“I don’t want realism. I want magic!” declares Blanche DuBois. And I don’t want Normal People – I want Streetcar. Paul Mescal, who became a global obsession in the TV adaptation of Sally Rooney’s novel, is truly transformed in Rebecca Frecknall’s intense production of Tennessee Williams’s play. His Stanley Kowalski radiates with rage, wearing his psychopathy on his sleeve, with a menacing sexuality that could stop traffic – or make you run and hide. Connell’s silver chain lies in tatters. It’s entrancing to watch.
Frecknall places the action in the round, where actors watch from the sidelines or pace impatiently. Above the Almeida stage sits a drum kit; every so often, there’s a thunder crash that’s just a bit too loud. It’s a fitting touch for a Streetcar that wants to wake up its disconcerted characters, in which Blanche, Stella and Stanley seem helplessly trapped in a cycle of sex and violence. Here, snogging turns to sniping, groping turns to glowering. Stella gets punched by Stanley. Later she’s pinned down by his body in a moment of oppressive eroticism. She’s always at the mercy of his bodily urges.
