Theatre in Review: A Streetcar Named Desire (Almeida Theatre at Brooklyn Academy of Music)

	Anjana Vasan and Patsy Ferran. Photo: Julieta Cervantes

Having seen Rebecca Frecknall's revival of the Tennessee Williams classic, two thoughts come to mind: 1) Patsy Ferran is a memorable (maybe even a great) Blanche DuBois, and 2) it's time for directors to turn off the waterworks.

Having rode into New Orleans' French Quarter the vehicle of the title, Ferran's Blanche has arrived, emotionally and spiritually at the end of the line. A thin, nervous, brittle presence, her hair and frock sadly wilted in the heat, she enters her sister Stella's apartment, lugging her trunk, and, finding no one at home, collapses -- whether from heat, nervous exhaustion, or despair is, at this point, anyone's guess. Not a natural beauty, thanks to her birdlike face and glassy, devouring eyes, she is nevertheless a skilled practitioner of the Southern woman's art, a dedicated charmer with her fine manners and lively conversation. But time, hope, and energy are running down, and she is terrified of looking beyond tomorrow for fear of what she will find.

I've never seen a Blanche who so closely walks the knife edge of a nervous breakdown. Most of her signature speeches, beginning with the terrible account of how she lost Belle Reve, the family estate, are delivered in a breathless, run-on manner, as if her armory of pleasantries has failed her and nothing is left for her but to blurt out the unspeakable truth. She takes a similar approach to her blood-curdling account of life in a fleabag hotel ("the Tarantula Arms"), subsisting on cocktails and fleeting male companionship. (I can't stop thinking of the moment when, opening her purse, she throws its contents on the floor, noting, bitterly, that her assets consist of "sixty-five cents in coin of the realm!") Ferran has been criticized in some quarters for this approach, and no, she doesn't luxuriate in Williams' poetry. But she brings to Blanche a life-or-death urgency, an unshakeable conviction that every word of her sordid history is true.

To be sure, Ferran strikes a different note in Blanche's first-act closing speech, the account of her marriage to a young homosexual whom she helped to destroy in a moment of unthinking cruelty. Turning inward for once, she brings a surpassing sadness to the line, "And then the searchlight which had been turned on the world was turned off again and never for one moment since has there been any light that's stronger than this kitchen candle." These lines offer a probing insight into a woman raised to cultivate her social graces in the belief that wit and tenderness -- "all of these treasures locked in my heart" -- would bring her love and stability. Instead, she is battered from too many betrayals -- by the feckless, dissipated male relatives who gambled away her home; by the spouse who couldn't respond to her love; and by the corrosive effects of penury and promiscuity that have brought her to Stella's door. Everything about Ferran's performance, including the sad, nervous little laugh that is Blanche's last defense against a brutal, uncaring world, is freshly imagined.

Although Ferran unquestionably dominates the proceedings, Paul Mescal, the film star primarily responsible for the production's brisk ticket sales, is a formidable Stanley Kowalski, Blanche's brother-in-law and chief tormenter. A genial vulgarian with an uncontrollable temper and a little boy's need for attention, he brings a tingling uncertainty to each scene. When he explodes -- hurling a radio through a window, slamming a plate on the floor -- the shock is almost physical. But his attachment for his wife Stella, Blanche's sister, is primal, made up of equal parts desire, domination, and fear of abandonment. His response to Blanche's flirtations -- a mix of amusement, irritation, and unconscious desire -- lays solid ground for their violent final encounter; she gets under his skin in a way that he can't take, and, sooner or later, she will pay the price.

Anjana Vasan is an exceptional Stella, her earthy, practical manner making a stark contrast to Blanche's high-strung, high-maintenance persona. (One suspects that a youth spent catering to Blanche's neurotic needs has made Stella an ideal partner for the demanding Stanley.) Yet she more than holds her own in furious marital disputes, which, as often as not, end in a carnal embrace. Dwane Walcott is heartbreaking as Mitch, Staney's poker-playing crony, whom Blanche sees as her last shot at a decent life. Unmoored by his mother's imminent death and flailing at the thought of living without a woman to care for him, he turns to Blanche, falling for her ladylike pretenses; his shame and fury at discovering the truth are wrenching to see.

Indeed, the production's grasp of the play's emotional dynamics is so strong that each scene represents another step in Blanche's irreversible decline into madness. It would be even better if the director didn't sometimes give in to her showier instincts. (Frecknall is also the direction of Broadway's current Cabaret revival, which is top-heavy with staging doodads.) The look of Streetcar is notably stripped back: The action is staged on a raised platform, supported by concrete bricks, designed by Madeleine Girling; props and furniture are kept to a minimum. It's a solid concept for the confrontations that follow, although it occasionally creates awkward blocking problems in scenes that call for a clear demarcation between the apartment's two rooms. The addition of a drummer, sitting above the action, who pounds out aggressive solos, is interesting, at least at first, suggesting the noisy, ugly world Blanche is so eager to shut out. The device is overused, however, and it becomes an irritant. The dance interludes, featuring the spirit of Blanche's husband and the Flower Seller (whose cries of "Flores para los muertos" adumbrate Blanche's downfall), are arty and distracting; these gestures are not made consistently nor confidently enough to have an impact. And some of the play's big moments are needlessly accentuated by an elaborate rainfall effect, the latest must-have accouterment for directors trying to make a Big Statement. (In moments of stress, it seems, raindrops keep fallin' on their heads.) Williams' writing is already so flamboyant that the important moments hardly need this sort of highlighting. The originality of this production is in the performances, not well-worn gags handed down from the Ivo van Hove handbook.

Still, Lee Curran's highly directional lighting design, switching between warm and cold white looks and adding splashes of color at certain moments, is hugely effective. He makes something especially distressing of the moment when Mitch rips off the paper lantern with which Blanche defuses the room's stark lighting, leaving her exposed to the bare bulb's glare. Merle Hensel's costumes are solid and Peter Rice's sound design is often incisive, especially the use of reverb on a passerby eerily whistling "Paper Moon" and the clock chimes that signal Blanche's departure to a mental institution.

Most of all there's Ferran, whose Blanche stands up to Cate Blanchett, who is, in my experience, the other great recent interpreter of the role. (We don't have time to consider the many failed passes at it that I've seen. And life is too short.) The vulnerability Ferran brings to her scenes is almost unbearable; she's a mockingbird among crows, all of them ready to peck out her heart, and her hopes are pathetically few. --David Barbour