By Adam Bloodworth
A Streetcar Named Desire, Phoenix Theatre, review and star rating: ★★★★
Paul Mescal’s cheeky grin has saved us on many an occasion: once from lockdown in the pandemic-defining drama Normal People, and then in Aftersun, the rumination on fatherhood that got him an Oscar nom and made everyone go ‘He’s not just Connell with the chain.’
Mescal adds to this brace of hits in this excellent new production of A Streetcar Named Desire. The 27-year-old rightly took home the Best Actor gong at last night’s Olivier Awards for playing a gripping version of Stanley, a terrifying brute channelled through the prism of a lean, precise piece of acting.
But those who know Streetcar know Stanley is really a prop for Blanche, the heroine of the story and the character study the plot centres on. The thing is, Patsy Ferran is equally as good as Mescal – perhaps even better. Blanche is a bundle of contractions, a human embodiment of a trauma inspired by Tennessee Williams’ own sister, who was diagnosed with schizophrenia, lobotomised and lived out her days in an institution.
Ferran does this complexity justice across what is ultimately a hard role: she goes between functioning and delusional with the fluidity of someone hopping between two languages, delivering diatribes with spritzy energy, then slowing her performance to show her tragic vulnerability. Ferran gets as close as you can ever hope to embodying one of the 20th century’s most pertinent and tragic female roles, convincingly confident and self-preserving, but utterly helpless beyond the façade.
Madeleine Girling’s staging, shipped over from the sold out Almeida premiere earlier this year, helps the actors along, capturing the sparseness of Williams’ text. This is a bleak world in which men prevail over women in almost every way, dismantling their confidence and stealing their bodies. It’s a place that exists somewhere between reality and imagination, where no one is safe. It is the mark of a great play that these characters feel contemporary today, 75 years on from the first staging.
The experimentation extends to Mescal’s aggressor, Stanley, who is memorable for his choreography more than anything spoken. The way he tortures Blanche, circling around her on his hands and knees, prowling like a big cat stalking his prey, is darkly animalistic. But on a few occasions, Rebecca Frecknell’s production feels over stylised. No spoilers, but the culmination of Stanley’s key scene in act 2 is arresting, but loses its potency through a beautiful but vague piece of choreography involving the ripping up of a wedding dress. It would benefit from being even more stripped-back, letting the actors do the talking.
Nevertheless, this is the buzziest version of Streetcar in at least a decade. For all its glossy star power, it feels as raw as ever.
A Streetcar Named Desire plays at the Phoenix Theatre until 6 May, go here to buy
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