A Streetcar Named Desire
BROOKLYN ACADEMY OF MUSIC, NY
"Well, they're going to the country, they're gonna retire. / They're taking A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE." - Bob Dylan's "Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum"
"I can't stand a naked light bulb any more than I can a rude remark or a vulgar action." - Blanche DuBois
The influence of Tennessee Williams's landmark play has been profound and widespread since its initial Broadway run in 1947.
There have been numerous revivals, bordering on absurd theatrical re-imaginings, attempts at musicals, operas, et al.
Even the play's title has served as a lyrical fragment (witness Dylan's appropriation above).
Many of the play's most eloquent lines, entire chunks of dialogue even, have served as touchstones in pop music lyrics and song titles over the years—including Elvis's "Suspicious Minds," with its refrain referencing a key bit of dialogue from the play— "We're caught in a trap"—courtesy of Nashville songwriter Mark James; also Nick Cave's song "The Kindness of Strangers," Seinfeld's "The Pen" episode with Elaine Benes moaning "Stelllaaaa!," and so forth.
You might say Williams's stage dialogue is sheer poetry emanating straight from the heart—an embarrassment of riches and ripe for re-circulation in other mediums.
So I was lucky to catch the latest revival of Streetcar last night at the Brooklyn Academy of Music's Harvey Theater due to a last-minute cancellation (a close friend's wife sicking out). And the production was so good that I want to go back and see it again.
An import from Ireland's Almeida Theatre, directed by Rebecca Frecknall, the play stars Gladiator II's hunka hunka burnin' love Paul Mescal as Stanley "The Animal" Kowalski (just kidding...but Mescal's persona here, unlike Brando's nuanced performance in Elia Kazan's 1951 film, is not that far afield of the world of professional wrestling).
The true star of the play, though, is the great Irish actress Patsy Ferran as Blanche DuBois, who I will get to in a moment.
This revival was slammed as I write this today (3/13/25) in a negative review in the New York Times.
As there was no window to leave a dissenting comment under that Times review, I'm posting my review/riposte here on CultureCatch.
Admittedly, there are some heavy-handed directorial touches. The Times reviewer rightly takes to task the employment of a Zeus-like drummer perched high above the stage who comments on and punctuates all dramatic flourishes throughout, all pounding percussion and sizzling cymbals—a device lifted from Alejandro Inarritu's 2014 film Birdman—with the thunderous racket at times drowning out much of the stage dialogue.
There was also a closing tableau of the entire cast performing a slo-mo Carnival of Souls-like Dance of Death around a prone Blanche splayed out on her back and writhing in agony. Followed by the drummer—a percussive doppelgänger to Mad Max: Fury Road's manic electric guitarist, The Doof Warrior—setting his drumsticks aside and walking slowly downstairs from his God-like perch onto the stage, kitted out in what can only be described as, um, sinister Tennessee Williams drag, replete with floppy hat and bushy beard (which begged the question, "Is that real, or did he grow the beard for the role"?)—ready to usher Blanche into the Rubber Room.
Despite these directorial flaws, I found the play, as re-imagined here, to be a triumph overall.
Brutal, yes, as the Times' reviewer rightly pointed out.
But what the critic failed to mention in his snarky put-down is that Patsy Ferran's Blanche totally steals the show from marquee star Paul Mescal.
Ferran's verbal dexterity and acting prowess dominated this production from start to finish. Her ability to communicate human fragility and the lies people tell themselves to keep their evanescent dreams from evaporating was impressive and heartbreaking—her performance upstaging Paul Mescal's Johnny One-Note-ish sneering realist/ape-like slob.
Your heart goes out to Ferran's character—how could it not?—and hard-boiled cynic that I am, I actually misted up at the play's denouement, although I knew what was coming. Having seen Kazan's Streetcar numerous times, I still was not quite prepared for the shock of Blanche's descent into total madness at the close.
Tennessee Williams's genius—and why people are still flocking to see his plays (especially this one) year after year—is his masterful ability to elicit empathy for the misguided dreamers who populate his work. This goes a long way toward explaining why a version as well-acted as this production rightly received a standing ovation at the end.
Many reviewers, to paraphrase Shakespeare, seem to enjoy flexing their critical muscles to capriciously "tear the wings off flies for their sport" as an exercise in power-play.
Despite the attempt at buzz-kill in the Times today (a review so misbegotten it hearkens back to the era when their chief theater critic Frank Rich was known as The Butcher of Broadway), I would urge you to see this play—it's seriously worth the time spent.
ENVOI:
A colloquy with Tennessee Williams overheard in the steam room of the Yale Club on West 44th Street, as related to me in the early '70s by a young playwright:
"Tennessee, Blanche DuBois is so beautiful and so tragic in Streetcar."
"Young man, for the Protagonist—Tragedy isNEVER beautiful."