Of Mice and Men is no exception. The Hilberry Theatre tackles the stage adaptation of the classic novel, handling the Great Depression–era subject matter with gravity but not dramatics. Directed by Anthony B. Schmitt, this tale of loyalty, partnership, self-preservation, and meager hope comes alive in a production that’s as glorious as it is unbearable.

Before a word is uttered, set designer Peter Schmidt captures the void of abundance in his dustbowl-evoking soaring burlap horizon, with saturated sunset courtesy of Thomas H. Schraeder’s primary-colored lighting. The flat expanse of stage adapts to portray an unremarkable patch of California nothing by a river, which the protagonists pass on their way to a job at a ranch, and the crowded bunk house where they take up residence. The narrative follows traveling companions George (Peter Prouty) and Lennie (Erman Jones), migrant workers with a goal of scraping together enough money to buy their own place and work for themselves, at a time when they and most of their kind alternated between scraping by and starving. That they are able to dream at all is at once a sign of hope in a vicious world and cruelly utopic.

The production finds astounding depth in its many secondary characters. The terrible marriage of pugnacious Curly (Jason Cabral) and his lonely, harmlessly disobedient wife (Vanessa Sawson) is integral to the story, but difficult to breathe life into because the characters never appear together. Cabral’s Curly is a counterpoint to the proven hardscrabble men of the bunkhouse, posturing with hollow machismo. As the sole female presence, Sawson blends the shallow pleasure of being the only woman to gaze at for miles with a clumsy, futile hunger for companionship. Even richer are the ostracized characters most drawn to George and Lennie: the elder, disfigured Candy (Alan Ball) and black stable hand, Crooks (Edmund Alyn Jones). The latter dominates a second-act scene in which he lays bare the pain of his race-based exclusion; the former wordlessly endures a story arc with his canine companion that any dog lover will recognize as the Saddest Thing Ever. Rounding out the supporting cast are an assortment of other laborers; the low standard of living to which such men became accustomed is perfectly captured in these actors’ weary acceptance.

However, the true focus of the play is firmly grounded in the unlikely pairing of Lennie and George. Erman Jones gives a careful and complete treatment of Lennie’s mannerisms and speech patterns, clinging to the objects and concepts he likes best with perfect clarity while unable to comprehend or retain unpleasant or unimportant things. Just as noteworthy is Prouty’s beautiful portrayal of George: from the first scene, he establishes a complex balance between aggressor and provider, lamenting why he ever shackled himself to Lennie while simultaneously revealing his need for someone to dominate as well as a deeper affection for his companion. This staging does have one shortcoming in that Lennie's dangerous strength and inability to control it somehow don't come across, taking the bluster out of a few acts of violence. Even so, this tough and nearly abusive relationship is given untold compassion in the actors’ give and take, and what happens between them is easily the Saddest Thing Ever.

As a piece of theater, a historical perspective, and an evocative character study, Of Mice and Men is superb across the board. The production perfectly captures the tone of Steinbeck's novel, preserving the academic intrigue of his skillful thematic work all while telling its mournful human story. Viewers able to withstand the Saddest Thing Ever should all be touched and rewarded by this production, albeit through blurry eyes.