Telling a Story of Illusions
We had nothing planned for Saturday night but glimpsed an ad in The Globe, that there was seating availability for Streetcar Named Desire at the Four Seasons Opera Hall. We had missed ballet with our trips to San Diego, and I was hopeful we might procure tickets. Interrupting his Pilates session, Howard managed to get us two Rush tickets for the evening.
Of course we are familiar with Tennessee Williams, but as we tried to untangle the stories of Streetcar and Glass Menagerie , we realized that they shared quite a few elements: the family plantation in ruins, two sisters, illusions of a past life, promiscuity, a failure to adapt, and the presence of memory. We were fortunate that Sonia Rodriguez and Guillaume Cote were dancing Blanche and Stanley. So different to a classical ballet with pas de deux and reverie( French for jumps!!!), this production was story- based and moved along by the graceful interactions of the entire ballet corps. I felt I had entered a painting created in the first act in pastels, organza skirts ruffling, shuttered doors opening and closing against the softly draped arcades of the disintegrating family home, Belle Reve. Themes of wedding, homosexual attraction and self- doubt emerged from the tableau. Through it all, Blanche fluttered and preened , the centre of the tale in John Neumeier’s 1983 adaptation.Still black lace ghosts grounded the background, deathly personifications, and psychological overhangs of the doomed South.
In the next act, a stark contrast as we watch the French Quarter in New Orleans come to life in the 50’s, postWWIi: a Stuart Davis painting as the figures snapped their fingers, jerked up their shoulders, their movements angular but in tune with a life juxtaposed to the graceful decaying south, the music by Scnittje Symphony I, loaded and overlaid with contrasts.. Here Stanley Kowalski, Brando’s nemesis, is the rough, sexual, chest pounding guy, powerful and ignorant, a true stereotype, unable to tolerate Blanche’s posing and her deceptions, in particular her affectations, even covering a raw light bulb with a paper fixture to soften the harshness of the light she cannot tolerate.Their confrontations, of the faded ruined past and the stark too bright present is on the inevitable collision course as Blanche attempts to reconcile both in a relationship with Stanley’s friend Mitch.
Asserting his American male dominance, Stanley must crush and painfully destroy Blanche, raping her. This segment in the ballet is incredibly conceived, Stanley’s red pyjamas, his muscular legs intertwined, straight as arrows, overpowering the fluttery birdlike legs of the aging debutant. His legs are the scissors, severing all ties with the past. For several moments we are unable to breath as Stanley inflicts his punishment on Blanche, for her attempt to drag Mitch from his world into hers. Beyond revenge, it is Stanley’s delight, his raisin d’être to punch, destroy and erase beauty: the machine age personified. His brash flashy green silk jacket, the fighter’s trophy that easily taunts and tramples the flowered bedsheets and fluttery robes with which Blanche had attempted to soften Her version of life,. Her loss of everything she has clung to( home, youth, notions of tradition) is torn away mercilessly, his prowess dominating is brutally danced out, trounced in terror and physicality that brings ballet into another realm – so much more than overloaded cream puffs that one drama head at Westview Centennial used to describe ballet..
Although the main characters have their moments, Streetcar Named Desire is truly an ensemble piece as the smaller roles, even the sailors on beds taunting names, the asylum keepers, the organza- draped bridesmaids and jazz dancers in their sequins contribute immeasurably to create the story of loss. There is so much to look at. The seduction dance between Blanche’s first husband and lover , dressed in black and white suits, as they attempt to come to terms with their feelings is standout, the inevitable outcome of Blanche’s illusory attraction foreshadowed by his reticence, teasing and magnetic desire to overcome societal inhibitions. Without a word spoken( ok, a few call out slanders) and even with no music in segments of the Prokofiev score in Act 0ne, we enter the world of the Deep South and we know it through dance.
Similarly although we do not hear the cacophonous blaring horns of New York, the squarish moves, the tumult of crowds, demonstrations and the fight ring pushes the 50’s into our laps.
The overall vision is imaginative, honest to its times and artfully depicted. We mourn the loss of Beau Reve along with Blanche’s illusions but know that a new era, one perhaps in league with the roughness of a Trump, is not far away