Theatre Review: A Streetcar Named Desire
Theatre history repeats itself, and on the West End, another revival of another classic play opens. And I was not meant to be at its opening night.
But by a dazzlingly stream of good luck, I wound my way into the theatre and witnessed a brilliant revival of Tennessee William’s A Streetcar Named Desire. I will admit, I knew very little of the play. I knew “STELLLAAA,” because I had a friend growing up with the name, and my mother always commented how it was unfortunate her name would always be linked with Stanley Kulowski.
And I knew Paul Mescal. I, like every lonely sex-deprived twenty-something (including Phoebe Bridgers) watched Normal People during the pandemic. I became a fan of the actor’s guttural choke-sob and his muscular back. Not to objectify, or anything.
So, as I entered the Phoenix alongside London’s theatre elite, I was prepared to watch Mescal be a raw, exposed nerve for the totality of the 2-hour, 45-minute performance.
The show was marketed in Mescal’s name. It belonged to him. But as I said, history repeats itself, and this show doesn’t belong to our Irish heartthrob. No, the deed is signed to Patsy Ferran, our Blanche du Bois.
To begin, the stage is set minimalistically. Is it a modern revival of an American classic if it were set in period? Our actors walk on, in silence, and scene one begins, with all actors facing the audience, speaking on top of each other.
A Martha Graham-worthy contraction from the company. They exit, leaving Blanche and the youngest actor of the cast, we can presume, the ghost of Alan, her deceased husband. He performs a modern dance, slowly approaching her. He kneels before her, slowly standing to meet her gaze, as she goes to touch him, he exits. Ghosts can’t be reached after all, only imagined.
In the first five minutes, Rebecca Frecknal’s direction threatens to overshadow the performance, as actors pass props from the sideline, music and pulsating drums force in during moments of elevated tension, and of course, the modern dance was giving an NYU Sophomore’s solo performance. But it’s as though she stepped back in the room, as soon as Mescal and Ferran’s eyes meet.
The play begins with Blanche’s arrival. The action begins with Stanley’s. Mescal and Ferran’s chemistry is palpably magnetic and poisonous. You could guess the ending from the first time they stand on stage together alone. The square platform they share, a boxing ring. The two, fighting for Stella.
Mescal’s moments, while tender and grounded make you wonder why his character has been lauded as an honor for an actor to take on. Mescal is the personification of misguided hurt. You know there is meant to be something good about Stanley, something that keeps Stella, but as an audience member, we don’t witness it.
He snarls, and spits (literally, Mescal has range with his saliva), he thrashes around like a bull in a china shop. Really, only because…he doesn’t like having a roommate.
His “Stella” moment, meant to break your heart, is more a whimper than a plea to the heavens. A whining dog, begging for food from the hand he’s bit.
All of the production seems to support Blanche. While everyone where’s nearly period-less clothes, things that could easily have been lifted from Zara, she wears 1940s summer dresses, an ornate robe, and finally, a cream organza gown and tiara.
During her monologues, the drummer, who sits above the stage, the lone instrument, beats in her rhythm, providing her a beat to pontificate to.
Blanche controls the lighting, putting a red paper lantern over the only ghost light on stage, until eventually Mitch, rips it off, to expose her ‘true’ nature.
In response, Blanche provides us the explanation as to why the production has played in her favor.
“I don’t want realism, I want magic.” She yelps, as she pulls Mitch down by the collar. Ferran on tippy toes, to come eye level with Dwane Walcott.
But her reputation has been sullied, she’s rendered homeless by her brother-in-law, her only hope for love has abandoned her, and she sees Alan everywhere. She hears the music that played the night he died, and the gunshot. She devolves, her nerves heightened, drowning in booze.
Enter Mescal, to make things worse. Stella, in the hospital, giving birth, a bus ticket for Blanche purchased, and he, seemingly victorious in ruining Blanche, wearing the same silk pajamas he wore on his wedding night.
But Blanche is the one who grins with the air of a winner. She’s received a telegram from an old beau, she’s going out to see, oh and Mitch has stopped by to offer flowers and an apology.
But Stanley laughs at these declarations.
“There isn’t no millionaire! And Mitch didn’t come back with roses ‘cause I know where he is—there isn’t a goddamn thing but imagination! And lies and conceit and tricks!”
And while our advertised leading man parades about heroically, marching his victory lap, I begin to cry. Blanche is back into a corner. The company, and Mescal crawl on all fours.
She begs, “Let me get by you.”
He growls, “You got plenty of room to walk by me now. You think I’ll interfere with you?”
He licks his chops, “Come to think of it—maybe you wouldn’t be too bad to—interfere with…”
They pounce, and singular rain cold covers Blanche’s collapsed, half nude, figure. The rest of the stage, spared from the downpour.
There’s no scream or outward violence. A belt isn’t unbuckled, a blouse torn. Tennessee Williams loved to blur lines, and Rebecca Frecknal pulled the veil over our eyes masterfully.
As the next day dawns, and Blanche’s accusations have been levied, the actors speak in hushed tones around Ferran’s frame.
The drummer who provided the underscoring for Blanche’s story, descends from the rafters, dressed as the doctor, ready to take her away. And so he does, after a dramatic tear away, and a fight between Stanley and Mitch all performed in slow motion, as the rain pours around the perimeter of our boxing ring.
As the action stops, Blanche is pinned face down to the floor, and the first words we hear come from Stella, she faces Mescal, and while the written line is “What have I done to my sister?”
I could swear, she screamed like a hyena, “What have you done to my sister?” To Mescal’s sickeningly pale face.
Blanche meekly goes, walking up the center stage aisle, through the audience, to her density.
And I remember, Marlon Brando, who originated the role of Stanley on Broadway, and subsequently played the role in the film, didn’t win the Oscar. Vivien Leigh did.
And while the entire company’s performances were electrifying, and Mescal unarguably performed Stanley impeccably, Ferran is the heartbeat of the show. She is the percussive rhythm that keeps the Streetcar moving. She was the magic.
