A Streetcar Named Desire

Are film celebrities bad for the theatre? Many a Hollywood star has fallen flat on Broadway and London's West End, inadequate to the demands of a stage with no technology to cover their shortcomings. Some skeptics take the view that putting a bunch of movie stars in charge of a classic play is as prudent as leaving a childcare centre unstaffed. Sydney Theatre Company's excellent production of Tennessee Williams's A Streetcar Named Desire proves that view wrong.

Cate Blanchett might be thought too beautiful to cast as the greying alcoholic Blanche DuBois, but she quickly takes us below the surface into a tortured mind. Even when we see the radio that accidentally struck her head during a preview, we are not much distracted by the recollection of the entertainment news headline; rather, the prevailing apprehension of violence is intensified. Her Blanche is surprisingly funny, delivering her everyday delusions and transparent habitual lies in a light deadpan. ("Southern Comfort? What could that be?") She musters sympathy for her rather irritating character, making her demise more tragic. When a mediocre actor plays Blanche we think "this character has too many lines"; when a great actor plays her we think "what a great actor"; when a true master like Blanchett plays her we end up thinking nothing other than "Poor Blanche has gone completely insane." Here, Cate transcends celebrity.

Since the 1951 film version, the role of Stanley Kowalski (and all popular memory of the play) has been dominated by the then-27 Marlon Brando, for decades the poster boy for male sexuality. This must haunt and intimidate any actor, let alone one who has appeared in a Star Wars movie, but Joel Edgerton delivers a perfectly balanced counterweight to Blanche. His physique could compete with Brando's, but he wisely (and convincingly) presents an average man, not the monstrous sexual animal that Blanche imagines him to be. This serves the tragedy rather than than the actor's ego.

Some credit for avoiding a fight with the ghost of Marlon Brando must go to the director, another icon of the screen: Liv Ullmann. A legend from films directed by her late partner Ingmar Bergman, her entire direction is similarly well thought out without trying to be clever or flashy. She keeps the final sex scene in a grey area between a rape and a consensual (or at least a desired) act. Did Blanche throw herself under the streetcar of desire, or was she pushed?

Beyond the movie names are many fine actors and creatives familiar to Sydney theatregoers, such as Robin McLeavy as Blanche's sane and pragmatic sister, Stella Kowalski. Ralph Myers' set reflects both the beauty and squalor of her apartment and life, the rumpled sheets and naked bodies lit well by Nick Schlieper. The window on the neighbours' upstairs has the lonely loveliness of an Edward Hopper painting. Both the stagecraft and the stars are kept in perfect service to the dramatic masterwork.

Perhaps the only downside of this immigration of celluloid talent is that the entire season sold out before opening. But if this persuades more casual ticket buyers to subscribe next year, it can only be good for the theatre. Jason Catlett

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