Felt physically sick at the end of this three and half hour version of Tennessee Williams most famous play. Blanche was terrfic: progressively feverish, wild eyed and gut wrenchingly terrfied by the predatory presence of Stanley in his lurid boxer shorts worn to celebrate the birth of his heir. I know that audiences lay in wiat for Stanley’s primal howl at the universe for the return of his ‘mate’ Stella. Like hamlet’s ‘to be ‘ speech it is a yardstick by which a performance MUST we feel, be judged. This howl was rather more ordinary, more domestic than Brando. Of course, in a way, this makes us closer to his behaviour. We can stand nearer to Stanley’s howl if it is petulant longing and want; a peevish awareness that a ‘toy’ has been snatched from his literaly grubby fingers. But if the howl is from the abyss of a desire, crude, desperate and possessive, then how could we admit to Stanley’s proximity to us? His singlet becomes an emblem of a desire as elemental as his sweat.
Yet Stanley’s howl seems essential to his brutal dependency upon his sexuality for his identity. His howl for ‘Stella’ originates in his belly. It is sourced at his source and vocalises in nearly non human fragments of speech, his primal need for consummation, for the uncivilised coupling of those whose need for sexual release, must sweep away anything and anyone who thwarts ‘its’ expression.
Poor Blanche should have taken one look at that singlet and got right back on the streetcar. But of course her sexuality is more subtle, more evasive, aesthetic even.
Stella and Mitch great too and first time I haven’t yelled t Stella for her betrayal of her sister. Ironically her despairing cries at Blanche’s departure, as near to hersister as she can get without dismantling her whole world there and then. But dismantled it is. Blanche is sacrifced before her and I felt, with time, Stella woudl extact revenge upon the brual pettiness of Stanley and leave too. of her own volition and with her own ticket.