The Books: “Streetcar Named Desire” (Tennessee Williams)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

Next on my script shelf:

A Streetcar Named Desire, by Tennessee Williams.

I personally cannot think of Streetcar without immediately thinking of Marlon Brando. It is one of those rare roles where an actor so completely “owned” it that even actors 50 years later, 60 years later, have to deal with the comparison. Perhaps that wouldn’t be the case if he hadn’t done the film as well – but I’m not so sure. Laurette Taylor did Amanda Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie and made such an impact in it that the performance is still held as a high watermark today. And anyone who goes near that part has to contend with her ghost. And that was just the stage production!

Stella Adler, who had Marlon Brando in her class, said, “Sending Marlon Brando to acting class was like sending a tiger to jungle school.”

He had innate natural ability. He had a nose for bullshit. He was highly intelligent (not book-smart – but people-smart). He understood human behavior. And he was just this slovenly gorgeous kid who didn’t really take himself seriously at all. But he had ability.

Here’s the obituary I wrote for Marlon Brando when he died. I ramble a bit. I wrote that one from the heart. But again: I start to write about Marlon Brando, and I can’t help but start talking about Streetcar. It’s a natural progression.

When Streetcar opened, Marlon Brando found himself a star. He had created something. It’s like he moved apart the Red Sea on a molecular level. No one had realized that the space was even there (although there had been intimations with people like John Garfield and others) until he TOOK it. It was THAT kind of stardom, and you can count on one hand the people who achieve it. Elvis achieved it. It’s that bizarre, that altering.

It took a while for Marlon to really ‘get’ what had happened. He did not, as so many actors would have, take the success for his due … Stanley had infiltrated his head for a while … he was nothing like Stanley Kowalski, Marlon Brando. He was actually kind of shy, and tender, and sweet, and liked plain girls who wore glasses – that was his type … so by “being” Stanley night after night, he had to just plunge himself into it. He slept in the theatre. He started boxing. He didn’t even realize he had become a star.

But let me have Marlon describe it.

You can’t always be a failure. Not and survive. Van Gogh! There’s an example of what can happen when a person never receives any recognition. You stop relating: it puts you outside. But I guess success does that, too. You know, it took me a long time before I was aware that that’s what I was – a big success. I was so absorbed in myself, my own problems, I never looked around, took account. I used to walk in New York, miles and miles, walk in the streets late at night, and never see anything. I was never sure about acting, whether that was what I really wanted to do; I’m still not. Then, when I was in “Streetcar”, and it had been running a couple of months, one night — dimly, dimly — I began to hear this roar.

All of that Marlon talk out of the way, I’m actually not going to excerpt a scene that Stanley’s in. Not the Stella scene, not the “tiger tiger” scene, as fantastic as they all are.

I want to excerpt a bit from the date that Blanche goes on with Mitch, the sad sweet mother-dominated guy who is Stanley’s friend, and who has compassion for Blanche, and really really likes her, actually. But he has NO idea what he is getting into. None. He is naive in the ways of women. Blanche goes out with him … and, of course, because she is a Tennessee Williams heroine, creates this elaborate fantasy around Mitch … she is running scared at this point, her demons are catching up to her … maybe Mitch could help her out-run them?

Here’s the section of the date when Blanche finally comes clean about what really happened with her marriage. This is a famous famous monologue – most actors I know can say the first couple of lines by heart. Another thing: the censors were all over this section … and this particular monologue was edited like crazy for the movie version. You can barely tell what the problem was between Blanche and her husband … something big, though. Even here, Williams had to be very careful … and not just come out and say, “He was gay!” In a way, though, and I’ve said this before when talking about old movies – like The Big Sleep, and all the others … the fact that there was censorship like that made the writers have to be so much more clever and innovative with how they got their point across. They had to load the script with innuendo … but without ever speaking the actual name of things. I mean: “you just put your lips together and blow”????? You kind of can’t miss the implication there – or you can, but that would just mean that you are a dim-witted literal dolt.

I think those old movies are some of the hottest movies I’ve ever seen – because of the things they DON’T say. I’m not advocating censorship. I’m just congratulating the writers for getting around the limitations in such beautiful unforgettable ways.

Tennessee Williams, who wrote so openly about sex, had to deal with this for most of his career. How to say what he needed to say … without really saying it …

In the monologue below, Blanche is clearly saying: “We got married. And we never had sex. I obviously didn’t please him. He couldn’t get it up when he was with me … and I felt like such a failure! I couldn’t arouse him … no matter how hard I tried … The one day, I discovered ….”

I mean, Williams does come right out and say what she discovered. But that part was edited in the movie version … loaded up with innuendo … everything becomes inferred, rather than stated openly.

EXCERPT FROM A Streetcar Named Desire, by Tennessee Williams

MITCH. Can I ask you a question?

BLANCHE. Yes. What?

MITCH. How old are you?

[She makes a nervous gesture]

BLANCHE. Why do you want to know?

MITCH. I talked to my mother about you and she said, “How old is Blanche?” And I wasn’t able to tell her. [There is another pause]

BLANCHE. You talked to your mother about me?

MITCH. Yes.

BLANCHE. Why?

MITCH. I told my mother how nice you were, and I liked you.

BLANCHE. Were you sincere about that?

MITCH. You know I was.

BLANCHE. Why did your mother want to know my age?

MITCH. Mother is sick.

BLANCHE. I’m sorry to hear it. Really?

MITCH. She won’t live long. Maybe just a few months.

BLANCHE. Oh.

MITCH. She worries because I’m not settled.

BLANCHE. Oh.

MITCH. She wants me to be settled down before the — [His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat twice, shuffling nervously around with his hands in and out of his pockets]

BLANCHE. You love her very much, don’t you?

MITCH. Yes.

BLANCHE. I think you have a great capacity for devotion. You will be lonely when she passes on, won’t you? [Mitch clears his throat and nods] I understand what that is.

MITCH. To be lonely?

BLANCHE. I loved someone, too, and the person I loved I lost.

MITCH. Dead? [She crosses to the window and sits on the sill, looking out. She pours herself another drink] A man?

BLANCHE. He was a boy, just a boy, when I was a very young girl. When I was sixteen, I made the discovery — love. All at once and much, much too completely. It was like you suddenly turned a blinding light on something that had always been half in shadow, that’s how it struck the world for me. But I was unlucky. Deluded. There was something different about the boy, a nervousness, a softness and tenderness which wasn’t like a man’s, although he wasn’t the least bit effeminate looking — still — that thing was there … He came to me for help. I didn’t know that. I didn’t find out anything till after our marriage when we’d run away and come back and all I knew was I’d failed him in some mysterious way and wasn’t able to give the help he needed but couldn’t speak of! He was in the quicksands and clutching at me — but I wasn’t holding him out, I was slipping in with him! I didn’t know that. I didn’t know anything except I loved him unendurably but without being able to help him or help myself. Then I found out. In the worst of all possible ways. By coming suddenly into a room that I thought was empty — which wasn’t empty, but had two people in it … the boy I had married and an older man who had been his friend for years …

[A locomotive is heard approaching outside. She claps her hands to her ears and crouches over. The headlight of the locomotive glares into the room as it thunders past. As the noise recedes she straightens slowly and continues speaking.]

Afterward we pretended that nothing had been discovered. Yes, the three of us drove out to Moon Lake Casino, very drunk and laughing all the way.

[Polka music sounds, in a minor key faint with distance]

We danced the Varsouviana! Suddenly, in the middle of the dance the boy I had married broke away from me and ran out of the casino. A few moments later — a shot!

[The polka stops abruptly. Blanche rises stiffly. Then, the polka resumes in a major key]

I ran out — all did! — all ran and gathered about the terrible thing at the edge of the lake! I couldn’t get near for the crowding. Then somebody caught my arm. “Don’t go any closer! Come back! You don’t want to see!” See? See what! Then I heard voices say — Allan! Allan! The Grey boy! He’d stuck the revolver into his mouth, and fired — so that the back of his head had been — blown away!

[She sways and covers her face]

It was because — on the dance floor — unable to stop myself — I’d suddenly said — “I saw! I know! You disgust me …” And then the searchlight which had been turned on the world was turned off again and never for one moment since has there been any light that’s stronger than this — kitchen — candle …

[Mitch gets up awkwardly and moves toward her a little. The polka music increases. Mitch stands beside her]

MITCH. [drawing her slowly into his arms] You need somebody. And I need somebody, too. Could it be — you and me, Blanche?

[She stares at him vacantly for a moment. Then with a soft cry huddles in his embrace. She makes a sobbing effort to speak but the words won’t come. He kisses her forehead and her eyes and finally her lips. The polka tune fades out. Her breath is drawn and released in long, grateful sobs]

BLANCHE. Sometimes — there’s God — so quickly!

[Curtain]