Among many other things, Streetcar is a play about seeking relief. Stanley fights to relieve himself of beery residue in his flat’s Blanche-monopolised bathroom and, soon enough, to relieve himself altogether of that sister-in-law Blanche, who has shown up on the New Orleans doorstep that he and his wife Stella rent. All three strive to relieve themselves of guilt: Stanley for abusing Stella, Stella for the desire to abandon Blanche, and Blanche for losing her family’s Mississippi property, Belle Reve.
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| Cate Blanchett as Blanche |
The notion of Blanchett as Blanche made me blanch: a mannered actor playing Tennessee Williams’ Queen of Hysteria? Talk about painting the peacock! In the event, Blanchett, got up mostly in crême-de-menthe costumes flattering to her willowy frame, controls her tendency cannily.
At first, her movement is so afflicted by the shakes that you feel she’ll shatter the tea saucers. Gradually, though, as she furtively belts back the Southern Comfort she claims barely to imbibe, she settles in. The performance is sustained, affecting, unhinged. If it lacks deep impact, it is nonetheless polished – another in the gallery of memorable non-American Blanches.
Being well-nigh perfection, Robin McLeavy’s Stella requires no analysis, nor does Tim Richards’ less ideal but finely etched Mitch. As Stanley, sweating through a humid Big Easy summer, Joel Edgerton is as stripped down as the set – a two-room, curtain-demarcated design that director Liv Ullmann doesn’t always manage smoothly, especially during the poker-playing scenes.
Brando’s imprint on Edgerton is evident in the nasal inflections and in the odd little laugh. If the performance is a bit over-derivative, it accumulates. Ullmann and Blanchett do not treat Blanche as a victim, which makes the play’s penultimate encounter between her and Stanley not the usual rape but something much more upsetting: near-consent. 
